“Again!”<br/><br/>The steady tap of Madame Giry’s cane against the wooden floor resounded throughout the whole of the Opera, still audible above the hard, rhythmic pounding of the point shoes as they lept and spun about the stage. Over and over, they ran the same part of the dance, too many lacking the precision to create one, fluid being. This one passage of music had been stuck in her mind, the orchestra’s adept plunking seemingly second-nature as they conversed simultaneously, ignoring the dancers altogether. Carlotta’s shrill shouting could be heard from her room, louder still than the orchestra’s overtures, and Giry’s stern commands.<br/><br/>But, she was happy. This was where she wanted to be, the only thing missing being her beloved father, may his soul rest in peace.<br/><br/>Each step was committed to with all of her being, feeling every emotion portrayed as though it were her own. A slave forced to dance for the royals, chains jingling as she spun, as she leaped, as she dropped to her knees in agony. Everything that she had to give was there on the floor, Meg beside her and trying to follow her every move to the letter, her mother’s eye on her heavily with a critical gleam as the others worked behind them.<br/><br/>“Enough.”<br/><br/>Though it wasn’t yelled, it was just as commanding, silencing the orchestra and stopping the dancers in their tracks. “You’re sloppy, distracted, undisciplined. I don’t believe your performance, and no audience would either.” Her words cut like knives, thick with distaste, the French making even the disappointment in her voice sound beautiful to the ear, despite the hurt her words wrought. “You are not practicing. You don’t<span style="font-style: italic">care</span>. Because you’re not principle, you think they don’t notice, but<span style="font-style: italic">I</span>notice.<span style="font-style: italic">They</span>notice. You look pathetic.”<br/><br/>“We do pract-”<br/><br/>The look that dancer received immediately stopped her protests, her face wide-eyed and shocked, almost like she’d been slapped. “You will stay here and practice until dinner. I will not have any of my girls with poor lines and ugly hands.” Turning away, the company began to whisper beneath their breath, obviously unhappy about the additional workload but accepting it, Giry’s voice rang out one final time. “Christine, a word.”<br/><br/>Though her brow furrowed, she hastened over, hands clasped in front of her, feet in first position. “Yes, Madame Giry?”<br/><br/>“Your lines are fine, so I will not be keeping you.” Relief flooded her, to know she’d been doing as well as she‘d hoped, beginning to bow her head and thank her when the woman spoke again. “You have vocal lessons to attend to.”<br/><br/>Surprise riddled the young woman’s face as she met the Giry’s gaze again, “Is it so late already?” No natural light shown into the theatre for her to see how much time had passed, her only indicator being how sore her limbs were.<br/><br/>Nodding, she continued, “Quickly. To the dormitories with you. Change and meet him in the usual room. I will come to collect you when dinner is ready.”<br/><br/>“Yes, Madame Giry,” Christine replied, bowing before fairly running from the stage to change. This tune was the one they’d been working on, and just as she did with her dancing, the singing was no different, not when the Angel of Music was coming to her at her father’s behest.<br/><br/>She wouldn’t disappoint him.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk