him. "It really is time you settled down. Now, I know you won't be able to secure a young boy like you probably want, but there is nothing wrong with an older, wiser man taking care of you. Someone like myself. After all, you're still young enough for my tastes and would look good on my arm."
"Monsieur!"
"Now, don't get all prissy on me, my dear. Consider yourself fortunate that I'm so generous. After all, you're no beauty, and you're certainly not getting any younger. I know your father worries about what will become of you after he is gone."
"Leave him out of this!" Mireille spat, trying to scoot her chair back, only to have Carcasonne's touch on her chin become an unforgiving grip. His other hand shot out and grabbed the arms of her chair to hold it in place.
"Think on my words, Mireille Dubienne," he hissed. "You are a woman who will be alone in the world. No money, no family, no support of any kind."
Abruptly, he let go of her and rose. Turning to leave, he added with a sick chuckle, "Besides, if you please me enough, I might even let you continue to play at running this theater."
Watching the door close behind him, Mireille clutched at the edge of her desk and took deep breaths. She felt nauseous and dirty, and for the first time, deeply frightened. Much of what he said was true, despite the cocoon of safety her father had created for her in the theater, she was a lone woman in a man's world.
Waves of heat and chills left her queasy and clammy. She needed to cool her face and wash the feeling of the slug's presence off her. Rising unsteadily, she slipped from her office and to the small washroom off the corridor.
The cold water calmed the nausea, but the anxiety remained. She had to think, untangle all the problems, deal with the vicomte, the slug, the production, the...the...the ghost...
Lifting her chin, she managed to walk purposefully from the room. No man ever got the best of her. It was a promise she had made herself all those years ago, and a promise she meant to keep.
Forty-five minutes of scolding various stagehands and prop managers restored her to a measure of equilibrium. She was deep in conversation with the costumer about the procurement of enough red satin for the second act costumes when out of the corner of her eye, she saw Raymond approaching.
"Mademoiselle," Raymond said, addressing her formally as was his wont in front of the cast and crew. "A brief word with you?"
"In a moment," Mireille replied crisply.
"Now, please."
Mireille turned to Raymond, shocked at his assertiveness. She felt her jaw tighten even as she perceived from the expression on his face that it wasn't opera on his mind. He wanted to ask her about the day before, and that was a line of questioning that would only lead to trouble.
"I said later," she replied curtly. "I meant it."
He was still waiting for her when she finished speaking with the costumer. Coldly, he gestured for her precede him, and he took her into one of the dressing rooms.
"What happened yesterday," he asked, crossing his arms.
"We rehearsed for the production of Don Juan , as far as I know."
"You know what I mean, Mireille."
"Yes, I do, but I'm not going to tell you. It's nothing you need to know or worry about."
"You disappeared—and not for the first time. That, as far as I'm concerned, is something to worry about."
"What? You can't direct an opera without me?"
"Mireille!" He reached out to pull her into his arms, and she adroitly dodged him.
"This is a business, Raymond. Not everything about it is pleasant or perfect. I shouldn't have to explain that to you...nor should I have to explain myself to you. You have a job, so do I. That's where it starts, and that's where it ends."
"It's only because I care, Mireille," he said, stepping forward and successfully capturing her in his arms. "I can't help it if I want you," he added, softly kissing her cheeks and forehead. "I love you, Mireille."
He wasn't prepared for the violent push she gave
"Monsieur!"
"Now, don't get all prissy on me, my dear. Consider yourself fortunate that I'm so generous. After all, you're no beauty, and you're certainly not getting any younger. I know your father worries about what will become of you after he is gone."
"Leave him out of this!" Mireille spat, trying to scoot her chair back, only to have Carcasonne's touch on her chin become an unforgiving grip. His other hand shot out and grabbed the arms of her chair to hold it in place.
"Think on my words, Mireille Dubienne," he hissed. "You are a woman who will be alone in the world. No money, no family, no support of any kind."
Abruptly, he let go of her and rose. Turning to leave, he added with a sick chuckle, "Besides, if you please me enough, I might even let you continue to play at running this theater."
Watching the door close behind him, Mireille clutched at the edge of her desk and took deep breaths. She felt nauseous and dirty, and for the first time, deeply frightened. Much of what he said was true, despite the cocoon of safety her father had created for her in the theater, she was a lone woman in a man's world.
Waves of heat and chills left her queasy and clammy. She needed to cool her face and wash the feeling of the slug's presence off her. Rising unsteadily, she slipped from her office and to the small washroom off the corridor.
The cold water calmed the nausea, but the anxiety remained. She had to think, untangle all the problems, deal with the vicomte, the slug, the production, the...the...the ghost...
Lifting her chin, she managed to walk purposefully from the room. No man ever got the best of her. It was a promise she had made herself all those years ago, and a promise she meant to keep.
Forty-five minutes of scolding various stagehands and prop managers restored her to a measure of equilibrium. She was deep in conversation with the costumer about the procurement of enough red satin for the second act costumes when out of the corner of her eye, she saw Raymond approaching.
"Mademoiselle," Raymond said, addressing her formally as was his wont in front of the cast and crew. "A brief word with you?"
"In a moment," Mireille replied crisply.
"Now, please."
Mireille turned to Raymond, shocked at his assertiveness. She felt her jaw tighten even as she perceived from the expression on his face that it wasn't opera on his mind. He wanted to ask her about the day before, and that was a line of questioning that would only lead to trouble.
"I said later," she replied curtly. "I meant it."
He was still waiting for her when she finished speaking with the costumer. Coldly, he gestured for her precede him, and he took her into one of the dressing rooms.
"What happened yesterday," he asked, crossing his arms.
"We rehearsed for the production of Don Juan , as far as I know."
"You know what I mean, Mireille."
"Yes, I do, but I'm not going to tell you. It's nothing you need to know or worry about."
"You disappeared—and not for the first time. That, as far as I'm concerned, is something to worry about."
"What? You can't direct an opera without me?"
"Mireille!" He reached out to pull her into his arms, and she adroitly dodged him.
"This is a business, Raymond. Not everything about it is pleasant or perfect. I shouldn't have to explain that to you...nor should I have to explain myself to you. You have a job, so do I. That's where it starts, and that's where it ends."
"It's only because I care, Mireille," he said, stepping forward and successfully capturing her in his arms. "I can't help it if I want you," he added, softly kissing her cheeks and forehead. "I love you, Mireille."
He wasn't prepared for the violent push she gave
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