Page 24 of Angel's Mask
“Must be whyhelikes you so much,” Julianne said with a wink. “Maybe he’ll let you pick the next show.”
“If only,” Christine said as they entered the packed salon and were instantly set upon by dancers, flocking to the then like the pigeons in the Tuileries when Christine offered them bread.
“Calm down, girls, there’s enough for all of you,” Julianne laughed.
Christine watched in fascination as the girls sorted through the slippers, looking for the right size and style. The rats scurried away with their prizes and almost immediately began tearing and beating at the new gear, each with their own little rituals and quirks to make the shoes their own. Jammes was the last to approach. The blonde dancer smiled as Julianne produced a hidden pair of slippers for her with a sly grin.
“Just as you like them,” Julianne purred.
“Thank you,” Jammes smiled, locking eyes with Julianne like Christine wasn’t even there. She was used to it.
“Everyone seems on edge,” Julianne commented over the sound of ripping and chatter.
“Rehearsal is open to patrons later today,” Jammes said with a sigh.
“Ah, the meat market,” said Julianne.
Christine swallowed. It had been a week since her angel had given her Mozart, called her beautiful, and educated her on the real ways of the Opera.She fucks them¸ my dear.The words rang in her head over and over, especially at night. She looked around to the young women stretching and preparing throughout the salon. They were almost all younger than her.
“They’re hoping to snag a...patron?” Christine asked innocently. God, she couldn’t even say the word ‘lover’ for fear of offending someone, and yet here they were.
“A few of the stupider ones,” Jammes replied. “They think that will make them the next Sorelli. As if any of them could get the attention of a count.” Christine’s brows rose high. She had seen La Sorelli, the prima ballerina, a few times. A cliche as it was, the woman did look very much like a swan, with pale skin and black hair. She was as sour as a swan too, which is why Christine avoided her. She hadn’t heard that she too had a powerful lover but it made sense.
“Luckily, you’re not stupid,” Julianne remarked, giving Jammes a pointed look.
“Oh yes, why would I need a patron to bring me flowers and gifts when I have you to bring me shoes,” Jammes replied with a cool smile.
“I didn’t realize more was expected,” Julianne said in a tone Christine couldn’t place – something between offended and sad. “Come on, Christine, we’ll be missed, unless you want to get a patron who’ll pay the managers to put your humming on stage.”
“As ifsheneeds that,” Jammes scoffed. “Of all people, to think aseamstresshas the only patron that matters.”
It took a moment for Christine to realize what Jammes meant: the Ghost. The rumors about her had faded, due to not being very interesting, but Jammes remembered. “Let’s go,” Julianne said and pulled Christine away from the mirrored splendor of the salon. “Don’t worry about her, she’s in a pique,” Julianne grumbled as they made their way through the halls.
“I guess she’s not wrong.” Christine shrugged and Julianne gave her a look. “I mean, he’s let me keep sleeping here.”
“Quite the patron indeed,” Julianne replied. “I’ve heard some of the richest ones keep their mistresses in lovely flats on the boulevards, but I’m sure wherever you run off to is just as nice.” Julianne laughed to herself. “Then again, you aren’t spreading your legs for him so—”
“Julianne!” Christine gasped. She wasn’t sure why. It was a outrageous thing to say of course, and Julianne burst into giggles at Christine’s scandalized look, but there was more to it than that. It brought things to mind that only ever skirted her thoughts when she woke in the dark, sure his shadow was close enough to touch.
“Oh, dear you’ll need to get used to jokes like that if you’re to survive here,” Julianne chuckled.
“I’ll try to toughen up.” Christine wanted to say something smarter but at that moment they both caught sight of the veritable hurricane of furs, satin, and jewels barreling down the hall at them. “Oh no.”
“Out of my way, you little scabs,” Carlotta hissed as Julianne and Christine flattened themselves against the wall.
“Pardon us, Madame,” Christine said and drew a glare, a spark of recognition in Carlotta’s eyes. “I’m sure you don’t want to be late to your fitting.”
“It’sSignora,” Carlotta spat, then stopped. “I thought that was tomorrow,” she said with a frown. Her little secretary began to scramble through his valise.
“Did the note not reach you? Valerie was told to get it to you directly,” Christine continued. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the curiosity and horror in Julianne’s expression, since she knew there was no fitting, nor anyone working in costumes named Valerie.
“What note? When is this?” Carlotta demanded, agitation growing.
“It was meant to inform you that – since Madame Grelot knows you need privacy and that you are accustomed to a certain standard – she has arranged to have the fitting done at your dressmaker’s salon. What was his name?” she muttered looking to Julianne for help.
“Monsieur, uh, Grenier?” Julianne stammered.
“Did you mean Monsieur Gauthier?!” Carlotta squawked. “That’s on theBoulevard des Italiens! When is this? Never mind! LeDoux! Run and tell that idiot Gabriel I don’t need to rehearse the trio again anyway. I’ll have someone summon the carriage.” Carlotta continued muttering as she raced the other way down the hall. It was not until she had fully disappeared that both Christine and Julianne burst out laughing.
