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,,,<<if settings.achievements>><<notify 3s>>Achievements active!<</notify>><</if>> The season’s final performance of //Coppélia// set the Palais Garnier on fire — at least from the outside. Light streams from every window, pouring over white stone pillars and rendering their bronze gilding molten. From the street, the façade of the Palais burns with a silent, victorious flame, golden sparks flying from glass and bronze and marble over rain-slick cobblestone; the streetlamps are extinguished in comparison.
In the foyer, the Parisian elite mingle with the company and crew of the Paris Opera Ballet; here, away from the concentrated bedazzlement of stage spotlights, the stars of the stage descend from their painted heavens at the will of the mortals who command it. Inky tuxedos and richly embroidered gowns shimmer under the warm light, their finery revealing the costumes beside them for what they are. Laughter and high spirits float above the gleaming heads of the crowd, wafting perfume and celebratory cries around the painted ceiling and its gilt frames. Below them curl sultry whispers and coy glances, accompanied by the rustle of heavy fabric as an arm slides over a bare shoulder and doors ease shut with soft clicks.
Beneath the grand fresco of the rotunda, a semi-circle forms around a woman who, with the contours of her face and eyes still dark and elongated with stage makeup, appears more sylph than human; nestled in her arms is a bouquet of scarlet roses, and on her feet a pair of pointe shoes that gleam pale pink even in the shadow of her bell-shaped skirt, a stage rendition of a wedding gown. Against its diaphanous layers of white and the bodice’s glinting silver threadwork, the rouge on her lips is as striking as freshly drawn blood, marking her the picture of a bride before the altar.
Her smile is practised and threatens to outshine the gems adorning many of her company’s throats as she dips her head gracefully in response to a compliment. Her circle of admirers writhes hungrily, launching compliments like stones, but neither hand nor hem breaches the circle of light around her—they do not dare. And so they continue to lavish her with praise, but as she laughs and responds with charming, razor-bright smiles and witticisms, her eyes scan the gallery with unnerving precision.
The crowd has already begun to thin, fewer dancers with their gossamer skirts and exposed collarbones decorating the gallery; so too are there fewer couples seen offering congratulations, and many more closed doors into the library and shadowed rooms lining the halls of the Palais. The prima ballerina’s smile doesn’t falter, but her amber eyes narrow nearly imperceptibly beneath their tight wings of black and linger on a smaller gathering farther down the gallery.
Her gaze catches on a second ballerina, this one with flaxen hair pinned low at the nape of her neck, the lines of her legs and hips thickened by the deep purple billow of her costume trousers. She pops up //en pointe// with a giggle, balancing weightless on the blunt tips of her slippers, and raises a charming, flared hand as she spins in a blur of satin. Laure curtsies to a round of gregarious applause, cheeks flushed.
A hand breaks through the first ballerina’s circle, followed by a voice whose clarity and carriage defy its volume: “Élodie.”
<span class="choice">[[Continue|1]]</span><!-- If all scraps found; achievement for each relationship correct; achievement for all correct; achievement for all wrong; achievement for good/meh/bad endings --><<if $bienvenue is true>>* <b>Bienvenue à Paris:</b> Welcome to the City of Light. Take care not to get lost, for the brighter the light, the stronger the shadow.
<</if>><<if $etat is "aristo">>* <b>Noblesse Oblige:</b> You find yourself born into an ephemeral world of high society, whose steeping in spilled blood is but a fleeting memory. Take care that you do not grow too detached from the reality of Paris's cobblestones, however.
<<elseif $etat is "bougie">>* <b>Nouveau Riche:</b> Wealth is a fine feather in your cap, and though you climbed the rungs of society through business rather than birth, your view is just as decadent.
<<elseif $etat is 'paysan'>>* <b>Beauté Bucolique:</b> From Marie Antoinette to the highest Parisian echelon, those who declare they have a //cœur au cottage// adore your lifestyle, though they have no idea what it truly entails. Good, honest work it is, if far from glorious, and your strength and determination are incomparable for it.
<</if>><<if def $sebplay>>* <b>Play On, Good Fellow:</b> Listen to one of Sébastien's original compositions.
<</if>><<if $snoop is true and visited ("to snoop or not to snoop")>>* </b>Subterfuge Supreme:</b> Take the risk of snooping around in Camille's atelier.
<</if>><<if def $comfort>>* <b>Your Crown is Falling, Queen:</b> Win Élodie's respect through an unexpected trial.
<</if>><<if def $whoops>>* <b>Red-handed and Shoeless:</b> Get caught snooping by Élodie.
<</if>><<if hasVisited ("GOOD END")>>* //Hurrah//! The curse is broken—if it really ever existed at all.
<</if>><<if hasVisited ("NEUTRAL ENDING")>>* It seems there was no curse at all...was there?
<</if>><<if hasVisited ("BAD ENDING")>>* //Hélas//! The curse lives on—doesn't it?
<</if>><!-- ANY LINKS FOR THE MENU GO HERE -->
<<link "Notebook" "notebook">><</link>>
<<link "Inventory">>
<<script>>
Dialog.setup("Inventory");
Dialog.wiki(Story.get("inventory").processText());
Dialog.open();
<</script>>
<</link>>
<<if settings.achievements>><<link "Achievements">>
<<script>>
Dialog.setup("Achievements");
Dialog.wiki(Story.get("achievements").processText());
Dialog.open();
<</script>>
<</link>><</if>>
<<link "Credits">>
<<script>>
Dialog.setup("Credits");
Dialog.wiki(Story.get("credits").processText());
Dialog.open();
<</script>>
<</link>><<if $scraps isnot 0>>* <<message '$scraps scraps of red satin'>>
Tattered fabric with a brilliant scarlet sheen<</message>><</if>>LapinLunaireGamesRougi<hr><!--to put: gender code; clues y/n -->
<!--RED SATIN SCRAPS-->
<<set $scraps = 0>>
<!--CHARACTER DETAILS-->
<<set $name = "Jinx">>
<<set $surname = "Lenoir">>
<<set $fullname = $name + ' ' + $surname>>
<<set $title = "blank">>
<<set $abbv = 'Mx'>>
<!--CHAR BACKGROUND (aristocrat/bourgeois/paysan)-->
<<set $etat = "blank">>
<!--CLUES--><!-- ANY CONTENT FOR THE SIDEBAR THAT ISN'T A LINK GOES HERE - WILL APPEAR ABOVE THE LINKS -->
Game by <a href="https://lapinlunaire-games.itch.io/">LapinLunaireGames</a>
<a href="https://www.motoslave.net/sugarcube/2/docs/">Sugarcube 2 Documentation</a>
<a href="https://github.com/ChapelR/custom-macros-for-sugarcube-2">Chapel - custom macros collection</a>
<a href="https://github.com/cyrusfirheir/cycy-wrote-custom-macros">Cycy's custom macros</a>
<a href="https://nyehilism.itch.io/twine-template">Twine Sugarcube template by nyehilismwrites</a><h3>StoryInterface</h3>
The StoryInterface special passage, used by creating a special passage titled StoryInterface, allows you to override the default UI layout of Sugarcube.
At its most basic, it consists of a div with the id "passages" that displays the data from your passages on the screen, as shown in example 1. You can add more complex layouts by adding more elements to this passage, such as menu bars, splash screens, headers and footers, as shown in example 2.
Defining these divs is as simple as adding the necessary HTML to the StoryInterface passage; however, note that if a div is assigned a "data-passage" property, you should not add content to it within the StoryInterface passage. This property assigns a passage to that div. In example 2, the div with the id "ui-bar" has the data-passage property "UIBar", meaning it pulls its content data from a passage with the same name. These designations are case-sensitive.
If you're just starting out with Twine/Sugarcube, it's a good idea to familiarize yourself with the language and the UI before working with StoryInterface.
''Example 1''
{{{<div id="passages"></div>}}}
''Example 2''
{{{<div id="ui-bar" data-passage="UIBar"></div>}}}
{{{<div id="passages"></div>}}}
{{{<div id="footer" data-passage="Footer"></div>}}}
This will create a layout with three basic elements: the UI bar, the passage, and the footer. Content for the UI bar is found in the UIBar passage; likewise with the Footer passage & div.
<h3>Accessing the UI functions</h3>
Using StoryInterface by nature removes the built-in UI bar and the links contained within (Saves, Settings, Restart etc); these can all be replaced using their relevant APIs. The most common & useful of these are listed below. These commands can be placed inside links or buttons.
{{{UI.saves() - opens the save UI}}}
{{{UI.settings() - opens the settings UI}}}
{{{UI.restart() - restarts the game}}}
{{{Engine.backward()/Engine.forward() - undoes the previous action and returns the player to the previous passage/moves the player forward one action}}}
Similarly to the above, you can use {{{<<back>>}}} to create a button that automatically undoes the last action, or {{{<<return>>}}} to return to the previous passage without undoing any variable changes made.
<h3>Dialog functions</h3>
You can set up dialog options to pop up upon clicking a link or button, which allows you to share information with the player without adding a new passage to the player's history or changing the state of the game. In order to do this, you need to set up the Dialog box, tell it what passage contains the content you want to display, and optionally, add a title.
{{{Dialog.setup("Dialog Box Title");}}}
{{{Dialog.wiki(Story.get("PassageName").processText());}}}
{{{Dialog.open();}}}
Any of these commands can be used in the default layout as well as StoryInterface - if you want extra save buttons, back buttons etc.
<<back "Return">>
<<link "Settings">><<script>>UI.settings();<</script>><</link>>
<<button "Saves">><<script>>UI.saves();<</script>><</button>><!-- styling for the splash screen - hides all the menus only on this passage -->
<style>
#ui-bar {display:none;}
#ui-toggle {display:none;}
#passages {width:100vw;margin:0;overflow:hidden;scrollbar-width:none;font-family:'Sacramento', cursive;transition:0s;padding:0;}
::-webkit-scrollbar {width:0px;}
.passage, .dm .passage {text-align:center;transition:0s;border:none;background-color:transparent;}
#passages a:before {content: none;}
#story {margin-left:0;}
h1 {text-align:center;margin-top:8vh;color:var(--accent);font-family:'Meddon', cursive;}
.dm h1 {color:var(--dm-accent);}
@media screen and (max-width: 800px) {#story {margin:0;}}
hr {height:auto}
</style>
<h1>Rougi</h1>
<br>
<hr>
<br>
<<if Save.autosave.ok() and Save.autosave.has()>><<link "Resume Game">><<script>>Save.autosave.load()<</script>><</link>> | <</if>><<link "New Game" "0">><</link>> | <<link "Load Game">><<run UI.saves()>><</link>> | <<link "Settings">><<run UI.settings()>><</link>>
<center><h2>Notebook</h2></center><hr>
<<nobr>><div class="notes">
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<<if def $clue1>> <td> Laure slipped because there was wet paint on the stage.</td><</if>>
<<if $belief <= 0>> <td>The impact of Laure's fall could have disturbed the loose fixtures on the set, resulting in the tower collapsing since the stage is sloped.</td><</if>>
<<if $belief gte 0>><td> The set does not have any red in it and was completed before the day of rehearsal; someone or some//thing// had to have brought fresh paint the morning of the first rehearsal for Laure to have slipped.</td><</if>>
</tr>
<tr>
<<if def $clue2>><td> After the incident onstage, Élodie and Sébastien met secretly outside the Palais. He called her '//his//' something, and she rebuked him very firmly, citing that he knew not to call her that while at the Palais.</td><</if>>
</tr>
<tr>
<<if def $clue3>><td> Every pair of specially commissioned red pointe shoes for //Les Souliers Rouges// has gone missing before the performance could be staged, except for the one currently in use.</td><</if>>
</tr>
<tr>
<<if def $clue4>><td> Antoine de Forbin recently made a public announcement that inspired a wildfire of gossip in Paris. Whatever the announcement was, it also won him Élodie's fury.</td><</if>>
</tr>
<tr>
<<if def $rivals>><td> The director's favouritism for Laure has sparked a rivalry between her and Élodie, who is currently the only //danseuse étoile// in the company.</td><</if>>
</tr>
<tr>
<<if def $clue5>><td> There was a burnt scrap of paper on Camille's writing desk that reads //⋅⋅he mak⋅s me want t⋅⋅be selfish//.</td><</if>>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</div>
<</nobr>>
<<if visited("opening")>><hr>
<center><h2>Character Details</h2></center>
''Name:'' $fullname
''Title:'' $title
''Gender & Pronouns:'' $abbv $surname is a ?person and uses ?she/?them pronouns.
''Social Status:'' <<if $etat is 'aristo'>>Aristocrat<<elseif $etat is 'bougie'>>Bourgeois<<elseif $etat is 'paysan'>>Citoyen ouvrier.ère<</if>>
<</if>>
<hr>
<center><h2>[[Persons of Interest|codex]]</h2></center>
<<link "Close Notebook" $return>><</link>><<nobr>><<if settings.achievements>>
<<notify 3s>>Bienvenue à Paris!<<set $bienvenue to true>><</notify>>
<</if>><</nobr>>Crisp morning air surges against your face, tingling in your cheeks, as you rush down the street, dodging fellow pedestrians while a trail of shouted “//pardonnez-moi!//” grows behind you. The grand dome of the Palais Garnier slowly rises before you, flanked by golden statues atop marble pillars; they glisten with dew and refracted sun in the chill of the early morning as you stop to catch your breath.
A quick glance at the clock set into a nearby jeweller’s sign launches you back into motion — <<if $etat is "aristo" or "bougie">>the cabriolet you’d hired that morning had made good time, but you’d been forced to end the ride halfway through your journey and walk thanks to an accident involving two automobiles and the gaggle of onlookers crowding around the scene<<else>>you’d set off that morning with enough time to arrive after a brisk walk, but the scent of fresh bread and pastries wafting from the third boulangerie you passed had simply been too tempting to resist<</if>>.
You dig out the letter summoning you to the Palais and consult the map inked on its lower half. Following its directions leads you to the side of the opera house, where a bronze sculpture stands proud between two staircases descending into the depths of the Palais, <<linkappend "guarded by wrought-iron gates.">>
The fading of the sun as you venture down, however watery its rays may have been, presents a marked chill only aided in its bite by the stone walls that rise around you. Just as the last wink of sun at your back vanishes, eerily silent lighting illuminates the hall before you.
You blink at the seemingly endless span of doors lining the hall stretching out in front of you; all identical, framed with scrollwork of polished, oiled bronze, the doors form a dizzying passage of mirror images that continues down as far as you can see. The thick red carpet is plush enough that you feel as though you sink a bit farther into it with every step, your footfalls muffled entirely.
The faint sound of a piano warbles from somewhere in front of you; brow furrowed, you pull out the letter again and study it in vain for more details on where to go.
<<if $etat is "aristo">>When you’d received the invitation to attend the rehearsals of Maestro Fauré’s newest spectacle, the thought of denying it hadn’t even crossed your mind.<<elseif $etat is "bougie">>You’d attended an unholy amount of soirées and afternoon tea parties, then endured an equally insufferable amount of networking and thinly-veiled bribery to get the connections necessary for access to the inner sanctums of the Palais — you’d sooner jump into the Seine than give up this chance.<<else>>You’d never imagined you’d be able to enter the Palais, let alone stand in the secret wings behind its glittering halls. To think, this was all thanks to befriending your neighbour in the boardinghouse. Perhaps it was fate, that Giselle had left her violin on her dresser and her door cracked, and that you’d seen it that morning.<</if>>
The sound of a throat clearing startles you out of your musing.
<div class="choice">[[Continue|opening 2]]</div><</linkappend>>Giselle grins wryly at you as you approach her; she’s balancing a thick sheaf of bound paper in one hand, the fingers of the other wrapped tightly around the neck of her violin and frog of her bow, with a stand haphazardly tucked into her side with her elbow. “Thanks.”
The word comes out as half-grunt as you take the stand from her, careful not to jostle anything else from her grip. Giselle’s grin is sharp as a slice of the moon, but there’s an agitated current in her features that hadn’t been there that morning.
It isn’t until the second turn in the stairwell that you attempt breaching the subject: “Are you…concerned about the curse?”
“What?” Giselle blinks absently at you, her eyes refocusing on you as you lift the stand higher to avoid clipping the edge of the steps. “Oh…no, it’s not that.”
She laughs quietly and waits a few steps above for you to catch up. You wait for her to elaborate on her answer, but Giselle remains silent as you exit the stairwell and move down another hall.
“This way,” she says suddenly, nudging you towards a different branch off the main hall. “It’s faster to get to the studio through here.”
You follow without complaint, hefting the stand at an angle like a stiff flag. Halfway down the new hall, you sense the weight of a curious gaze; a glance up catches Giselle in the act. Her eyes widen before folding into crescents as she laughs sheepishly.
“I was just thinking,” she says lightly, “about how different this all is.<<if $etat is 'paysan'>> “I’ve been in Paris since last fall and I still feel like I’ll never get used to all this.” She waves a hand at the ornate gildings of your surroundings. “A far cry from home for me. I’m from Saint-Céneri-le-Gérei, in the north—” Giselle’s eyes glint at you and her grin tilts before her accent morphs into a perfect approximation of Parisian nasality: “But no one knows that unless I want them to.”<<else>>” Her eyes flicker to your face, her face suddenly shrewd. When you make no comment, she continues, her voice slightly more relaxed, “I’m from the north, originally. We don’t have these kinds of big, sparkly things there.”<</if>>
“Do you miss it?” You hope the question comes out as intended. Luckily, Giselle doesn’t seem to take offence.
“Sometimes,” she shrugs. Her lips curve up again and she adds, “It’s funny, I thought Paris was too sophisticated to have so many spooky things floating about.”
“So you do believe in the curse?”
“I believe in luck,” Giselle says firmly, though she considers the question a while before answering. “And whatever else is at work here, this ballet’s luck is more bad than good.”
<span class="choice">[[“What do you mean?”|orch pit 2][$ganswer to 'huh']]</span>
<span class="choice">[[“Don’t be ridiculous.”|orch pit 2][$ganswer to 'ridic']]</span>Attempting to follow the path Élodie had taken into the wings leads you in a trepidatory circle around the stage and over coils of thick rope and lumber, a journey made much slower by the spike of alarm that jolts through you every time the wood of the set and walls so much as squeaks.
Exploring the dark, tunnel-like hallways that branch off the wings of the stage like the roots of a great tree eventually brings you to a short landing with a single exit; upon taking it, you find yourself in an ornate corridor much like the one you’d followed the Palais attendant through that morning. These doors are no less mirror-like, but for all the glinting glimpses of your surroundings in their inlays, you can spy no flash of Élodie’s dark hair or her sage green leotard and filmy skirt.
The first few doors you peek through reveal only dark rooms; the first is a small library, the next two equipped with mirrored walls and a long wooden bar mounted on each, and the one after that houses a large, bulky thing you assume is a piano with a dust cloth draped over it, surrounded by panels of thick padding. This pattern continues down the remainder of the corridor, where the hall splits in two.
To the left is a stairwell that twists sharply on itself in its ascent; at the landing you can see a suspiciously familiar marble bust. You peer closer and groan at the cold white face; you have seen this bust before–you’ve already taken this stairwell and passed this bust (you think it’s meant to be Bizet, based off the round spectacles, but the lower half of the face is oddly shapeless and one side of the nose so crudely carved it’s impossible to say for sure).
You turn and march down the right hall with a huff, throwing open doors in your search for <<linkappend "black hair and pale green tulle.">>
“—will be fine, but you need to be more careful. I know you’re upset, but the day isn’t over yet.”
You freeze at the sound of the voice—something about its timbre tickles the back of your brain, but you can’t quite place it. Slowly, you continue to advance down the hall, searching for the source of the voice. There’s no real reason you ought to hide, but something about the situation—the same oddly familiar something about the voice—sends a prickle of caution down your spine.
A second voice, this one higher and somehow razor-edged despite its full body, drifts down the hall from the same direction. “I am not a //child//. And I know this world, better than her or you or anyone else in this godfors—”
“I’m not saying you’re a child, I’m saying that I’m worried!”
You cautiously turn around the corner; the hall is empty, but halfway down its length a door is ajar, propped open by a rock. Much plainer than the others and camouflaged with wallpaper, you doubt you would have spotted it if not for the crack of light filtering through the gap.
Barely daring breathe for fear of discovery, you steal down the hall, hugging the wall until you’re close enough to the door to brace your weight against the frame and peek through the crack.
The sun is stronger than you realised, blinding you for a moment; when the lurid blotches of colour over your vision fade enough for you to register the figures having a hushed, increasingly heated conversation, shock filters through you like icy water.
Élodie’s jaw is tense, her chin jutting out haughtily as she glares at Sébastien. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest against the bitter January chill, but as you watch, Élodie’s shoulders brace against the wind and her proud frame flexes, shoulders arching back like the taut curve of a drawn bow.
Her eyes burn like embers into Sébastien’s, silent resentment radiating off her as heat off smouldering coals. He exhales roughly and crosses his own arms across his chest; they face off for a moment, mirroring each other in pose before Sébastien huffs again and bites out,
“You can’t tell me not to worry, Élodie. You can pretend all you like, keep telling yourself whatever you want, but you’re still my—”
“Shush!” Élodie snaps, her hand whipping up as though to clamp over Sébastien’s mouth. He catches her wrist in midair, holding her fast, and she sucks in a harsh breath through her teeth, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she adds with a modicum of forced calm, “You know you can't call me that. Not here. <<nobr>><<link 'We’ve talked about this.'>>
<<dialog>>
After the incident onstage, Élodie and Sébastien met secretly outside the Palais. He called her //his// something, and she rebuked him very firmly, citing that he knew not to call her that while at the Palais.
<br>There is a scrap of red satin near the wall. You pocket it.
<p>
@@float:left;
<<button 'Record in Notebook'>><<set $clue2 to true>><<set $scraps to $scraps + 1>><<dialogclose>><<cluefound>><</button>>
@@
@@float:right;
<<button 'Discard Info'>><<dialogclose>><</button>>
@@
</p>
<</dialog>>
<</link>>
”<</nobr>>
Sébastien’s lips tighten into a flat line, but he releases her arm and says nothing.
Élodie rubs at her wrist and stares at the street to the side of Sébastien’s feet, ignoring the brisk wind as it cleaves over her back. Her mouth opens, pauses, and shuts.
Sébastien shifts, tugging at his jacket as though to pull it off and shield her, but hesitates before dropping his hands back to his sides. His face is as unreadable as ever, but resigned frustration seeps from every inch of his body.
The wind howls between their silent, mutual anger until Élodie tightens her fingers into themselves and says, her voice low, “They’ll be looking for me. Don’t stay out here too long.”
She turns and hides the shiver of her bare arms as she walks towards the door.
Alarm spikes through you and you launch yourself back down the hall, barely clearing the corner before you hear the baleful wailing of the wind crescendo as the door opens wider. Arranging your features into the best approximation of mild exasperation that you can manage, you round the corner again just as Élodie turns.
<span class="choice"> [[It isn't difficult to feign your show of wide-eyed alarm.|find elodie 2]]</span>
<</linkappend>>When you arrive at Camille’s atelier that evening, the sun hangs low in the sky like a swollen yolk, ready to burst over the cooling horizon. Your knock on the door resounds far louder and longer than you’d expect; after a moment, the door swings open to reveal none other than Sébastien, staring in ill-concealed irritation. The furrow between his brows gives way to slack surprise when he recognizes you.
“Hello, Sébastien,” you start, “is Maestro Fauré here? I’d like to speak to them.”
“They’re in, but I’m afraid they’ve asked not to be disturbed.”
“That’s fine, I’ll wait.”
Sébastien pauses, clearly not expecting you to have deflected. “I’ll…pull up a chair for you, then.”
He opens the door wider and steps aside to let you in before latching the door behind you and casting about for something to sit on. His gaze settles on the single piano bench; you can practically hear his internal groan, though Sébastien’s neutral expression doesn’t change a jot as he motions to it.
You mask your smile as best you can and sit on the bench, realising too late that you’ve taken his seat, as evidenced by the open score and charcoal pencil on the upright piano before you. You must have caught him in the middle of annotating the score; pencil marks and scribbled notation adorn the notes and staff like jewellery on a noble’s neck. His letters are well-formed but almost uniformly marred by smudges lancing horizontally over his writing, as though a long, soft cloth had been drawn over each directly after being written.
Sébastien notices your curious glance and casually flips the page, hiding his annotations with a crisp, blank page—as blank as it can be, covered in masses of black noteheads and elongated ledger lines denoting the stacked, weaving runs that Camille’s compositions are famous for.
“I’m surprised,” you say to break the silence. “I wouldn’t have guessed it from rehearsal alone.”
Sébastien stills, rubbing a finger absently over the keys. Without looking at you, he asks, “What do you mean?”
<span class="choice">[[“How do you know Élodie? The Dancing Star of Paris doesn’t let anyone refer to her by name, let alone speak to her so familiarly.”|question seb 1]]</span>
<span class="choice">[[“I didn’t know you played piano.”|seb slide 1]]</span>The rehearsal, all things considered, goes exceedingly well. You watch from the corner of the sun-swathed studio as scenes play out to the plaintive strains and bright allegros of Camille’s score. The first scene of the third act turns out to be a lively mazurka to celebrate the wedding of two villagers, danced by the corps and Laure in the role of Clara, a young village girl whose new red slippers are, unbeknownst to her, an accursed gift from the King of Darkness, a menacing role that Élodie dances with deadly elegance.
Passion ignites Camille’s eyes with the precise fury of lightning as they play the dancers through the third act, ending the mazurka and Laure’s solo //fouettés// with a thunderous series of brilliant chords. A coy, flirtatious piano line twines around three capricious //tours en l’air// as one of the village boys invites Clara to dance, only to shatter under the assault of a shrieking violin, the fanfare introducing the King of Darkness, disguised in his jealousy as a human nobleman. Enchanted by the newcomer, Clara accepts him in a swirling duet and the music twists into a haunting waltz with a motif stolen from the earlier wedding waltz.
The side door Sébastien had entered from inches open again and a silver-coated attendant sidles in, moving on nimble feet to Camille’s piano bench. The boy, clutching a rosary in one fist, leans in and whispers something to Camille, ignoring the irked look on the composer’s face.
Camille shakes their head, angling their chin towards the piano with a pointed look at the dancers. Giselle’s lips thin as she watches the exchange, but violin and piano continue their hollowed orchestration, and on dance the dancers. Sébastien’s head does not move from its tilt down to the score in his lap, but his eyes are fixed on the attendant and his master as well, his finger never moving from its perch near the top line.
<<linkreplace 'The attendant’s silver coat apparently clothes a spine of steel.'>>The attendant's silver coat apparently clothes a spine of steel; as you watch, he shakes his head and says something again to Camille. Even from across the room, you can read the insistence off his lips.
The piano dissolves in a flurry of halftones, leaving Giselle’s line twining alone through the air for a moment before she lowers her bow from the strings, watching the scene apprehensively. Élodie and Laure continue their choreography, filling the air with the soft thud and swoosh of their steps, but slow to a halt at the storm brewing on Camille’s face.
“Sébastien,” they bite out, eyes flinty, “our guest’s presence is requested by Monsieur le Directeur. Quite urgently, it would seem, as he has braved the horrors of coming to the Palais gates in order to interrupt his own rehearsal.”
The attendant bows deeply, though the simper on his face erases any chance the motion had at appearing sincere. “I assure you, Maes—”
“$title $surname, if you would?” Sébastien cuts the attendant off mid-stride and extends a hand to you without sparing a glance at the boy’s indignation. His expression remains unchanged as you take his proffered hand, but as the attendant gathers his spilled breath and starts in on a flowery tirade of insipid thanks, Sébastien’s eyes roll upwards and his mouth pulls into a flash of exasperation.
You stifle your laughter and the urge to respond in kind (after all, it isn’t Sébastien that is the target of the attendant’s blustering gaze) as you follow Sébastien’s lead—before he can successfully negotiate the attendant’s exit by some method more diplomatic than simply seizing the collar of the boy’s jacket and dragging him away from Camille’s thinning patience, Laure steps into the storm, her thin hands carving placating ripples through the air.
“Might I trouble you to accompany $title $surname and myself out?” she implores, turning a bright smile onto the attendant. “I’d like a breath of fresh air before the //pas de deux//.” Laure’s cornflower eyes narrow into stars over her gentle smile, pushing Sébastien into the shadow of her light as smoothly as waves pushing a ship into port.
The attendant sweeps into a bow so low his nose nearly brushes the floor, and marches out of the studio with it so high you fear, for one irrational moment, that he’ll walk straight into the wall. Laure smiles warmly at you, placing a hand on your shoulder before following the boy out of the studio. Élodie’s and Camille’s eyes follow her departure, though each houses a vastly different tempest.
<span class="choice">[[Follow Laure to meet with the Director|palais 2]]</span>
<</linkreplace>><center><h2>Notebook</h2></center>
[[Your candle gutters. The night is no longer young, but you take the hours of sleep that you can before dawn's watery fingers rouse you once more.|atelier 2]]
<<nobr>><<if settings.achievements>>
<<notify 3s>><b>Antoine</b> added to Notebook<</notify>>
<</if>><<set $metantoine to true>><</nobr>>The next morning, the chill of the night is still fresh enough that your breath puffs out in silvery clouds when you knock on the atelier door in the morning, early enough that your shadow shivers navy blue on the dim ground. Camille opens the door, a mustard yellow scarf shielding their throat from the cold, and greets you with a reserved nod.
As you walk together to the Palais, the sun inches just barely high enough to bleach the sky pale, fragile blue. Its watery rays illuminate the street like the soft touch of an Impressionist’s paintbrush, blurring the edge of light and shadow as green-painted newspaper stands and small bookstalls begin to unfurl along the levee. Camille’s unrestrained hair catches the light, turning the edges of their waves into a wreath of white gold; looking at them now, with their wild, haloed hair and bare hands, you wonder how someone who seems so modest could survive the bloodthirsty salons of Parisian high society.
As if reading your thoughts, Camille glances at you and says, “I keep to myself and give to those who wouldn’t bite a friendly hand. You’d be surprised how quickly cruel players falter when one refuses to join the game.”
Your mouth rounds before you gather your shock under your tongue and ask, “How did you…?”
Camille’s smile is no less mysterious when they answer, “I may not play, but I know the rules.” Their eyes slide back to you for a moment before they add, “And it was only a matter of time before you wondered. Everyone always does.”
Your next question dies in your throat as you catch sight of a tall figure at the Palais doors. Camille slows to a stop beside you, their face melding into a subtle but uncrackable mask of politesse.
“Bonjour, Monsieur. What brings you here at such an hour?”
The man turns and your eyebrows lift, though you manage to do so silently. <<if $etat is 'aristo'>>You recognize the pale, hard-cut eyes and languid, plump mouth. You know this man—not personally, but the noose of nobility gathers its subjects tightly, and with a reputation like his it'd be a wonder if anyone in the city hadn't heard at least a murmur of Antoine de Forbin.<<else>>You don't recognize him, but there's no mistaking the elaborate monogram carved into the open cover of the cigarette case resting in his palm, nor the fluid confidence that borders on arrogance and rolls off his shoulders like the finest of furs. Who but Antoine de Forbin could saunter so naturally away from the Palais Garnier as though he owned it?<</if>>
<<linkappend 'It seems that one of the petit princes of Paris has decided to pay a very early morning visit to the opera.'>>
Antoine smiles indolently and clicks his cigarette case closed without withdrawing any, then tucks it smoothly away in a pocket. The fine brocaded embroidery on his waistcoat glimmers in the grey light, wisps of woody amber cologne drifting to prick your nose in the thin morning air.
“Bonjour, maestro.” His eyes glide to you and back to Camille with a flicker of interest. “Beautiful day for a morning walk, isn’t it? Charmed to see you again, Monestre Fauré—and your friend.”
Camille’s delicately fixed smile doesn’t move, but the incline of their head in reply is slightly too stiff to pass as unruffled. Their response is cut off by the sonorous toll of distant bells striking the half-hour. Auditions are due to begin soon, and they had mentioned they anticipated the candidates to arrive even earlier than called for, to take advantage of the acoustics in the Palais.
Camille’s pause stretches an instant too long and without so much as a blink, Antoine slides the knife home between their ribs: “Well, I must be going, but I’m sure our reunion will come swiftly. Do give my regards to Mademoiselle.”
All Camille can do is grit out a reluctantly polite “Of course. Fare well,” before Antoine taps two fingers to his brow in lieu of tipping his nonexistent hat and saunters off down the street.
Camille’s lips flatten into a thin line as they cross the steps to the door and, without taking the key from their pocket, tug on the door. It glides open without a sound; dull irritation clouds Camille’s features as they enter and hold the door for you. Before it closes fully behind you, Camille is already striding purposefully to the set of halls that you (dimly) recognize as leading to the padded studios you’d seen in your search for Élodie.
“Come,” they call over their shoulder, “I am in need of some morning music!”
<span class='choice'> [[What is there to do but follow?|palais audition]]</span>
<</linkappend>>Let us begin with your prénom. Please select a given name, or input your own below.
* <<message 'Feminine Names'>>[[Julie|create 2][$name="Julie"]]
[[Anne-Laure|create 2][$name="Anne-Laure"]]
[[Marie|create 2][$name="Marie"]]
[[Aïcha|create 2][$name="Aïcha"]]
[[Hélène|create 2][$name to "Hélène"]]
[[Athénaïs|create 2][$name="Athénaïs"]]<</message>>
* <<message 'Masculine Names'>>[[Claude|create 2][$name="Claude"]]
[[Raoul|create 2][$name='Raoul']]
[[Saïd|create 2][$name="Saïd"]]
[[Nicolas|create 2][$name="Nicolas"]]
[[Alexandre|create 2][$name ='Alexandre']]
[[Florent|create 2][$name='Florent']]<</message>>
* <<message 'Gender-Neutral Names'>>[[Noé|create 2][$name='Noé']]
[[Elie|create 2][$name='Elie']]
[[Maé|create 2][$name='Maé']]
[[Nour|create 2][$name='Nour']]
[[Maxence|create 2][$name='Maxence']]
[[Yaël|create 2][$name='Yaël']]<</message>>
* <a>Type Your Own Prénom</a>: <<textbox "$name" "Type here; press enter to confirm" "create 2">>Ah, yes - now I recall. But I must beg forgiveness for one fault more; remind me of your surname? I believe I have it written somewhere here...if not, please do correct me.
* [[Lenoir|create 3][$surname='Lenoir']]
* [[Daae|create 3][$surname='Daae']]
* [[Neruda|create 3][$surname='Neruda']]
* [[Vollands|create 3][$surname='Vollands']]
* [[Ma|create 3][$surname='Ma']]
* [[Nascimento|create 3][$surname='Nascimento']]
* <<textbox '$surname' "Type here; press enter to confirm" "create 3">><!--post Jan. 31, consider making the translations available via combo of Chapel's mouseover + message macros --><i>Merci</i>, $title. To confirm, you are $title $fullname, a member of the <<if $etat is 'aristo'>>aristocracy<<elseif $etat is 'bougie'>>bourgeoisie<<else>>working class<</if>>, //oui//?
<hr>
<div class='choice'>[[Oui, that is correct.|opening]]</div>
<div class='choice'>[[Non, something is incorrect. Let me introduce myself again.|create name]]</div><<nobr>>
<<if $title is 'Monestre'>><<set $abbv to 'Mx'>>
<<elseif $title is 'Mademoiselle'>><<set $abbv to 'Mlle'>>
<<elseif $title is 'Madame'>><<set $abbv to 'Mme'>>
<<elseif $title is 'Monsieur'>><<set $abbv to 'M'>>
<</if>>
<</nobr>><<nobr>>
<<set $fullname to $name +' '+$surname>>
<</nobr>>$fullname, of course. I have the attestation right here...<<cycle "$title">>
<<option 'Monestre'>>
<<option 'Mademoiselle'>>
<<option 'Madame'>>
<<option 'Monsieur'>>
<</cycle>> $surname.
And now, if you would be so kind as to share your <<linkreplace 'pronouns?'>>pronouns<<pronouns>>? These can be changed at any time through the SETTINGS menu.
Ah, I nearly forgot. Madame Guillotine may have been indiscriminate in whose blood washed the streets of Paris, but one cannot break the machine of society so easily. Which milieu of society are you a member of?
* <<link "//L'aristocratie// - The Old Noblesse">>
<<popup 'aristo' "L'aristocratie - The Old Noblesse">> \
<</link>>
* <<link "//La bourgeoisie// - The Nouveau Riche">>
<<popup 'bougie' "La bourgeoisie - The Nouveau Riche">> \
<</link>>
* <<link "//Les ouvriers// - The Laborers">>
<<popup 'paysan' 'Les ouvriers - The Laborers'>> \
<</link>>
<</linkreplace>>A fragmented, romanticised collection of the last vestiges of an age gone by, the aristocrats of the Belle Époque cling to their former glory and memories of a faded era when bloodline was coveted and France wore a crown in place of le //tricolore//. Aristocratic attachment to these concepts have led them to draw the curtains and live in a dissociated fantasy world of champagne and cake, bolstered by their own indulgence. Despite their lack of political influence, the aristocracy still commands the envy of Parisian society, and its members form an exclusive class for whom life is a span of formidable leisure.
<<nobr>>
@@float:left;<<button 'I am a member of the aristocracy.'>><<set $etat to 'aristo'>>>><<goto'create 4'>><<dialogclose>><</button>>@@
@@float:right;<<button 'Close'>><<dialogclose>><</button>>@@
<</nobr>>
The rising power in influence and wealth alike, the bourgeoisie are termed vulgar by the aristocracy for their common lack of the old, noble blood and eschewal of the upper crust’s devotion to tradition. A nebulous, newly-minted class, the Parisian bourgeoisie remains discrete in political opinion and definition despite vocal national bourgeois leaders; free from aristocratic creeds of conduct but still largely governed by the pursuit of beauty and ruthlessly fashionable society, the bourgeois wield great political and economic power at the price of aristocratic disdain and ouvrier distrust.
<<nobr>>
@@float:left;<<button 'I am a member of the bourgeoisie.'>><<set $etat to 'bougie'>>>><<goto'create 4'>><<dialogclose>><</button>>@@
@@float:right;<<button 'Close'>><<dialogclose>><</button>>@@
<</nobr>>Paris doesn’t glitter for everyone—or rather, those who make it glitter are rarely those for whom the spectacle is staged. The glory of the city is built on the sweat of //les ouvriers//, those who labor in the city’s belly or outside its industrial skeleton in the fields of France. More provincials make their way to Paris every day, in search of work or to follow a dream in need of funding. Invisible to the haughty aristocrats and fodder to the factories of the bourgeoisie, members of the working class can roam the city and its inner workings without suspicion, blending into the bones of Paris like grain into wood beneath gilt varnish.
<<nobr>>
@@float:left;<<button 'I am a citoyen ouvrier.ère.'>><<set $etat to 'paysan'>>>><<goto 'create 4'>><<dialogclose>><</button>>@@
@@float:right;<<button 'Close'>><<dialogclose>><</button>>@@
<</nobr>>
<!-- si t francophone et tu crois que j'ai malécrit cette écriture inclusive...je suis probablement d'accord lmao XD envoie-moi un ask avec une correction et je me mettrai à révision --><<if settings.achievements>><<if tags().includes('autosave')>><<notify 3000>>Saving…<</notify>><</if>><</if>>Her attention snaps back in an instant, relief flaring in her eyes over the icy glitter of her smile. Élodie says nothing as she takes her patron’s hand and draws him into her spotlight; he strides forward with the easy confidence of a man born into power, wearing the victorious rush of her performance as comfortably as his own coat.
The chandelier turns his hair as gold as the gilt frames around them as he tucks Élodie into his side and presses a bouquet of roses — deeper, richer red and more perfumed than the first — into her hand. It dwarfs the other, swallowing the brighter petals with a velvet rustle.
Antoine de Forbin’s lips, glistening with wine, brush the curve of Élodie’s ear on their way to her cheek, straying a touch too close to the corner of her mouth to be strictly professional. She leans into him with the familiar ease of a cat, painted eyelids fluttering shut for a brief moment as his lips graze hers, his neat beard smudging the vermilion paint there.
“My final gift to you,” he murmurs as he pulls back, and even Élodie’s formidable, time-tested stature is not enough to keep the shock from distorting her features.
Across the gallery, purple satin glimmers as Laure launches into a near-perfect arabesque, pointing her back toe to the heavens and dissolving into laughter as a tipsy attendee rips the carnation from his buttonhole and attempts to shower her in its petals.
Élodie’s eyes freeze and her diamond smile snaps back into place, just as bright and hard as Antoine’s eyes, even as she turns her head away from her admirers and hisses, “Wait”—
Antoine raises the hand not resting on her waist and addresses the crowd. “A stunning finale to the beginning of the season!”
Élodie’s fingers tighten on the back of his waistcoat, hidden from view as a smattering of applause and agreement rise in response to Antoine’s proclamation.
“And I find myself a very lucky man tonight!” Antoine continues. If he can feel the racing of Élodie’s heart from where his fingertips press against her ribcage, he does not acknowledge it. “I have had the immense and extended pleasure of extending my personal patronage to our beloved //danseuse étoile//, Mademoiselle Élodie Sirand. I know I speak for all of Paris when I confess to you my fondness for the pleasures of her performance.”
He looks at her, and never before have eyes glittered so sharp. “I am but a mortal man, however, and we know what befalls those mortals who clasp stars too close to their chests. Tonight is the last of my claim to Mademoiselle Sirand—it has been a most pleasurable experience, but Icarus finds himself aflame, and therefore must fly to a farther sun.”
He makes a shallow bow and Élodie’s hand falls from his waistcoat, limp where her smile cannot afford to waver. Antoine’s teeth glint as he turns to her and brushes a thumb over her cheek. “//A la prochaîne//,” he whispers, before he slips away, disappearing into the glamour of the gallery like a fish into water. Halfway down the gallery, a young man with mahogany curls glances away from his conversation with a group of elderly women who titter at him over their bejeweled fans.
Élodie’s mouth works for an instant, soundless in the hush of Antoine’s departure, before the spell breaks; without the wrath of one of Paris’s //petits princes// to sustain it, the barrier of her spotlight shatters: the first adoring hand reaches through and grazes the bare skin of Élodie’s upper arm—
A warm hand slips through with a sheaf of paper and neatly bats away the first, the motion fluid enough to pass as a natural consequence of haste. The man with mahogany curls leans in with an apologetic smile, though the firmness of his voice suggests otherwise.
<<linkappend '“The director is looking for you—I doubt he’d like to be kept waiting.”'>>
From where she stands, Élodie can see the director—he’s nearly beside Antoine, watching Laure accept a toast. Certainly not seeking her out, let alone urgently. But Sébastien and his self-tailored suit stands in a way that the evidence of his falsehood is clear to her alone, and the knowledge warms her terse nod as she flexes into a quick curtsy and makes her escape. Even if she had wanted to express her thanks—if she //could// have, in the gallery surrounded by a thousand smiling wolves, her lips were far too numb.
The prima ballerina of the Paris Opéra Ballet does not allow her mask to slip until she turns the corner; her poise crumbles with every step until she is staggering, every footfall heavier than the last. The maestro’s apprentice (her savior that night) excuses himself from the glittering rings of the gallery and runs after her.
When he rounds the refreshments table, his elbow clips that of a girl dressed in orchestral black, nearly knocking her glass out of her grasp; a hasty apology drops from his lips, his hands pausing on hers as he skids to a stop. Her startled bemusement holds him there a moment longer before a glance at the far doorway rekindles his urgency; with another apology, Sébastien rushes off after Élodie once more, leaving the musician staring after him curiously.
He finds Élodie in one of the rehearsal studios below the foyer, dark hair torn free of its bun and jeweled ornaments as she slams her pointe shoes against the floor; a necessary practice, and not one to find unusual were it not for the tears streaming down her face and the expletives from her rouged lips. Just above them, his master watches Laure pirouette //en travesti//, a pensive look on their face. Their lip quirks as Antoine extends a hand into the circle—so much more easily entered—and proffers a red lily.
And that fateful night, you were sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of the letter that would arrive for you in but a few days. Perhaps that is where it all truly began—not with the curse of the red slippers, not with the Palais at all…but with [[you|create name]].<</linkappend>><<widget "cluefound">>
<<if settings.achievements>><<notify 3000>>Clue added to Notebook<<set $scraps to $scraps + 1>><</notify>><</if>>
<</widget>>
<<widget "achievement">>
<<if settings.achievements>><<notify 3s>>Achievement unlocked!<</notify>><</if>>
<</widget>>Nose buried in the letter, you’d nearly run into the attendant who, having seemingly appeared out of thin air, now blocks your advance down the hall. Metallic silver embroidery and pearls adorn his jacket, the long panels of which hang down motionless around a ramrod straight spine. Though he looks no older than sixteen, he carries himself with the stiff aplomb you generally associate with much older souls.
<<nobr>><<if $etat is "aristo">>The attendant dips into a shallow bow, one gloved hand folded over his stomach. “The studio awaits your presence, $title $surname. If you would follow me, please.
<<elseif $etat is "bougie">>“$title $surname, I presume? You are expected in the studio. Follow me, if you would.”
<<elseif $etat is "paysan">>“I’m looking for the rehearsal,” you say with as much blind confidence as you can muster. The attendant looks at you flatly, but has the decency not to cast an appraising glance over you again.
<p>“I regret to inform you that Opéra rehearsals are not open to the general public,” he tells you.</p>
<p>You grit your teeth and remind yourself that the upper crust needs buttering up to smooth the way through. “I understand,” you say, slathering your voice with an alarming amount of simper, “I’m only delivering something for one of the members of the orchestra. It’s very important — I daresay the rehearsal would be stalled without it.”</p>
<p>He hesitates; you hold up the letter as imperiously as you can without actually letting him read its contents. After a few seconds, the attendant nods and turns. “Follow me, then.”</p>
<</if>><</nobr>>
As you hurry after the swiftly shrinking embroidered coat, you catch a glimpse of your distorted reflection in the polished bronze adorning the halls. There’s an odd sort of timelessness to this part of the Palais, as though all these almost-mirrors shield a secret, frozen in place until the door to the outside shuts and music begins to play again.
The attendant, having led you through a maze of lushly carpeted halls, stops in front of a set of double doors. They don’t appear particularly thick, but not a sound from the rehearsal behind them bleeds through; it’s almost unnerving how complete the silence surrounding you is. You can’t help but notice how white the attendant’s knuckles are, tightly clenched into fists by his side.
<<linkappend "“Here we are, $title.”">>
He makes to slide away, but before he can disappear, you call out, uncertainty colouring your voice. “The stage rehearsal for Maestro Fauré’s revival of //Les Souliers Rouges// is already underway, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to mistakenly interrupt.”
The colour drains from the attendant’s face, leaving him positively ghostly beneath the warm light of the sconces. He nods sharply and hastily makes the sign of the cross, his finger trembling as he jerks it through the air.
“Not a revival, $title,” he blurts, backing away with every word. “Monestre Fauré intends to premiere it this season—whether or not it curses us all!”
Your brow furrows, but before you can ask for further explanation, an earth-shattering fanfare of trumpets bursts through the doors; the attendant nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to escape, muttering what sounds like a prayer as he retreats.
You blink as the silvery tails of his jacket whip around the corner and disappear. You’d heard whispers of misfortune dogging the production, especially just after the season had been announced and a freak fire had consumed several of the Opéra’s grandiose sets, but you hadn’t expected such a vehement reaction.
A rich barrage of double-stops swallows the sound of the door’s hinges as you enter and carefully ease it shut again with a soft click. When you turn to view the stage, a furious, whirling piano accompanies your journey to silently navigate rows of plush velvet and seat yourself.
Onstage, a ballerina spins to the storm of notes, one leg whipping out with every other beat; the scarlet satin of her pointe shoes is dazzling under the light of the grand chandelier, blurring into a streak of bright red with every revolution. You lean forward and watch raptly, nearly hypnotised by the rhythmic, precise grace of each flared turn.
The piano accelerates, driving the ballerina faster and faster until you fear her neck will snap and send her head flying across the stage.
Still, you can catch a glimpse every few pirouettes of [[her smile—|opening 3]]<</linkappend>>The sound of the impact hits before you process the sight of her smile distorting into alarm; the ballerina slams into the floor with a thud that seems worlds denser than her light frame would suggest, her arms and legs tangled in a mess of pale pink and red.
The piano drops off with an off-key clatter; sour notes splatter in the air like rotten fruit as you rush to the edge of the stage. Dancers crowd around the fallen ballerina, outstretched hands fluttering from her to their mouths in the most elegant show of alarm you’ve ever seen.
“Laure! Laure, are you alright?”
She slowly pushes herself up, pressing a hand gingerly to her shin. “Yes, yes…I think so…”
Laure blinks a few times, wincing slightly as she smooths a hand down her leg. A bruise is already beginning to darken on the side of her knee, visible as a purpling splotch through her tights, but her eyes are clear and her speech lucid.
A head pops up from the pit over the edge of the stage, then another, both wearing near-identical expressions of concern; the first is haloed by a thick shock of greying hair while the second is more neatly kempt, though if the curls springing up at the nape of his neck and around his ears are any indication, it took a significant amount of effort to tame.
You slow your approach as the young man’s eyes dart to you, his brow knitting. You open your mouth, ready to explain your presence, but his gaze slides past you to the <<linkappend "dancers gathered behind Laure.">>
Apparently, he picks up on some sign that escaped you, because his eyes pause on something in the crowd before he jumps and pushes himself up onto the stage, apparently more concerned with helping the ballerina to her feet than with you. The older figure, baton still clutched between the fingers of their right hand, turns to spare you a curious glance before their bright blue eyes turn back to the stage.
<<if $etat is "paysan">> You recognize them now; the likeness printed on the pamphlets fluttering all over the city was surprisingly accurate, though you hadn’t expected the famous Camille Fauré to look so…unassuming.
<<else>> Recognition flickers in both your eyes and you nod at each other before Camille turns their attention back to Laure. It never ceases to surprise you how unassuming they look, despite having half of Europe enchanted in the palm of their hand, and the other half wrapped around their baton.<</if>>
“Should we take a break?” asks the young man. He’s kneeling over Laure, but his words are directed at Camille. They hesitate, eyes flickering over the dancers and Laure. You remain silent, feeling rather as though you’ve stumbled into a matter far more complex than anticipated.
Laure waves off Camille’s concerned glance. “I’m fine to continue,” she says firmly; you can’t tell if the hard glint in her eyes is entirely determination or more liquid in nature, but her legs are steady when she untangles them, flexing her calves carefully.
Camille doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but they motion for the young man to return to the pit. He obeys, jumping down from the stage with a clatter, and Camille nods to you. “And if our guest would return to ?her_ seat as well, we’ll take it from the beginning of the //fouettés//. Sébastien, follow in book. Madame Moreau, three measures before E.”
You nod and turn to walk back up the aisle, feeling many a curious eye following your retreat. Your foot lands and something cracks with the sharp, precise snap of glass—but the carpet beneath your shoes is <<linkappend "just as plush as ever.">>
Another //crack//, this one splintered into a series of long creaks; you whip back around to the stage, the sound summoning alarm like bubbles surging to the surface of boiling water. Time grates slower around you as the towering backdrop begins to collapse in on itself, its shadow falling directly over Laure.
She scrambles to push herself away, but her foot slips again in a streak of lurid scarlet, sending her crashing down to her knees again—
<div class="choice">[[Shield Laure with your own body.|shield]]
<div class="choice">[[Yank Laure out of the way.|yank]]</div>
<</linkappend>><</linkappend>>
Your legs burn as you launch yourself onto the stage and seize Laure’s arm. She yelps as you jerk her arm and bodily yank her out of the way.
The backdrop groans once more before succumbing with an ear-splitting crack. The tower façade comes crashing down like a pale Tower of Babel; the upper half hits the stage and explodes outwards, scattering debris with a clatter loud enough to mask the screams of the dancers and swears flying from the orchestra pit.
You swing Laure into safety not a moment too soon—just as her tutu clears the edge of the fallen tower, a splintered shard of wood strikes the stage precisely where she had been moments before, hard enough to dent the oak planks; had you been even an instant slower, it would have struck her ribs, her thigh if she were lucky.
Your luck, however, is not enough to keep you from careening into the wings, Laure still in tow. Laure twists to narrowly avoid the collision, but your momentum sends you crashing directly into another ballerina; Laure's arm flies out of your grasp as your shoulder slams into solid muscle.
She staggers backwards as you clutch at her like a drunken sailor before she manages to regain her balance, righting herself with your weight all but hanging from her forearms. Amid the billowing sawdust and ringing echo of the fallen tower, you blink at an uncannily familiar face—you’ve seen her before, but where?
Though her eyes are the warm colour of cognac, the stare the ballerina levels at you is frigid; like a slap of icy water, it sobers your sense of balance and you hastily right yourself.
<<linkappend "“Get off me.”">><<nobr>><<if settings.achievements>>
<<notify 3s>><b>Élodie</b> added to Notebook<</notify>>
<</if>><<set $metelodie to true>><</nobr>>
Her voice is ineffably icier than her unyielding stare, and the shiver that it sends down your spine is nothing short of blood-chilling.
You scramble to release her and take a generous step back, a flush warming your cheeks as the other dancers titter behind her. She scoffs and takes care to brush the sawdust from her shoulders and knock a cloud of it from her skirt before levelling her chilly gaze at you once more.
It hits you as she opens her mouth to speak—you’ve just hung like a drugged monkey off the arms of the most famous ballerina in France. Élodie Sirand, the only ballerina in Paris to currently hold the elite title of //danseuse étoile//, straightens her shoulders, her spine unfurling into the posture of a queen, and regards you with more than a hint of distaste before her eyes cut through the air to Laure.
Élodie’s lips thin as she takes in the sight of the corps de ballet comforting Laure. Her eyes land on the purpling splotch staining Laure’s knee, and the razor’s edge in Élodie’s gaze freezes harder.
“Look at you,” she fairly spits. The //corps// dancers fall quiet in an instant, shuffling away from Laure with minute, muffled steps. Evidently, the rumours of Élodie’s famously sharp tongue have heft behind them.
Élodie’s eyes narrow at the hesitancy in Laure’s face, anger flashing over her own features like a strike of lightning. When she speaks again, her voice is all snide polish: “A pity the director’s favourite flower is bruised, and with opening night so soon. Excuse me, if you will—prayer calls.”
And she strides offstage, her steps light and elegant as a rapier’s fatal swing.
Silence rings in the wake of Élodie’s departure, though not for long; the whispering of the corps starts up with a fury, rustling in the wings until Camille claps their hands twice.
“Take five minutes,” they call sharply, silencing the rush of chatter for all of a few seconds. “We’ll resume in the grand studio after.” The whispering resumes as Camille sighs and presses two fingers to the bridge of their nose.
The dancers disperse and you find yourself alone on the stage; you descend quietly and approach Camille in the pit.
<div class="choice"> [[Continue|inspect stage]]</div>
<</linkappend>>You don’t realise your legs have propelled you forward until you land loudly onstage, already moving again as you throw yourself over Laure.
The backdrop groans once more before succumbing with an ear-splitting crack. The tower façade comes crashing down like a pale Tower of Babel; the upper half hits the stage and explodes outwards, scattering debris with a clatter loud enough to mask the screams of the dancers and swears flying from the orchestra pit.
A chunk of wood slams into your side, shoving the air from your lungs with a harsh grunt, and a sudden flash of clarity regretfully informs you that perhaps this was not the wisest course of action to have taken. Before you can do much more than anticipate a much stronger barrage of pain, hands close tight around your upper arm and pull, dragging you—and by extension, Laure, who curled up into a tight ball upon the tower collapsing—off the stage.
The sudden sensation of falling overtakes you before you land with a thump. Dimly, you realise through the mess of sawdust and anonymous cries that the young man who’d leapt onto the stage earlier—Sébastien—has you in his arms, while Maestro Fauré carefully sets Laure on the piano bench.
You blink dazedly up at him for a moment before he clears his throat and reality snaps back over you. “Thank you,” you say with as much dignity as you can muster, clearing your throat for good measure.
He merely nods, his gaze <<linkappend "darting over your shoulder.">><<nobr>><<if settings.achievements>>
<<notify 3s>><b>Giselle</b> added to Notebook<</notify>>
<</if>><<set $metgiselle to true>><</nobr>>
You turn and nearly jump; there’s a third person in the pit with you, a pale-fingered violinist with downturned grey eyes and a slim, tilted mouth. <<if $etat is "paysan">> Giselle’s proclivity for wearing orchestra black at all times always lends her appearance a touch of the ghostly, but in the shadows of the pit she’s positively spectral.<<else>>Clothed in full orchestral black, her petite frame takes on a ghostly pallor in the shadows of the pit.<</if>>
She glances at Sébastien and grins, flashing a set of extraordinarily small teeth. “I’m alright,” she says.
<<if $etat isnot "paysan">>Her eyes flicker to you curiously and she deftly shifts her bow and instrument to the same hand as she stands and weaves around her sheet music to where you stand. A short bow bares the nape of her neck for a brief moment, revealing a sunburnt patch of skin before her hair covers it again as she rises.
“Giselle Moreau,” she says by way of introduction, one side of her mouth pulling up higher than the other as she smiles. “Pleased to meet you.”
“$fullname,” you reply, offering her a <<cycle "$greac">><<option "neutral nod" 0>><<option "friendly smile" 1>><<option "cold stare" 2>><</cycle>>.
<</if>>Sébastien releases a soft breath of relief and runs a hand through his hair, restoring the mahogany curls to what you assume is their naturally unruly state. Giselle tips her chin towards Laure, who’s now sitting on the piano bench beside Camille as the maestro examines her bruised leg. Apparently satisfied with their inspection, Camille nods to Laure, though not without what appears halfway between admonishment and a plea for caution; she smiles contritely before standing and departing the pit.
“I hope she’s alright. Lots of excitement today,” Giselle says, her tone carefully dispassionate.
Sébastien snorts and Giselle’s lips twitch, barely restraining her laughter, though she quickly schools her expression into neutrality.
“No more than last week,” he says under his breath. “We’re just lucky Élodie hasn’t—”
A voice as sharp as a razor slices through the air, frost trailing in its wake. <<linkappend "“Truly, what a pity.”">><<nobr>><<if settings.achievements>>
<<notify 3s>><b>Élodie</b> added to Notebook<</notify>>
<</if>><<set $metelodie to true>><</nobr>>
Sébastien groans quietly, visibly deflating. You glance at Giselle, but she only offers you a tiny, wry pursing of the lips. You mirror Sébastien and turn to the stage yourself, peering up at the speaking ballerina as she stalks out from the //corps// huddled in the wings. Her face is uncannily familiar—striking ebony hair pulled back from a wide, full-lipped face and a strong brow over eyes the colour of cognac—but you can’t place where you’ve seen her before.
It hits you as she opens her mouth to speak—you’ve passed her face a thousand times before, in nearly every window in the district. The Opera’s advertising strategy is simple but effective (though could apparently use some improvement): the flyers announcing the start of the dance season are omnipresent across the city, all featuring a very familiar ballerina mid-arabesque, one arm elegantly haloing her sultry gaze while the other extends to the viewer in invitation.
Élodie Sirand, the only ballerina in Paris to currently hold the elite title of //danseuse étoile//, straightens her shoulders, her spine unfurling into the posture of a queen, and regards you with more than a hint of distaste before her eyes cut through the air to Laure on the other side of the stage, already surrounded by a gaggle of dancers.
Élodie’s lips thin as she takes in the sight of the //corps de ballet// comforting Laure. Her eyes land on the purpling splotch staining Laure’s knee, and the razor’s edge in Élodie’s gaze freezes harder.
“Look at you,” she fairly spits. The //corps// dancers fall quiet in an instant, shuffling away from Laure with minute, muffled steps. Evidently, the rumours of Élodie’s famously sharp tongue have heft behind them.
Élodie’s eyes narrow at the hesitancy in Laure’s face, anger flashing over her own features like a strike of lightning. When she speaks again, her voice is all snide polish: “The director’s favourite flower is bruised, and with opening night so soon. Excuse me, if you will—prayer calls.”
And she strides offstage, her steps light and elegant as a rapier’s fatal swing.
Silence rings in the wake of Élodie’s departure, though not for long; the whispering of the //corps// starts up with a fury, rustling in the wings until Camille claps their hands twice.
“Take five minutes,” they call sharply, silencing the rush of chatter for all of a few seconds. “We’ll resume in the grand studio after.” The whispering resumes as Camille sighs and presses two fingers to the bridge of their nose.
The dancers disperse and you nudge aside some of the debris to clear yourself a space to sit on the slanted lip of the stage.
<div class="choice"> [[Continue|inspect stage]]</div>
<</linkappend>><</linkappend>><<nobr>><<set $metcamille=true>><<set $metseb=true>>
<<if settings.achievements>>
<<notify 3s>><b>Camille</b> and <b>Sébastien</b> added to Notebook<</notify>>
<</if>>
<</nobr>>Camille dusts their hands off and offers you a rueful smile. “I regret that your introduction to our production has been so eventful. Please, allow me to acquaint you with the orchestra in attendance today.”
They wave over the other occupants of the pit and motion to the young man <<if visited("shield")>> who pulled you to safety<<else>>who’d jumped up from the pit to attend to Laure<</if>>.
“This is my apprentice, Monsieur Sébastien Denis.”
Sébastien dips his head to you politely. His mahogany hair, set free from its careful combing by the excitement, bounces in the wake of his movement as you introduce yourself in return. An unreadable hazel gaze watches you with the tireless acuity you’d expect of a guard rather than a composer’s apprentice.
Camille’s eyes linger solemnly on Sébastien, their lips parting as though to say something before they notice your curious glance.
“If you should have any question or need of assistance, please feel free to speak to Sébastien as you would myself.” Camille holds your gaze for a moment before turning with a sweep of their palm to Giselle, who bows stiffly.
“Madame Giselle Moreau, a fine concert violinist. She—”
Whatever Camille was about to say is interrupted as the doors burst open, seemingly of their own accord; Camille breaks off immediately, head snapping to stare at the swinging doors. No one so much as draws a breath as the doors slowly creak shut, the echo of their violent opening shivering in the air.
Camille’s features twist into something close to regret before they clear their throat and restore an expression of perturbation. <<if $etat is "aristo">>“I’m glad you accepted the invitation to attend our rehearsals. Monsieur le Directeur was most adamant that someone of your standing would refuse, on account of the more…damaging rumours populating the city’s salons. I was inclined to agree.” Their eyes catch yours in a net of electric blue suspended over a smile too mild to be meaningless. “I am most pleased to be proven wrong.”<<elseif $etat is "bougie">>“Your friend Madame Berthier wrote you a rather scintillating review—it is no small pleasure to see you exceed her compliments of character. Monsieur le Directeur will be surprised to hear we had a visitor. He has been rather adamant that no one in complete possession of their facilities would set foot in the Palais while this production continues.”
Camille’s smile remains halcyon, though their eyes crinkle slightly at Sébastien’s ill-disguised scoff. “In any case, I welcome your presence at our rehearsals, though there remains only today's before our dress rehearsal and the premiere.”<<else>>“And I suppose that is an appropriate cue to ask what exactly brings you to our rehearsal, $title $surname.”
You pull out the letter and present it to Camille. They scan it as you speak, glancing up occasionally. “Giselle—err, Madame Moreau requested that I deliver something of hers, and was of the shared hope that I might stay to watch the rehearsal. We share the same residency, and I often hear her practising.”
You fight the urge to hold your breath as Camille finishes reading Giselle’s letter. Relief so strong it’s dizzying surges over you when they nod and hold the letter back out to you. “You do the work of a good friend, $title $surname. Consider my permission granted to stay through this and our dress rehearsal, provided that your appreciation is not disruptive.”
The grin that spreads over your face is so wide you can already feel the ache setting into your jaw. An amused smile curves Camille’s mouth as they wave away your gushing of thanks, and you dig in your pockets for the chunk of tacky ochre resin Giselle had asked you to bring.
Giselle’s grin grows as you present it to her. She sets it to her bow and glides it over the horsehair with a sparkle in her eyes. Camille watches her navigate around the broken tip of the tower and lift the violin to her shoulder, Sébastien joining her a moment after with his own copy of the score.
“I’m glad their spirits are still strong,” <</if>>Camille sighs. “I will be frank: it is true that this production has faced more mishap than most. But that changes nothing in the face of the premiere.”
The long scar curving over their jaw and neck catches the fractured light of the grand chandelier, lining itself silver as their eyes slide to you inquisitively. “Half our usual //abonnés// withdrew their patronage for the season, I have personally received no fewer than seven and a half death threats, some of which I suspect originated from within the company, and the director of the Ballet refuses to set foot inside the Palais until opening night. As I said before, I welcome your presence. But be well warned that I will not tolerate intimidation or mindless fear mongering.”
You open your mouth to answer, but a flash of lurid red on the stage distracts you.
<div class="choice">[[Inspect the stage|inspect stage 2]]</div>
<div class="choice">[[Ignore it and answer Camille|skip stage]]</div>“I…I’m sorry, I just…” You trail off as you edge past Camille and peer at the rosy sheen streaked over some of the broken wood nearest you.
It gleams brilliant red, throwing back the light of the grand chandelier with surprising fury. Without any stage lighting to balance out the warm yellow tint of the house lights, the thick smears look eerily like blood. You fight the urge to shudder as you carefully push the pile aside and clamber back onto the stage.
A streaky trail of the stuff sketches a lopsided circle, with the end you’re following shooting off before closing the gap. As you inspect it, your shoe knocks into a pile of what appears to have previously been scaffolding; the pile collapses with a loud clatter, and several of the looser blocks tumble free, straight through a thick section of the broken circle.
<<linkappend "They come away shimmering red.">>
You kneel and stare at the disturbance in the streaks on the stage. Where the blocks cut through, the red is faint or vanished completely. As you watch, some of the thicker areas begin to ooze back into the space wiped clean, the liquid moving groggily over the floor.
<<nobr>>
A careful examination of one of the stained wood blocks confirms your growing suspicions: the satiny red coating the floor is <<link 'paint'>>
<<dialog>>
The stage was slippery because of wet paint during the first stage rehearsal, causing Laure to slip. <<if $belief lte 0>>The impact of her fall could have disturbed the loose fixtures on the set, resulting in the tower collapsing since the stage is sloped.<<elseif $belief gt 0>>The set does not have any red in it and was completed before the day of rehearsal, but the paint was dry; someone had to have brought fresh paint the morning of the first rehearsal for Laure to have slipped.<</if>>
<br>There is a scrap of red satin half-buried in the debris. You pocket it.
<p>
@@float:left;
<<button 'Record in Notebook'>><<set $clue1 to true>><<set $scraps += 1>><<dialogclose>><<cluefound>><</button>>
@@
@@float:right;
<<button 'Discard Info'>><<dialogclose>><</button>>
@@
</p>
<</dialog>>
<</link>>, and if its viscosity is anything to postulate on, spilled a few hours ago. You cautiously touch the pad of one thumb to the surface of the paint; your finger comes away coated in red, but the thin layer of paint flakes away under the pressure of a thumbnail scraped over the skin.<</nobr>>
You glance up as Camille joins you on the stage. “Was the set being painted before rehearsal today?”
Camille shakes their head slowly, eyes fixed on the disturbed, drying circle. “No, the sets have been fully complete for weeks.”
They turn and peer into the wings as though some sort of answer might be hiding in the folds of the curtain or behind the fallen tower.
Without taking their eyes off the quiet shadows, they add, “And nothing in this particular set uses red. It’s all pastels, neutrals—the soloist’s shoes are meant to be the focus.”
You frown at the paint beneath your feet. <<linkappend 'It winks up at you, slinging borrowed light like a kiss.'>>
You blink to clear your vision of the scarlet flare and focus again on Camille, whose serene expression has vanished under a weary, resolute weight.
<<nobr>>Although you don’t have an explanation for the misfortune haunting the ballet, you <<cycle '$belief'>>
<<option "can’t dismiss the curse, but neither are you convinced" 0>>
<<option "believe in the occult and forces beyond explanation—a curse is one of the least outlandish things you could have imagined to be behind the misfortune haunting the Palais" 1>>
<<option "want to roll your eyes—you don’t believe in superstitions like cursed ballets" -1>><</cycle>>.<</nobr>>
Camille considers you for a moment, weighing the sincerity of your response—and, you suppose, of your character. When their gaze leaves you, the exhale that pushes past your lips is so heavy that it startles even you.
Amusement twitches faintly at the corners of Camille’s mouth before sobriety settles back over their features like an old mantle. They purse their lips and regard the scattered remains of the tower backdrop littering the stage before scanning the pit as well.
“This will take a few hands to clear,” they mutter, more to themself than to you. “I’ll have to find…” They trail off with a slight grumble before turning to you. “I must beg your pardon, $title. Monsieur le Directeur’s absence calls upon us all to rise to the occasion, I’m afraid. While I take care of…this,” they wave a hand to encompass the general area of the stage, “would you mind finding Élodie? Or if you prefer, you could work with Giselle to move her stand and music to the grand studio.”
Camille’s wry smile turns apologetic and they add, “I would normally request these things of Sébastien, but I’m afraid he’s disappeared as well.”
<div class="choice">[[Find Élodie|find elodie]]</div>
<div class="choice">[[Help Giselle|orchestra pit 1]]</div><</linkappend>><</linkappend>><<nobr>><<set $etat to "paysan">>
<<set $name to "Debug">>
<<set $surname to "McDucky">>
<<set $title to "Rubber">>
<<set $rivals to 1>> <<set $bruh to 0>>
<</nobr>>
[[shield]]
[[yank]]
[[opening]]
[[inspect stage]]
[[inspect stage 2]] You blink to clear your vision of the scarlet flare and focus again on Camille, whose serene expression has hardened into resolution.
“I hear you, maestro,” you answer with a polite incline of your head.
<<nobr>>Although you don’t have an explanation for the misfortune haunting the ballet, you <<cycle '$belief'>>
<<option "can’t dismiss the curse, but neither are you convinced" 0>>
<<option "believe in the occult and forces beyond explanation—a curse is one of the least outlandish things you could have imagined to be behind the misfortune haunting the Palais" 1>>
<<option "want to roll your eyes—you don’t believe in superstitions like cursed ballets" -1>><</cycle>>.<</nobr>>
Camille considers you for a moment, weighing the sincerity of your response—and, you suppose, of your character. When their gaze leaves you, the exhale that pushes past your lips is so heavy that it startles even you.
Amusement twitches at the corners of Camille’s mouth before sobriety settles back over their features like an old mantle. They purse their lips and regard the scattered remains of the tower backdrop littering the stage before scanning the pit as well.
“This will take a few hands to clear,” they mutter, more to themself than to you. “I’ll have to find…” They trail off with a slight grumble before turning to you. “I must beg your pardon, $title. Monsieur le Directeur’s absence calls upon us all to rise to the occasion, I’m afraid. While I take care of…this,” they wave a hand to encompass the general area of the stage, “would you mind finding Élodie? Or if you prefer, you could work with Giselle to move her stand and music to the grand studio.”
Camille’s wry smile turns apologetic and they add, “I would normally request these things of Sébastien, but I’m afraid he’s disappeared as well.”
<div class="choice">[[Find Élodie|find elodie]]</div>
<div class="choice">[[Help Giselle|orchestra pit 1]]</div>Romain is the first to begin clapping; Giselle flinches slightly and Sébastien shoots Romain a (seemingly automatic) scowl, but he continues, offering a small smile as well to prove his sincerity.
Giselle’s shoulders relax and she returns the expression, though the faint tremble in her hands as she transfers her bow to the same hand holding her violin betrays a lingering anxiety.
Romain folds his hands back in his lap as Camille consults their notes. When they do speak, their voice is calm, resounding in the studio.
“Romain, I’d like you to keep practising the solo runs as second. Congratulations, Madame Moreau.”
Disbelief flashes over Giselle’s face, chased by elation. She opens her mouth to speak, but chokes on her words, her eyes bright.
Camille’s mouth pulls into amusement as they stand and gather their papers. “Monsieur Baptiste, you are free to leave or bolster our string section in rehearsal today, but either way, you must have that cut attended to first. I believe we have medical supplies in the dressing room—Sébastien, if you would?”
“Maestro, could I speak privately with you for a moment?”
Camille’s gaze swings from the door to Sébastien at his question, their brow already creasing as they nod. You stand and say quickly, “I can find the supplies. <<if $etat is 'aristo'>>My family tutor was well-versed in field medicine and passed on the knowledge.”<<elseif $etat is 'bougie'>>I learned basic first aid knowledge as a child. There was a doctor who came on housecall, and I was curious.”<<elseif $etat is 'paysan'>>I've had plenty of opportunity to pick up first aid.” After all, doctors meant spending time and coin to have done what could (more or less) be done yourself at a far more lenient cost. <</if>>
Your suggestion receives a grateful nod from Camille before they turn to Sébastien; Giselle’s eyes dart from them to Romain, still clutching the crumpled handkerchief to the sluggish flow of blood on his forehead.
“I’ll go with Romain to the stage. That way we can meet you directly from the dressing room,” she says with a nod to you.
With all settled, you exit the studio and turn down the hall with Giselle and Romain. Giselle turns down her favoured shortcut, but as you go to follow, a broken gulping sound stops you in your tracks.
<<linkappend 'The sound of someone weeping echoes down the hall.'>>
Following the faint sobs leads you to the draughty barre studios below the Palais, in the mirrorshine halls you’d wandered through on your first visit. You hold your breath and stop in front of a barely ajar door, gathering yourself to peek into the studio the sobs seem to be coming from.
Élodie slumps against the mirrored wall, her limbs haphazardly thrown out in front of her as her chest heaves. The sight is uncomfortably reminiscent of a doll tossed aside and forgotten following a fit of childhood boredom. Her face is blotchy and wet, cognac eyes reddened to the point that your own sting in useless sympathy. It feels //wrong// to witness her in such a state, stripped of her cold, regal skin and laid bare before you, far more intimate and invasive than seeing her nude.
Élodie draws in a shaky breath and raises her head, twisting to face herself in the mirror as she swipes the tears from her eyes. You duck back behind the door and consider your options.
<span class="choice"> [[Reveal yourself and attempt to comfort her|comfort elodie]]</span>
<span class="choice"> [[Stay hidden and continue watching|hide n sneak][$elodiecry to 'hide']]</span>
<span class="choice"> [[Sneak away|hide n sneak][$elodiecry to 'sneak']]</span>
<</linkappend>>To your surprise, there are only two people in the room when you enter with Camille. Giselle raises a hand and smiles in greeting, the edges of it fidgeting as her fingers whiten on the neck of her violin. Sébastien, hands clasped behind his back, nods stiffly to you and Camille.
Camille’s eyebrows lift into high curves, apparently surprised to see their apprentice there, but makes no comment. Instead, they stride to the piano and set the score folio down on the stand before nodding at Giselle.
“It seems you’re the only one brave enough to take on a solo this time. Not afraid of some devil music?” Camille asks, their tone balancing taut between comedy and gravity.
A crescent moon grin flashes over Giselle’s lips. “There are worse things,” she answers, timidity softening her voice before she quickly adds, “And Romain is here as well, Monestre. He said he’d practice in the next room until you arrived.”
“Ah. Thank you.” Some of the tension in Camille’s face loosens at the mention of the concertmaster. They nod at Sébastien and then at the side wall. “If you would retrieve Monsieur Baptiste, please.”
“Of course.” Sébastien stands from his spot beside Giselle; his gaze lingers hesitantly on her for a moment before he slips out into the hall. As focused as she is on the score—her fingers tap audibly on the fingerboard of her violin—Giselle glances up just in time to meet Sébastien’s unreadable eyes. Her thin mouth flitters into a curve like the lash of an unspooling whip before her eyes flash back to the score without missing a beat.
“And Giselle,” Camille says without looking at her as they flip the pages of their score to find the solo, “thank you for volunteering yourself for the stage rehearsals. I appreciate your dedication.”
She freezes before her posture straightens, shoulders falling back as they shed some of the apprehension dragging them down into her chest. “Thank you, Maestro.”
The smile that touches her lips is tiny but steady, and you can’t help but notice that the near-imperceptible tremble in her right hand has vanished. Camille meets your knowing glance with a mild, innocent look, though there’s something cheeky in the way they raise their eyebrows questioningly at you.
Sébastien re-enters with another violinist in tow, this one a gangly man with a proud, neat gait whose long fingers wrap around his instrument like ribbons around a present. Camille nods at him and motions to the floor beside the piano.
“Romain, we’ll start with you. Sébastien, if you would play them in with two measures. Madame Moreau, feel free to continue practising in one of the studios. We’ll call for you after Romain.”
Giselle nods and quietly slips out to one of the other practice studios in the hall while Sébastien takes Camille’s place at the piano bench. Camille joins you behind the long table set against the side wall and pulls out another copy of the score and a small notebook. They flip to a fresh page and set the tip of their pen against the straight, even lines of the score.
<<linkappend '“When you’re ready.”'>>
Sébastien looks to Romain as he lifts his violin and settles it beneath his chin. The concertmaster raises his bow in a practised arc and sets it gently over the strings, then nods at Sébastien. The piano blooms into a sonorous trail of eighth notes; when they taper at the apex of their climbing melody, Romain pulls his bow across the strings in one confident stroke and releases a rich, vibrato-laden chord.
The violin spirals into a frenzy of blinding notes, each so fleeting they leave only a whisper of colour in your ears, like the afterimages of lightning striking. At the peak of the growing crescendo, Romain strikes the strings with a series of chords, each more resonant than the last.
Before they begin to fade in your ears, the violin sings plaintively again, slower and more elegiac now. Its high notes ring sweet in your ears, but as you watch, the thin string snaps, recoiling and slicing Romain’s forehead. The naked inch of gut at the end of the string slashes into his eyebrow before falling to the floor, soundless.
Blood wells in the raw line carved into Romain’s flesh, but he pays it no heed, shifting his left hand up the neck and pivoting the bow onto the next available string. A thin red thread begins to trickle down his forehead and you catch a glint of frustration in his eyes. The sweet solo continues—
The next string creaks and Romain’s fingers thud harder onto the fingerboard, trying fruitlessly to keep it from following the same route as the first. It breaks free of the peg with a violent snap when he stretches his hand over the shoulder of the violin to reach a note halfway down the fingerboard, flailing narrowly past his cheek like a writhing snake. It smacks the wall with an audible thud before falling to the ground in a coil.
The note of frustration in Romain’s face turns to fear, his mouth tightening, but he continues playing. Beside you, Camille tenses, the tip of their pen digging into the paper beneath it.
Romain’s right eye shutters as blood clumps their lashes together and drips onto their cheek like the hallowed tears of the Mother of Mercy.
His left hand slides up the fingerboard, no longer pressing down firmly on the strings but grazing them with deliberate, feather-light touches. The violin’s voice takes on a piercing yet airy tone, each pitch hanging eerily in your ears. Camille swallows, eyes fixed on Romain, the score and their notes abandoned.
The peg holding the third string taut groans; Romain’s eyes widen before narrowing in sombre determination, the fingers of their right hand moving the bow nimbly over the two remaining strings—
<<linkappend '“Stop.”'>>
Camille’s voice pierces the air like a thrown spear; Romain pauses before shaking his head ever so slightly and moving to pull his bow across the string again—Camille rises and crosses the room in two strides to grab his wrist and hold it firm.
“Stop,” Camille repeats, and their voice is softer this time, almost a plea. Romain looks into their face for a long moment before swallowing and jerking their head in acquiescence. Camille releases his wrist and Romain slowly lowers the violin from his shoulder. Blood draws a wavering line through his right eye, and his eyebrow is dyed deep red with it.
“You need to clean the wound,” Camille starts, but Romain waves them off.
“Afterwards,” he says firmly, drawing out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at his forehead with a wince. “It’s not so deep, Maestro. And I want to hear the last chair audition.”
Sébastien’s glare is fierce enough to send chills down your spine from where you sit in its periphery, but its target takes no notice; Romain continues to beseech Camille, handkerchief slowly blooming red between his knuckles.
“With your permission, of course. I was surprised to see her this morning—and she begged me not to contest her to come play during the dance rehearsals. I’m simply curious to hear how she plays alone.”
Camille sighs and passes a hand over their face, fingertips lingering at the edge of their scar. “I have no objection, but it isn’t mine that matter. If she agrees, you may stay to listen.”
Camille waves a hand at Romain’s emphatic “thank you, Maestro” as they walk out to retrieve Giselle. Sébastien, apparently mollified, turns back to the piano and busies himself with a pencil, though you get the distinct feeling that he isn’t actually writing anything.
Romain shoots you an inquisitive glance as he sits against the wall, cradling his instrument against his chest with one hand while the other presses the handkerchief to his forehead. You nod back at him and he smiles gingerly, leaning his head back against the wall so the blood doesn’t drip directly into his eyes.
Camille returns with Giselle; she offers Sébastien a wavering smile, then yelps at the sight of Romain, cheeks bloodied and head tipped back, against the wall.
He grins, a well-intended gesture made horrifying by the reddish tint on his gums and diluted blood streaked over his teeth. Giselle manages a terse attempt at a smile and Camille frowns at Romain before returning to their seat at the table.
Giselle takes her place by the piano and raises her violin to playing position. Sébastien smiles at her encouragingly, hands poised over the keys. She takes a deep breath and lifts her bow, then suddenly drops the violin and bow to her sides and turns to face you and Camille.
“I’m sorry, can I—I’d just like to do one thing to prepare.”
Camille exchanges a glance with Sébastien and taps their pen twice on the notepad before nodding. Giselle bows her head in thanks and hurries to a case in the corner of the room. She rifles through the compartment at the end of it and extracts a small vial of clear liquid.
Giselle clasps it between her palms and murmurs something under her breath<<if $etat is 'aristo'>>—you frown slightly; her pronunciation of the Latin is a little off, but you recognize the prayer to Saint Michael against wicked hosts—<<else>>, <</if>>then uncorks the vial and lets a drop of the holy water within fall to the floor.
Face slightly flushed, Giselle stows the vial away and resumes her position in front of you and Camille. When she raises her bow and nods at Sébastien this time, there’s a sense of resolve in her steady hands and slanted mouth.
The piano blooms once more, and Giselle unleashes a rippling chord. Camille watches her carefully, their face inscrutable, while their pen races across the page, scrawling terms and hasty underlines in minute letters. Romain’s face dilates in astonishment as Giselle plays on, her eyes drifting closed as she sways and spools out an achingly beautiful string of notes.
Romain’s rendition was certainly more polished, but something haunting hangs in the air as Giselle draws her bow across the strings, note after thrumming note floating from her hands; her playing reaches into your chest, grasping with intangible fingers through bone and blood to squeeze your heart and caress it with nails just sharp enough to sting.
Her wrist rocks between scroll and empty air as she spins out the last note like a thread of sugar, shimmering and soft. When it stops ringing, Giselle lowers her bow and slowly lowers her violin from beneath her chin. The only sound is the nib of Camille’s pen scratching over paper, but they finish their notes with a decisive underline and set down the pen with a soft click.
<span class='choice'> [[You could hear a pin drop in the silence of Camille's deliberation.|palais morning]]</span>
<</linkappend>><</linkappend>><!-- pas de deux rehearsal, can rifle through Elodie's bag to find letter scrap, all cases can see the (for all the way she treats Laure like a lover spurned/harshness she treats Laure with, Elodie dances with her like one madly enamoured) FRUITINESS going on, and when the scene successfully concludes, Camille is nearly on the verge of tears, eyes gleaming with hope. During the rehearsal, notice that Sebastien cannot take his eyes off Giselle rather than watching the score. END OF SCENE: if snooped through Elodie's bag, she discovers that her stuff is messed up --> seems to want to panic but Laure asks if they can go through it one more time, she hesitates but acquiesces. If didn't snoop, Laure will ask to go through it again and Camille will nod, and you can choose whether or not to stay, or go see if you can find out why Antoine was there-->LAND HERE IF CHOSE TO INVESTIGATE: as it turns out, you run into Antoine as you head towards the front entrance of the Palais; he seems surprised to see you, but quickly recovers and turns away from the door he was about to open. Steers you into walking down the hall towards the music library and deflects questions about where he was going/why he's here. Note his distinct cologne. Ask if he will be at the premiere, he laughs and confirms ("of course. I've made rather the investment in it, you see." When you rebutt that you heard that over half of the Opera's patrons withdrew their generosity when they heard of Camille's plans to stage LSR, Antoine laughs and says cryptically, "My family survived the Revolution and the Reign. Red shoes strike no fear into my heart.") --> end up getting called back by Sebastien, who seems to actively dislike/harbor animosity for Antoine (not reciprocated). Antoine watches you go.
(CHARACTER NOTES: ANTOINE here should be a bit of a heel but introduce more depth, have him mention (if aristo: "as you know/our blood") his blood runs red like everyone else, and aristocrats have just as much opportunity to bleed. If we are to see the end of our lives, shouldn't we do it with pleasure? Hint at his stubbornness/entitlement being performative...but then he winks in such a self-assured way that it's insta-UGH. Might have to split this into 2 or more passages) [[evening]] Giselle will mess up the solo badly enough (mult. times) that Camille stops and asks Sebastien to play it for today --> she will come sit with you and look so shaken and sad. You can choose to comfort/neutral/berate her --> if comfort, she will share her fears about being forced out of work and having to return home if unsuccessful (Elodie/Antoine story goes here) AND share that you're her first real friend in Paris, then glance at Sebastien and bite her lip/start to say something but cut herself off; if neutral, will share E/A story [when G first came to the Opera orch, E/A were the hottest thing in Paris, and being in the same room as them was like...being a moth beside two suns. Both mesmerizing in their own way. (ooh gurl she's a strawberry banana milkshake) After performances and at the parties, everyone in the foyer would surround them; everyone adored her, the star of the show. Elodie is an amazing dancer, the best G has ever seen (not that, she admits, that means much), but all of her supporters went from appreciation to hunger the minute Antoine announced he had a new star to chase. Giselle fears that happening to her, if she can't manage to keep it up, or worse if she can't even make it there at all.]; if berate, Giselle get angry but not say anything, her eyes troubled. You both watch Sebastien play (not as stirring as G or Romain would have, but technically flawless) and the pas de deux goes without incident. [[evening]] After saying goodbye to the company, head home and see Antoine and Camille having dinner with Director in the window of a restaurant on the way. Antoine seems chill but Camille is tense; (if 'aristo' or 'bougie' you debate entering the restaurant yourself and trying to be seated close enough to eavesdrop) Antoine spots you through the window and waves; Camille turns, and as they see you a waiter comes out and tells you that Antoine would like you to join them --> you do, and it is Awkward at the table.Excuse yourself to the bathroom and upon your return, learn that Antoine and Camille's "relationship is termed by a "deal"; they stop talking when you come back and you finish the meal feeling more uneasy than ever. CLUE: during dinner conversation, Antoine mentions Camille's sister and Camille does Not react well.
<!-- END SCENE: resolve to stake out the Palais the following night --><<!-- before leaving for Palais, review "NOTEBOOK" (popover). --> arrive at Palais; so soon before performance, full orchestra is there for a full dress rehearsal of the ballet. Camille asks you move around the theatre seats during the rehearsal to get a better view of what the audience will see, so you can point out any oddities--your eyes meet and you understand that they're really asking you to help prevent any accidents like the first rehearsal you were at. You agree and watch the first scene from the floor seats, slowly moving back through the rows. Then you move up into the first gallery --> balcony --> finally iinto the boxes (PotO reference hehe). (Throughout, can notice small things and decide whether or not to take action on them, if >= 3 not taken care of then accident happens; find a scrap of satin at each); at end of second act, meet with Camille have flavor text depending on outcome of second act. -->
@ lunch break can choose to talk to CAMILLE, (dancers) ELODIE or LAURE, (orchestra) SEBASTIEN or GISELLE or ROMAIN, each can give you more insight into a relationship btwn 2 other chars; will need to split into passages
[[camille convo]]
[[dancers]]
[[orchestra]]2nd act: you move through the boxes again and are startled to find Antoine in his box, casually watching the rehearsal. (2 clues; first is that Antoine may act blase about the curse but he fears/believes in it deep down AND 2nd is that while //he// bears Camille no ill will, he can certainly think of no shortage of enemies of the composer who do;
fake clue is that there are a few faded stripes of white powder on some of the upholstery. It is slightly tacky on your fingers but fades away with pressure.)
Antoine is equally surprised to see you, jumps up and his hand goes to his walking stick as if he's expecting an attack. if suspicious of him, [[stick around]], if not [[keep going]]relationship questions for each NPC
[[premiere 1]] you go to the Palais (bedecked in apppropriate finery) for the performance; If get ALL correct → “good” ending where you successfully save the performance and the premiere goes well; after the final bow and curtain closes, you make your way to the foyer to congratulate the company; If get SOME correct/some wrong → “eh” ending where the performance manages to pull through despite some mishaps during; after final bow and curtain closes, you go to foyer but feel like someone is watching you; If get ALL WRONG → “bad” ending; when you go to the foyer, you look around in the crowd and an ice-cold hand closes around your arm
[[GOOD ENDING]] [[NEUTRAL ENDING]] [[BAD ENDING]] a ballerina accosts you and despite your protests, drags you into a secluded area/room → she 1) kisses you on cheek, 2) respects your lack of consent and thanks you → something crashes behind you, you turn around to look → when you turn around, she’s gone → spooked, you go to exit but notice a pair of red pointe shoes hanging on the wall by the door → yay you broke the curse!
<<achievement>>eh” ending where the performance manages to pull through despite some mishaps during; after final bow and curtain closes, you go to foyer but feel like someone is watching you → catch glimpses of iconic [adj] tutu and red slippers, assume it’s Laure → later, when you finally meet Laure and congratulate her (last in series of congratulations), you ask why she’s been hiding from you → she looks confused and suddenly you see another ballerina with red slippers across the room. She smirks at you, and you grab Laure to show her, but when Laure looks, there’s no one there → you Conclude there was no curse at all…or was there?
<<achievement>>If get ALL WRONG → “bad” ending; when you go to the foyer, you look around in the crowd and an ice-cold hand closes around your arm → a ballerina with a translucent tutu and red slippers drags you into a dark room, closes/locks the door behind you → you realize she’s see-through and she roasts you for everything that went wrong during the performance → she starts screaming, wailing, end with her wailing about dancing forever as she gets closer/grabs you again → you freak out, smash the lock and escape → babble to company about the ghost and insist the curse is real, but no one believes you (Camille says firmly, “Next show will be better” and you despair) → HELAS, you did not break the curse!
<<achievement>>[[stakeout day 2]] [[elodie convo]]
[[laure convo]][[seb convo]]
[[giselle convo]]
[[romain convo]][[stakeout day 2]] [[stakeout day 2]] [[stakeout day 2]] [[stakeout day 2]] [[stakeout day 2]] watch Antoine from peripheral for rest of rehearsal, note that he seems genuinely interested in the story of the ballet and that his eyes linger on both Elodie and Laure, though visibly more so on Laure. Have him make some intelligent comments about the orchestration (idk, give him some redeeming traits cmon)
[[stakeout day 3]] leave antoine in his box and end up watching the remainder of the ballet from another box on the other side of the theatre; you chose it so you could keep an eye on him as well, but you find yourself engrossed in the ballet; detail story here, this is just a short passage to get to the stakeout night passage.
[[stakeout day 3]] after rehearsal you leave the Palais and have dinner, then double back afterwards, knowing that it's past the time that Camille will have left for their atelier or home. Enter through the underground passages and navigate through (the lake glows eerily in stripes where moonlight falls on it like the surface of a mirror) to the stage. From there, can choose to go to the [[music library]], the [[foyer]], or the [[studio]].
(library and foyer nothing unusual, just creepy, and you hear a persistent thumping sound and occasionally the sound of heavy breathing (it's Laure in the studio); if you choose the studio first you just find Laure (flavor text?)(library and foyer nothing unusual, just creepy, and you hear a persistent thumping sound and occasionally the sound of heavy breathing (it's Laure in the [[studio]] ); can choose to go there or to the [[foyer]] (library and foyer nothing unusual, just creepy, and you hear a persistent thumping sound and occasionally the sound of heavy breathing (it's Laure in the [[studio]] ); can choose to go there or the [[music library]] Laure is practicing almost frantically, you walk in on her doing fouettes (same sequence she was doing just before the incident on day 1) and is visibly startled when you enter (if you choose studio first, "You follow the sound of thumping and cloth whisking sharply through the air to one of the barre studios you'd seen trying to find Elodie previously. The door is shut, but there's no mistaking that beyond it is the source of the sound." vs coming here "You find yourself at the door of one of the barre studios you'd last seen while trying to find Elodie. The thumps and sharp swish of cloth moving rapidly through air are muffled ever so slightly by the shut door, but there's no mistaking that beyond it is the source of the sound.") --> Her hair is coming loose from its bun, framing her face with wispy flaxen strands. Her eyes burn blue through the mirror into yours as she rests a hand on the barre, fingers tight around the wood, and says quietly, "Don't try to stop me. It will be perfect. I will be perfect." Her thighs are trembling and even with only a single lamp to dilute the darkness, you can see the sheen of sweat coating her flushed forehead and exposed skin, sticking her leotard to her like a second skin.
Can try to talk her down but she will resist; if you try to point out that she's not allowed to be here, she'll flip it on you; if you ask how she got in, she'll grin slyly and say something to the effect of "Monsieur de Forbin has shown me many interesting things in his kindness." --> eventually give up and watch her, which she allows without complaint but kinda reluctantly --> you both YEET out of the Palais after you start to hear a violin (she'll smirk at you like 'haha see the orchestra is sneaking in too') and then a full orchestra joins in, playing the pas de deux of the King/Clara --> she helps you up when you stumble in the hall and outside, your eyes meet for a split second before she whips around and speedwalks around the corner; you go home too.
--> [[t-1]]no rehearsal; you go to a cafe where you can look at your <<include "notebook">> and muse about what kind of relationships everyone has.
yah de yah you do daytime stuff blah blah --> go home and fall asleep quickly --> dream that someone asks you the [[final quiz]] questionsÉlodie stops short and takes a half-step back before she runs into you. For a brief moment, the amber of her eyes is startlingly vulnerable—and then they harden, glassy aloofness descending over her face like armour.
“I’ve been searching for you,” you say, eyes darting, despite your best efforts, over Élodie’s shoulder to the propped door.
Without missing a beat, she flicks her hair over her shoulder and steps neatly into your line of vision under the guise of tapping out the fit of her pointe shoe, blocking your view of the door with her own body.
“Well, you’ve found me. I suppose we’ll be moving from the stage for today after that incident. Where is the rehearsal now?” She begins walking briskly, offering you little choice but to follow her lean strides down the hallway as you answer her question.
The walk back to the grand studio beneath the dome of the library goes quickly, and you suspect that Élodie’s swift, purposeful steps are more deliberate than natural. You swing the door open and motion for her to enter; her confident stride baulks ever so slightly, startled amber flashing at you before Élodie dips her head in the most sincere expression of grace you’ve seen of her yet, and walks in on quiet toes.
<<if not hasVisited("orchestra pit")>>You duck in and spot Camille pulling in a piano. Giselle is nowhere to be seen, so you shut the door and make your way back to the stage—with Sébastien presumably still waiting outside to minimise speculation, you suspect that she’s still moving equipment by herself.
<span class="choice">[[To the Pit|orchestra pit 1]]</span>
<<else>>You follow her in and survey the studio; the corps is slowly trickling in with a soft rush of chatter while Camille reviews the score through a pair of spectacles. Giselle plucks at her violin in the corner, her furrowed brow smoothing to spare you and Élodie a glance as you enter. Sébastien, presumably still waiting outside to preserve the secrecy of his meeting with Élodie and minimise speculation, is noticeably absent.
Laure cautiously takes a spot beside Élodie at the barre to stretch, each ballerina avoiding the other’s gaze. Camille meets your eye, an unspoken question clear on their face; you nod in Élodie’s direction as she settles in the general area of the corps without actually joining them, and relief suffuses Camille’s tired features.
They sweep over the room once more, vexation drawing taut over their mouth until Sébastien surreptitiously slips in through a side door. They quirk a pointed eyebrow at him, prompting him to bow his head and hurry to the side of the piano.
Silence falls over the room in the wake of a staccato burst of claps. All eyes turn to Camille where they stand behind the piano, arms outstretched like an angel at the utterance of revelation.
“We will begin with the first scene of the third act. Let our rehearsal commence.”
<span class="choice">[[Let it commence, indeed|palais 1]]</span>
<</linkappend>><</if>><<if $metantoine is true>>* <b>Antoine de Forbin</b> - A nobleman with enough influence to bend the gilt pillars of the Palais to his will with a snap of his fingers, Antoine is a generous donor to the Opera and frequents its performances from his dedicated booth. Rumours swirl about the intimacies of his generosity, but his pockets are more than deep enough to keep controversy at bay.
<</if>>
<<if $metcamille is true>>* <b>Camille Fauré</b> - Camille electrified all of Europe with their first opera, then carved themself a seat in the halls of legend with several successful commissions…now with a healthy portfolio of masterpieces to their name, France’s most beloved composer nevertheless remains an enigma. Camille’s mild demeanor and bleeding heart belie the sharp wit that has captivated thousands across Europe, but their unfaltering focus has wavered as of late. What could sway Camille’s hand from their pen so fiercely? Does it have to do with the fabled curse of their latest production?
<</if>>
<<if $metelodie is true>>* <b>Élodie Sirand</b> - Notorious for being as sharp as she is stunning, Élodie was dubbed Helen of Paris soon after her (surprising to none) promotion to the elite position of //danseuse étoile//. Her life appears as gilt as the Palais Garnier itself—but lately her legendary temper has been stormier than ever. Is her deepening rage due to her rivalry with <b>Laure</b>, or a sign of something more sinister at work?
<</if>>
<<if $metgiselle is true>>* <b>Giselle Moreau</b> - A newcomer to Paris and gifted violinist, Giselle loves her music but loves her family more. After all, that’s why she left them to use her passion to earn a better future for them all; it’s a lonely, hard life, but she reminds herself that it’s for those she loves, and more importantly, only temporary. After all, how long can it take for her to prove herself and earn a spot among the stars?
<</if>>
<<if $metlaure is true>>* <b>Laure Bloch</b> - A young, rising star in the //corps de ballet// who’s recently been basking in the attentions of the Director. Her delicate beauty and sparkling, innocent charisma is enchanting…but there’s no telling what she would do to become an //Étoile//, one of the ballet’s most prized dancers.
<</if>>
<<if $metseb is true>>* <b>Sébastien Denis</b> - A lover of the ballet since childhood, Sébastien’s dream is to one day compose a score that will make hearts across the world sing. His master, <b>Camille Fauré</b>, has promised to fund him and use their connections to help Sébastien launch his own career to the stars, provided he earns his way off the ground first…but with the looming shadow of his master to contend with, Sebastien’s desire for a spotlight of his own grows stronger every day.
<</if>>
<span class="choice">[[Back to clues|notebook]]</span>
<span class="choice"><<link "Close Notebook" $return>><</link>></span>
“Maestro didn’t mention?” Giselle shivers—whether with excitement or dread, you can’t tell. <<if $ganswer is "huh">>“The red shoes are just meant to be cursed in the story, but I think they really are bad luck.”<<else>>“Believe what you like, but I was there when the red shoes went missing—all of them.”<</if>>
Her voice takes on a hushed lacquer of reverence as she tells you, “The Ballet had to commission red ballet slippers for the role of Clara—the pair you saw Laure dancing in today is the fourth one commissioned. <<nobr>><<link 'The ones before them have all gone missing.'>>
<<dialog>>
Every pair of specially commissioned red pointe shoes for //Les Souliers Rouges// has gone missing before the performance could be staged, except for the one currently in use.
<br>There is a scrap of red satin near your foot. You surreptitiously pocket it.
<p>
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<<button 'Record in Notebook'>><<set $clue3 to true>><<set $scraps to $scraps + 1>><<dialogclose>><<cluefound>><</button>>
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<<button 'Discard Info'>><<dialogclose>><</button>>
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<</dialog>>
<</link>>
”<</nobr>>
Giselle pauses to let this sink in, and searches your face until you display what she apparently deems an acceptable level of anticipation before continuing, “The first pair vanished during rehearsal one day. There before lunch, gone when we came back. We never found them, so Maestro Fauré had to convince the Palais council to commission another pair. Laure stayed after rehearsal to practice one of the scenes—she asked Mademoiselle Sirand to dance with her too, but she refused. Can’t say I blame her, Monsieur de Forbin had just made that announcement at the Salon and the papers were shouting it from the rooftops—”
Giselle stops abruptly, eyes darting to you.
“Shouting what from the rooftops?” you prompt.
“I shouldn’t say, really.” She shakes her head at any further pressing, grey eyes grim with remorseful determination. “It’s all headless gossip, anyways. <<nobr>><<link 'Enough of that in the Palais without me adding to it.'>>
<<dialog>>
Antoine de Forbin made a public announcement that inspired a wildfire of gossip in Paris. Whatever the announcement was, it also won him Élodie's fury.
<br>There is a scrap of red satin near your foot. You surreptitiously pocket it.
<p>
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<<button 'Record in Notebook'>><<set $clue4 to true>><<set $scraps to $scraps + 1>><<dialogclose>><<cluefound>><</button>>
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<</dialog>>
<</link>>
”<</nobr>>
You pause to examine an austere-looking portrait of Camille in the hall; it’s a good likeness, but the portrait’s blank stare is unnerving, as though you’re looking into the eyes of something only wearing Camille’s skin.
As you study the portrait, trying to figure out why exactly it feels so eerie, Giselle tugs out the pins holding her low bun in place and shakes her hair out; it’s cropped shorter than you’d realised, floating just at the base of her neck in a rich, dark cloud nearly the same colour as the gleaming varnish of her violin.
“What happened to the other pairs?” you ask, suddenly desperate to fill the too-still silence of the portrait’s unblinking gaze.
Giselle pauses, hands halfway through gathering up her hair again, and glances from you to the portrait and back again. Speaking thickly around the pins clamped between her lips, she answers, “The second pair was found floating in the cistern below the Palais, crushed beyond repair. The third was still flawless when we found it, hanging above the door frame to the dressing room.”
You frown at the portrait as Giselle finishes pinning her hair back at the nape of her neck. “Why is there a fourth pair then?” you ask the canvas pretending to be Camille.
“Ballet dancers hang up their shoes when they retire. Laure refused to wear them—I’ve never seen her so panicked. None of the dancers would touch them, and Mademoiselle Sirand looked like she might faint when Sébastien climbed up to take them down. A priest ended up coming, to reassure everyone that there’d be no misfortune laying about.”
<<if $greac is 0 or 1>>“Why do you call her Mademoiselle Sirand?” you ask, not unkindly. “I noticed it earlier too, when you speak of Laure and Sébastien informally but not her.”
Giselle looks at you, startled. “Oh, I…she doesn’t allow anyone to speak informally to her, except—well, no I don’t suppose she allows anyone at all to do it now,” she says. “I suppose she’s entitled to that much, being the only //étoile//. I wouldn’t try my luck with her, if I were you.”
<</if>>
“Hm.”
Giselle’s inquisitive gaze grows heavier in your peripheral vision, but whatever question is forming in her mind, she does not voice it. Instead, she offers, “It’s an old portrait.”
You break away from the portrait’s empty stare, startled. “What? They look nearly the same as they do now, just…not. How do you know?”
A hint of a dry smile flits across Giselle’s moon-sliver mouth. “The scar,” she says softly. “I didn’t notice it at first either.”
<<if not visited ("find elodie")>>She nods at a doorway at the end of the hall. “It’s just through there. I can take the stand from here, don’t worry. I’ll tell the maestro you’re on the hunt for Mademoiselle Sirand—you might try tracing her path from backstage. The dancers know all sorts of secret passages through the Palais.”
Giselle tosses you a grateful, if guarded, smile and heads through to the grand studio. You watch her depart before turning and returning to the stage, feeling rather as though the flat stare of Camille’s unscarred portrait are the only thing keeping you from being swallowed alive by the crimson velvet halls.
<span class="choice">[[You swear its gaze follows you all the way back to the stage.|find elodie]]</span>
<<elseif visited('find elodie')>>And with that, she nods towards a doorway at the end of the hall. “Through there—let’s not keep the maestro waiting.”
You can’t find it in yourself to object.
You follow her in and survey the studio; the corps is slowly trickling in with a soft rush of chatter while Camille reviews the score through a pair of spectacles. Sébastien, presumably still waiting outside to preserve the secrecy of his meeting with Élodie and minimise speculation, is noticeably absent.
Laure cautiously takes a spot beside Élodie at the barre to stretch, each ballerina avoiding the other’s gaze. Camille meets your eye and nods as you help Giselle arrange her stand and music by the piano.
They cast a cursory glance over the room once more, vexation drawing taut over their mouth until Sébastien surreptitiously slips in through a side door. They quirk a pointed eyebrow at him, prompting him to bow his head and hurry to the side of the piano.
Silence falls over the room in the wake of a staccato burst of claps. All eyes turn to Camille where they stand behind the piano, arms outstretched like an angel at the utterance of revelation.
<span class="choice">[[“We will begin with the first scene of the third act. Let our rehearsal commence.”|palais 1]]</span><</if>>Laure, by her own admission, is poorly-versed in the theatrics and intricacies of Parisian high society, though as she tells you on the way down to the side gate of the Palais, “it’s all so addicting! Like plunging into a pool of crystal clear water when all you’ve ever known is a muddy puddle, and discovering gems at the bottom to boot”.
Her brilliant smile dims as you descend the main staircase. Laure runs a hand wistfully down the bannister and smooths a fingertip carefully over the cheek of a cherub carved into one of the pillars set into the curve of the stairs.
“I’ve lived in Paris all my life,” she says suddenly, lowering her voice so that only you can hear. “But I couldn’t have dreamed of anything like this before joining the Ballet.” Her smile returns, rendering her uncannily similar to the flight of angels in the bannister behind her.
Before you can say anything, the attendant clears his throat imperatively and Laure hurries ahead on light, dainty feet, throwing a bright glance over her shoulder. You follow, squinting in the sudden glare of the sun.
The Director of the Opéra Ballet is a thin, greying man with large, deer-like eyes and nervous hands; they stray to his breast pocket every few seconds, pressing against the outline of a cross. At your approach—or more accurately, at //Laure’s// approach, his face breaks into a delighted grin and he steps forward, arms extended to bring her in for //la bise//—
Monsieur le Directeur’s eyes land on the scarlet satin on Laure’s feet and he recoils violently, his palm crushing the belly of his breast pocket. When he recovers himself and brings his hand away, you spy the smooth, bevelled imprint of a wooden block beside the cross in his pocket. It’s odd that anyone in Paris, particularly someone as seemingly concerned with sophistication of belief as the Director, would subscribe to such folksy things as knocking on wood to ward off misfortune, but it seems that the belief in the curse has spared no one, no matter the controversy surrounding it.
The Director abandons the customary cheek kisses and greets Laure instead with a bow at the waist, extending the gesture to include you with an outswept arm. The silver-coated attendant melts back into the Palais as the Director straightens, fixing you with an appraising eye.
“Monsieur le Directeur,” Laure says with a demure curtsy. You have to squint to look at her; under the sun, her blonde hair is incandescent, throwing fine lines of molten gold over her peachy skin.
He beams and waves a pleasant hand between the two of you. “I take it you have been introduced?”
“Indeed!” Laure positions herself between the two of you, hands folded delicately at her waist. “Monsieur Girard, I present $title $fullname. $title $surname, this is Monsieur Girard, the director of the Ballet.”
He makes no attempt to disguise his roving glance as he shakes your hand firmly.
“I must admit my surprise at hearing that you decided to visit. I’m sure you’ve heard the talk surrounding this accursed paramour ballet of Camille’s?”
Taken aback by the contrast between his flowery mannerisms and the bluntness of his speech, you blink at the Director before opening your mouth to reply, but he barrels on:
“The wily baton-sucker tricked me into putting the show on the season’s program! I never should have agreed to allowing them full artistic freedom over the show, but they were so insistent that it would be a marvel to top all marvels! And I suppose it will be…provided no one dies before it can premiere.”
You <<cycle "_cam">><<option "feel strangely spurred to speak in Camille’s defence but">><<option "raise an eyebrow but make no move to speak before">><</cycle>> the Director lets out a horrified gasp, his eyes fixed on Laure’s knee.
<<linkappend "“Laure, my child, what have you done to yourself?!”">>
The Director tuts and circles around Laure quickly, examining her leg from all angles with the keen focus of a surgeon preparing to operate. “There was an accident,” she manages to say, before the Director wails,
“An accident?! I knew it! How dreadful—the curse, angered by my refusal to succumb to its grasp, has wreaked its unholy revenge on you!” He whirls on you, shaking a finger between every word.
“The Devil is at hand in this ballet, $title.” His finger stabs the air in Laure’s direction before returning to you. “She is the rising star of this company! If you have seen Laure Bloch dance, you have heard angels’ laughter—you have seen the very face of God!”
Behind him, Laure’s teeth sink into her lower lip as her cheeks redden. “I am f—”
“Newly made soloist, and her solos have made full theatres weep! Mademoiselle Sirand was as surprised as all of Paris when it was decided that Laure would dance as Clara and not her, but—and this is the one good thing to turn its face from Camille’s pet horror—the sheer beauty of their darkness and light together, Mademoiselle Sirand //en travesti// and Laure made her bride!”
The Director’s feral gaze locks onto yours almost desperately. “It is enough, and I hope you comprehend my meaning, $title, to draw the most sublime of <<nobr>><<link 'constellations'>>
<<dialog>>
The director's favouritism for Laure has sparked a rivalry between her and Élodie, who is currently the only //danseuse étoile// in the company.
<br>There is a scrap of red satin near your foot. You surreptitiously pocket it.
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<</nobr>> in our company.”
A sharp gasp penetrates the Director’s meaningful silence. You look at Laure, whose hands flew up to muffle the sound of her shock, and slowly back at the Director, who now beams at Laure with the smug sort of satisfaction usually seen on grandparents after giving their young charges a particularly well-chosen treat.
“Monsieur le Directeur,” Laure breathes, slowly lowering her hands to reveal a trembling lip, “I…I could hardly dare dream…!”
She breathes deep, obviously struggling to contain herself, and raises her head to look you and the Director steadily in the eyes. “I would do anything to become an //étoile//.”
The Director claps you on the shoulder in an oddly congratulatory fashion before saying with a broad sweep of his hand, “Is not the theatre where dreams are made, my dear? We spin them from the wings and cast visions into the starry eyes of our audience.” His face sours and he adds dryly, “Or nightmares, I suppose.”
<span class='choice'><<link '“Monsieur le Directeur, I’m not sure that //Les Sou—//”' "palais 3"</span>>><</link>>
<</linkappend>>Sébastien’s mouth twists into a scoff. “Quite a question to raise when you take her name in vain like that too.”
You don't budge, forcing him to meet the intensity of your gaze. “Take her name in vain? Is she so holy to you?”
His eyes widen and his hand drops from the keyboard with a soft smack against his thigh. The sound seems to startle him into speech, though his words stagger out, as though his flustered tongue struggles to catch his racing mind: “No holier than music.”
Sébastien avoids your eyes and directs his next words to the open score on the desk across the room instead. “Half of Paris worships her. Is it so surprising to count me among them?”
His diversion is powerless against your undeterred study of his face. Sébastien’s eyes dart to yours then back to the piano—and if you aren’t mistaken, his toe is tapping a quadrille on the rightmost pedal of the piano. How curious.
Your gaze falls on the writing desk at the other end of the room. A few papers are spread out over its surface, and a thicker stack lies to one side of the desk beside two inkpots and an assortment of pens. Even from across the room, you can see spidery bundles of notes crawling over the paper.
Sébastien follows your eyeline with a knowing squint. “Maestro’s desk. They’re quite particular about its organisation. They usually compose here…”
He trails off before standing abruptly. “I’ll go see if they’ve become available. Just one moment, please.”
The sudden haste in his voice does not escape you. You merely nod as Sebastian gathers up his score from the piano and exits the room; a few seconds later, you hear the muffled thud of footsteps on stairs before a door swings open.
You run a hand lightly over the piano keys before you, gentle enough that the sound of your fingertips tapping their surface is the only result. A cloud falls over the window, shrouding the atelier in shadow the colour of over-brewed tea.
The cloud shifts, taking the shadows with it, and dapples the writing desk at the far end of the room. Like some sign from above (or below), the solitary lamp in the atelier casts its light in a bright pool over the desk, bathing it in a sumptuous, dangerously enticing golden glow.
<span class='choice'> [[Snoop through the desk.|to snoop or not to snoop][$snoop to "true"]]</span>
<span class='choice'> [[Wait for Sébastien to return.|to snoop or not to snoop][$snoop to "false"]]</span>Sébastien doesn’t respond for a moment, just looks at his motionless hand on the ivory pieces and flexes his fingers. When he does answer, his voice is carefully neutral.
“I learned in order to apprentice for Maestro Fauré. Knowledge of several instruments is an essential skill for composers. Would you like to hear something?”
You shrug.
<span class='choice'> [[“Sure.”|seb play]]</span>
<span class='choice'> [[“Not particularly.”|seb don't play]]</span><<achievement>>Sébastien’s lips quirk up at the corner as he sets both hands over the keys, fingertips hovering just over the worn ivory. After a moment of consideration, he adjusts his position and begins to play, fingers dancing over the keys merrily.
It isn’t something you’ve heard before, but the melody is pleasant enough. Your eyes wander to Sébastien’s face; while his hands leap over octaves, relaxed joy suffuses his features. It’s the first time you’ve seen him with an expression other than stoically neutral or exasperated.
The music slows and swoons to a stop. Sébastien leaves his fingers down for a moment, savouring the ring of the final notes as they thrum into the air. When he releases the keys, you clap softly, watching his face return to its careful, gruff neutrality.
“You play beautifully. What is the music from? I haven’t heard it before.”
He makes a noncommittal noise and pushes his thick hair back from his forehead. “It’s an original piece,” he says after a moment, his jaw tensing as though caught between pride and reluctance. “Still being written.”
You nod without commentary and Sebastien relaxes, ever so slightly.
Your gaze falls on the writing desk at the other end of the room. A few papers are spread out over its surface, and a thicker stack lies to one side of the desk beside two inkpots and an assortment of pens. Even from across the room, you can see spidery bundles of notes crawling over the paper.
Sébastien follows your eyeline with a knowing squint. “Maestro’s desk. They’re quite particular about its organisation. They usually compose here…”
He trails off before standing abruptly. “I’ll go see if they’ve become available. Just one moment, please.”
The sudden haste in his voice does not escape you. You merely nod as Sebastian gathers up his score from the piano and exits the room; a few seconds later, you hear the muffled thud of footsteps on stairs before a door swings open.
You run a hand lightly over the piano keys before you, gentle enough that the sound of your fingertips tapping their surface is the only result. A cloud falls over the window, shrouding the atelier in shadow the colour of over-brewed tea.
The cloud shifts, taking the shadows with it, and dapples the writing desk at the far end of the room. Like some sign from above (or below), the solitary lamp in the atelier casts its light in a bright pool over the desk, bathing it in a sumptuous, dangerously enticing golden glow.
<span class='choice'> [[Snoop through the desk.|to snoop or not to snoop][$snoop to "true"]]</span>
<span class='choice'> [[Wait for Sébastien to return.|to snoop or not to snoop][$snoop to "false"]]</span>Sébastien nods and returns to staring at the space between his hands and the piano. You follow suit, though you liberate your gaze enough to rove over the instruments hanging on the walls.
Your gaze falls on the writing desk at the other end of the room. A few papers are spread out over its surface, and a thicker stack lies to one side of the desk beside two inkpots and an assortment of pens. Even from across the room, you can see spidery bundles of notes crawling over the paper.
Sébastien follows your eyeline with a knowing squint. “Maestro’s desk. They’re quite particular about its organisation. They usually compose here…”
He trails off before standing abruptly. “I’ll go see if they’ve become available. Just one moment, please.”
The sudden haste in his voice does not escape you. You merely nod as Sebastian gathers up his score from the piano and exits the room; a few seconds later, you hear the muffled thud of footsteps on stairs before a door swings open.
You run a hand lightly over the piano keys before you, gentle enough that the sound of your fingertips tapping their surface is the only result. A cloud falls over the window, shrouding the atelier in shadow the colour of over-brewed tea.
The cloud shifts, taking the shadows with it, and dapples the writing desk at the far end of the room. Like some sign from above (or below), the solitary lamp in the atelier casts its light in a bright pool over the desk, bathing it in a sumptuous, dangerously enticing golden glow.
<span class='choice'> [[Snoop through the desk.|to snoop or not to snoop][$snoop to "true"]]</span>
<span class='choice'> [[Wait for Sébastien to return.|to snoop or not to snoop][$snoop to "false"]]</span><<if $snoop is "true">><<achievement>>It takes only a few steps to cross the room, and a single breath to stoop over the desk and examine the papers spread across its surface.
The sheets fanned out over the desk map out the first scene of //Les Souliers Rouges//, with annotations scrawled in a spiky, minute hand between the hand-drawn bars. You squint at the tiny letters,<<if $etat isnot "aristo">> but the musical notation and foreign words offer you nothing of use<<else>> but can make out nothing of interest<</if>>.
The stack of papers to the side only yields another, earlier version of the score, judging by the faded ink and several crossed out sections. Beneath the sheaf is a collection of scores to other ballets, some by Camille and some by other composers, with an opera or two thrown in as well.
Carefully, keeping in mind Sébastien’s comment about Camille’s meticulous desk arrangement, you lift each of the fanned out sheets to peer at the bottom of each.
<<linkappend Nothing…nothing…>>
When you lift the third page, a small scrap of paper flutters down. It’s slightly coarser than the score paper, reminding you of the penny notebooks sold at stands by the Seine, and the writing on it is crisper, though still miniscule. You hold it up as close to the light of the lamp as you can without singing it or your fingers, squinting at the tiny black letters. The torn edge obfuscates the first few letters—you lean closer to the light, but just as your eyes focus on the writing, an errant spark from the lamp’s ragged wick flings itself onto the paper. You tamp it hastily against your hand, but the damage is done; several pinpricks are eaten into the paper, erasing whatever letters once lay there.
<<nobr>><<link '//⋅⋅he mak⋅s me want t⋅⋅be selfish//'>>
<<dialog>>
There was a burnt scrap of paper on Camille's writing desk that reads //⋅⋅he mak⋅s me want t⋅⋅be selfish//.
<br>There is a scrap of red satin under the papers. You pocket it.
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As soon as you finish reading the scrap, swift footsteps sound on the stairs; you shove the scrap in your pocket and distance yourself from the desk, reaching a decent distance away just in time before the door opens.<</linkappend>>
<<else>>You aren’t left waiting for long before the door swings open.<</if>> Camille frowns at the creak of the hinges before offering you a guarded smile. “I apologise for the wait, $title $surname. If only I had known of your visit, I would have greeted you in a manner much more befitting of a guest to the Palais. What brings you here?”
“I spoke with Monsieur le Directeur today.”
Camille visibly stiffens at the mention of the Director but motions for you to continue.
“I expressed my curiosity about the recent…events at the Palais, and he indicated that speaking to you would be of interest to my questions,” you say carefully, watching Camille’s reaction.
In turn, they watch you for a long moment, the blue of their eyes turned steely grey in the lamplight. Finally, they exhale, low and slow through their nose, and go to draw the curtains. Once the atelier is doused with flickering lamplight alone, Camille says without turning, “Ask your first question now. I will tell you all I know in the parlour; Sébastien is due to leave for the night and I won’t be the one to keep him.”
Wary anticipation colours your voice as you speak.
<span class="choice"> [[“Who was the girl who died?”|camille atelier 2]]</span>Camille, true to their word, offers you no answer until you’re both seated in the parlour, a tray of sweets sitting untouched between you. The fireplace crackles quietly, but your heart is pounding so fiercely you can barely feel its heat.
Camille, seated across from you, stares pensively into the flames. The teacup in their hand is steady when it glides from table to mouth, but this is the third time it’s made the journey with no discernible sip being taken.
“I began writing the score to //Les Souliers Rouges// when I was sixteen,” they say suddenly, without taking their eyes off the flames licking at stone and iron. “Not the entire thing, of course, but the principal motif. The overture came to me next, and then the waltz. And the story came with it.”
Your brow furrows and Camille’s gaze slides smoothly to your face, an expression of mild amusement touching their own despite the grim lines weighing heavy on it still.
“I know that isn’t the answer you were looking for,” they say. “But to give it to you, I must start at the <<linkappend 'beginning.”'>>
Camille leans forward, bracing their forearms on their knees and steepling their fingers. “I wooed opera houses across Europe with //Le Divorce de Jourdain// and used every commission I received after its success to climb as high as I could. And I am grateful for those former patrons, but then as now, //Les Souliers Rouges// would not let me rest. I first attempted to stage it as a commission for the late Marquis, but…”
They trail off and stare into the ripples on the surface of their tea. You wait as patiently as you can, but impatience hooks in your throat like thorns, luring out a poorly-disguised grunt.
Camille’s lips twitch into a dry imitation of a smile, their gaze growing distant as they stare past the flames. “I suspect that my esteemed colleague was referring to the first dancer to be cast in the role of Clara when he spoke to you today.”
Your stomach drops, cold creeping up from the pit of your belly despite the crackling fire. Camille takes up their cup again, wrapping it in their hands as a drowning man would a buoy.
“She danced like starlight on water. It was impossible not to admire her. The Greeks have their Muses of poetry, and music, and the stars. She was mine, and to this day I hear her voice in my work. I was still young then, still unvouched for in Paris—the Marquis gave me funding to find an orchestra, and when it became clear that the Opéra council would not find reason to extend a guarantee of their dancers in my staging, he helped me host auditions. I still don’t know how he convinced the council to allow me to premiere in the Palais—I wondered, for years after, if perhaps I was not grateful enough, too arrogant—”
Camille breaks off, knuckles white around their teacup, and blinks rapidly at the flames. Their eyes are glossy, their lashes made thick and dark with every blink.
“Two weeks before opening night, there was an accident. I…was not there, but they told me that they found my Clara broken in two by the roadside, barely breathing. The shoes were in her bag, dripping red….They said she was still conscious, that she begged them to cut her hair so that I might have a lock to remember her by, but it was too matted with blood. They said she did not cry until after she stopped breathing, and I was not there.”
They raise a hand to their throat and fumble suddenly with the collar of their shirt, fingers slipping frantically over buttons and cloth before closing around a thin chain. A shudder runs through them, pushing a shaky breath out through their teeth. Silence batters at your ribs before shattering under Camille’s eerily calm voice.
“Naturally, we stopped production. The Marquis, I believe, never intended for it to be a permanent halt. But I could not bear the idea of hosting more auditions, of watching someone else, some living body dance in place of her ghost. And so I refused to continue. Luckily, my reputation, though green, was enough to secure me steady work even after the disaster that was my first attempt. It was five years before I tried again, and that’s where talk of the curse was born.”
Their eyes fix on yours almost feverishly, the blue of them turned glinting gunmetal in the firelight. “Catastrophe around every corner. Dancers twisted ankles two steps into the choreography and players who left their cases within three metres of anything a dancer touched found them ruined, bows snapped, reeds split, horn bells smashed in. The carpet bled when anyone stepped on it, people reported hearing crying or footsteps from empty rooms, and soon half the company walked out.”
You suck in a breath. Camille’s gaze pins you down, holding you fast against the building horror of their tale.
“My patrons abandoned me at any mention of the only ballet I wanted to stage. I tried twice more, independent productions, and each failed. The last time earned me a more permanent reminder of my lesson.” Their fingers trace over the long scar along their jaw and pause where it flicks up into the narrow crease of their mouth. “I swore then to bury the ballet beside my sister.”
“Until now.” Your voice is measured and steady despite its softness.
“Until now,” Camille agrees. Their eyes drop pensively to their tea as they continue, “What the Director did not tell you is that when he agreed to give me complete artistic command over the production, it was in exchange for relinquishing my limited powers in casting the dancers. He assumed that I had not encountered anything that would alter the conditions of my oath.”
Your eyes narrow. Camille meets your scrutiny with a trace of a smile, the first that fully reaches their eyes.
<span class='choice'> [[A pocket of sap pops loudly in the fireplace before silence douses the room.|camille atelier 3]]</span>
<</linkappend>><<achievement>><<set $comfort to 1>>You swallow and, before you lose your nerve, rap on the door and push it open.
Élodie’s head snaps up, amber searing through glass. Her fire falters, doused with surprise, when she recognises you, but flares back up not a moment later.
Holding your hands up as though approaching a spooked, cornered fox, you sidle into the room. “I heard crying, I just wanted to make sure you’re alright—”
“Get out.” Élodie’s voice could freeze stone solid, but the minute tremble in her shoulders betrays her. You stop and look at her, careful to keep your gaze neutral as you meet her furious, tear-bright gaze.
She swallows, her eyes steady despite the swollen red on their rims. “I’m fine,” she amends. “Now leave.”
You hesitate. Generally speaking, refusing the wishes of someone so distraught they’re slumped in a room alone in tears seems an ill-suited course of action, and Élodie’s famously icy demeanour ought to make this an easy acquiescence, but leaving her in such a state seems equally unacceptable.
As you approach, she stares at you as though you’ve grown a second head. As slowly as you can, you kneel beside her, noting how she clenches her fist by a stiff hip to stop herself from flinching when your hand nearly grazes her knee.
Careful to keep your hands to yourself, you adjust your gaze to the reflection of her unbound hair and say softly, “I’m sorry for intruding. But if someone made you feel this way, I don’t think it ought to be ignored.”
She lets out a harsh bark of laughter, blinking away a glaze of tears. “And what would you do to fix it, $title?”
Sharp amber eyes slice to yours, their keen edge distorted by the glimmering pane of tears that glazes them. Even with tears rolling down her face, Élodie Sirand could bring all of Paris to its knees with one silver word. Her lips turn up in a mirthless shell of a smile, her voice even despite its ragged edges.
“Perhaps I’m here sobbing because I’ve lost a hair ribbon. I’m a very melodramatic woman, you know.”
The mirror is cool against your back when you lean against it, stretching your legs out beside Élodie’s. Her feet are bare, the joints knobbly with calluses and stretched tendons. Purple blossoms over the frame of her feet like ink spilled into water and cracks her nails like lightning-split marble. A bandage covers two of the toes on her right foot, but an angry red slash peeps out from the edge of the strip, lined with sickly yellow.
She flexes her toes in a ripple and scoffs; you clear your throat and look away, a flush creeping over your face at being caught staring.
“You can look but don’t touch,” she says wryly in a voice that sounds far too sardonic to be coming from her throat as she pushes her hair over one shoulder. The maroon fabric of her sleeve brushes your arm and you realise with a start that this is the first time you’ve ever seen Élodie in street clothing.
Her eyes catch yours again and she says, a strange glint coming into her watery gaze, “You remind me of an old friend of mine. Always concerned for others, to a fault. Always trying to be a hero and meddle in things that have already collapsed into ruin.”
“I…” You trail off, searching her face as your mind trickles blank. Her lips quirk to the side in an expression that would have looked smug were it not for that strange, half-wistful light turning her eyes to cognac glass.
Just as you finally stumble upon what feel like the right words to respond, Élodie’s expression sharpens and the light extinguishes, replaced by what you’d previously assumed was her natural cold acuity.
“Someone’s coming.”
Quicker than you can blink, Élodie snatches up her coat and seizes a handkerchief from its pockets. Dabbing at her eyes with one hand and twisting one of the gilt carvings that protrude from the wall with the other, she pushes you into the dark passageway that yawns open before your bewildered eyes.
“Follow this passage until you come to the place with four corridors. Two rights, then a left, and go up the stairs with a red marker. You’ll come out just behind the dressing room,” she hisses, already sliding the wall back into place.
“Wait, wh—” Your protest goes unheeded as Élodie shoves the wall back into place with a click, submerging you in near-total darkness. A slim crack of light where the wall meets the floor thins as Élodie moves in the studio; you hear the muffled swing of the door opening and a surprised inhale.
“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
You squint and brace a hand against the wall. That voice is familiar—where have you heard it before? Vowels thinned with native Parisian nasality, but without the flowery intonation of the aristocracy.
“It’s fine, I was just leaving.” That was Élodie; you blink back an impressed shiver at how finely honed the edge of her tongue is, so cool and steady you never would have known she’d been anything but bored mere minutes before.
Its effect is apparently felt by the newcomer as well; the unseen speaker falters before venturing, “You…warm up before changing? Is that, er, better?”
Élodie doesn’t respond. You press your ear to the wall, trying to discern what’s happening, but your efforts reward you with nothing but the hollow echo of air and distant water winding through the Palais walls.
“I…”
If you didn’t know better, you’d say the great Élodie Sirand, elite //danseuse étoile// of Paris and crown jewel of the Opéra Ballet, was flustered.
A sudden laugh rings through the wall, and it takes you a moment to realise that it belongs to Élodie. “You ask the most interesting questions.”
You nearly groan aloud—a //name//, that’s all you’d wanted! The next instant, something slams into the other side of the wall. You jerk back, stumbling in the narrow darkness and rubbing at the ear that had been against the wall.
“My apologies.” Élodie sounds less sincere than sin. “There was a bug. A fly, I think. At least it isn’t summer. They breed in the walls, and before you know it, they’re buzzing everywhere. There’s nothing for it but extermination.”
Message received. You back away and turn with a grumble, feeling your way through the darkness as you try to recall Élodie’s directions.
<span class='choice'>[[The sound of water lapping at stone echoes around you on your way.|palais rehearsal]]</span><<achievement>><<if $elodiecry is 'hide'>>You adjust your position behind the door and lean further around for a better vantage angle. The plush carpet cushions your movement, swallowing the sound of your shifting—you lean too far and lose your balance. Your arm shoots out on instinct, hitting the door in a failed attempt to catch yourself, and the hinge creaks sharply.
<<elseif $elodiecry is 'sneak'>>You slowly shift your weight back and attempt to silently ease away from the door. Fate, however, is not on your side; despite the plush carpet cushioning your heels, the floor squeaks loudly and you freeze on the spot, hoping against hope that you can still go unnoticed.
<</if>>
Élodie’s head snaps up, amber searing through glass. Her fire falters, doused with surprise, when she recognises you, but flares back up not a moment later. Her hand is icy cold and slick when it closes tightly around your wrist, yanking you into the studio. She shoves the door shut with her other hand and all but throws you into the mirrored panels on the wall.
“Did he send you? No, of course he didn't—he doesn't care enough to waste his time!” Élodie’s voice drips with venom, fury writhing from her body like living flame.
“What? No one sent me, I—! Who are you talking about?” Your words tumble out as you stare at Élodie; her skirt whips at her ankles as she paces in agitation, her bare soles flashing at you. Her dark hair is unbound and flares in her wake like a warlord’s pennants; if the ends had snapped at you, you doubt you would have been very shocked.
“Who?” she demands incredulously. “Who else?! Antoine de Forbin, whose every step on this rotten, stinking earth is graced by God! I held his personal patronship for //six years// and he goes and—”
She breaks off with a gasp and turns her red-rimmed glare on you, a gloss of unshed tears wavering over her eyes. “You can tell Monsieur le Marquis that he can continue telling himself and every damn salon in Paris that he made me. But let there be no uncertainty on this: he cannot and will not make a fool of me.”
Élodie pauses in her tirade to take a breath, no doubt with the intention of lambasting you further. However, something in her expression sharpens and she shuts her mouth with a sudden tilt of her head.
The next second, she’s pushing you up against the mirror, her face inches from yours, close enough to see your own reflection in the burning amber fires of her eyes as she snarls, “Just tell him this: I swear on my own grave, I will use every power in my possession to end him if he ruins her like he’s ruined me.”
She surges forward and you swerve on instinct to avoid colliding into her; a lithe hand circles your back and shoves with more force than you’d thought her thin frame could muster. You stumble forward as the door clicks open, flailing to regain your balance.
<<linkappend '“—oh! Beg your pardon, I didn’t know anyone was here already.”'>>
The toe of your shoe skids on the floor and sends you tumbling to the ground. The impact of your knees on the hard floor sends shockwaves of pain up the bone; you look at the person peering blurrily from the doorway through tear-glossed eyes.
Laure rushes forward and helps you to your feet, tutting in concern all the while. “Are you alright?”
Her eyes are startingly blue as she examines you; it’s a bit like being swept up in a gentle storm of butterflies as she flits from dusting your shins off to holding you in place by the shoulders and peering into your face. Laure pauses, the worry in her eyes growing as she searches yours.
“What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she exclaims.
Your facial response is apparently of little comfort to her; Laure pulls you gently to sit by the barre, acting much as one would to soothe a witness to some horrific crime. You twist around and search the room for any sign of Élodie, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
“She was right here,” you murmur, passing a hand in front of you as though you might somehow draw Élodie out of the air she seemed to have vanished into.
Laure’s concerned look grows significantly more alarmed. “Who?”
“Élodie,” you answer. A frown creases your face as you get up and start feeling over the walls and barre for something to explain how she could have disappeared in the time it took for Laure to open the door and you to trip. “She was right in front of me, and then gone when I looked back. I know it sounds impossible, but—”
“You must have been very worried about her since the accident onstage,” Laure says carefully, standing and guiding you towards the door with a steady stream of light conversation. “I didn’t know you were so close. I’ve only met a few other people she lets call her by her first name. It’s very grand of her, don’t you think? I hope I’ll be like that someday—just like her, I mean. Here, you can lean on me. Let’s get to the stage. Best not to keep the maestro waiting—and I’m sure Mademoiselle Sirand will be there, you can tell her about this. I’m sure she’ll think it’s a fantastic story!”
“I—I can walk, but thank you—it’s not a story!” you protest. “She was here, talking to me, and then…” You trail off, realising exactly how your account sounds.
Laure smiles sympathetically. “It’s been a taxing production for us all. Do you believe in //it//?”
“It?” you echo blankly.
“//It//,” Laure repeats, waggling her brows for emphasis. Her eyes dart furtively around the empty studio before returning to your face as she whispers furtively, “The curse.”
You open your mouth to answer, but the faint tolling of a low bell cuts you off. Laure’s eyebrows jump up and she tugs you quickly out the door. “Hurry! It’s call time!”
<span class='choice'> [[It’s all you can do to keep up with her.|palais rehearsal]]</span>
<</linkappend>>“No! Do not speak that accursed name!” he hisses, flapping a hand in the air as though that will dissipate the sound of your voice sooner. He takes a deep breath to compose himself, straightening his lapels with a shaky hand. “I apologise. I must seem half mad, a man raving about nothing at all. But I have seen such inexplicable things, $title $surname, and to see them with my closest associate willfully blind…it has taken its toll on me.”
You clear your throat and venture, “I cannot imagine what stress it must have exacted upon you.” You hesitate before continuing, “I understand that you will not enter the Palais whilst //Les//…whilst the production is being staged.”
The Director nods grimly and Laure glides in with a quick slip of a smile. “<<if $title is "Monsieur">>Messieurs, <</if>>I’ll take my leave—the air is quite bracing and I’ve taken more than my fill.” Her eyes dart to yours, unreadable behind the star-bright smile guarding their depths, and she adds, “I’ll let the maestro know that you and Monsieur le Directeur are still speaking.”
As she trots away, the Director comments with a fond regard at her shrinking back, “She will go far, even marked by the Devil’s work so early in her career.”
He turns back to you, a shrewd glint coming into his eyes. “But as you were saying, I will not subject myself to the Palais while it is haunted with Camille’s aberration. God knows they should have stopped after that poor girl died. One would think the scar would be lesson enough.”
“Someone died—?”
“—And yet it tears my heart asunder to abandon the seat of my soul,” the Director continues, as though you hadn’t spoken at all. “Without entering myself, I have no way to ascertain what exactly menaces my beloved Palais or how to defeat it.”
You swallow the questions bubbling in your throat and smile politely. “I believe I could alleviate this, to a degree.” <<if $etat is 'aristo'>>Your invitation had been secured, and here was the key to exploring the famed Palais, with all its secrets, to your heart’s content, curse or no curse.
<<elseif $etat is 'bougie'>>Here was an opportunity no friend, however well connected, could secure for you otherwise: a chance to explore the inner workings of the famed Palais for yourself.
<<elseif $etat is 'paysan'>>Camille had been kind in extending an invitation to the dress rehearsal, but who knew when you’d get another chance like this, if ever? You’d have to be mad to turn down the opportunity to explore the famed Palais in all its mysterious finery.
<</if>> “I’ve been told I have quite the keen eye for deduction, Monsieur. With your blessing, I’d like to see if I can shed some light on what’s happening in the wings, so to speak.”
The Director considers you for a long moment, his gaze sharpening as it roves over you once again whilst he mulls over your proposal. “A most opportune offer,” he says at last. “Very well, I authorise you to use what endeavours you deem necessary in this matter. As for questions about the curse and its nature, I have my speculations but answers if any lie more firmly in Camille’s pockets. I suggest you visit their atelier this evening—number 4, Rue des Amants, in the nineteenth arrondissement.”
He shrugs his coat tighter over his shoulders and nods at you. You, it seems, have been summarily dismissed with a mission.
<span class="choice">[[To Camille’s Atelier|camille atelier 1]]</span>“I saw how he looked at her the night Coppélia closed at the Palais,” Camille says in a near-reverent whisper. “And I saw her, and I knew.” The light in their eyes burns higher, sparking almost feverishly. “Of course I had failed before. How could I have done otherwise? My Muse lustrated this very stage—I could not stand to see her replaced, and there lies the true root of the curse. Sébastien is convinced I’ve managed to make an enemy out of even my friends’ shadows and that mortal hands—”
The creak of unoiled hinges interrupts them; you start and half-rise from your seat, but Camille waves you back down.
“This building is old—you can still see Madame Guillotine winking in the Place de Grève on maligned days. The atelier remembers, even if neither of us do.”
Cautiously, you sit again and Camille considers the flames once again, fondness softening their features. “Laure will do Clara justice. Everything before…it was all leading up to her—a cruel conclusion, but ever the more convincing.”
You blink in surprise at the familiar use of Laure’s name, but make no comment. The way they speak about her, you’d have thought Camille knew Laure much longer than a few seasons.
Camille rests their head against the flat of one hand and muses, “It isn’t that Mademoiselle Sirand would not dance Clara well, but she dances like a lover made selfish by it, with the desire to possess the dance. Laure dances like one whose love makes her selfless, filled such desire that she is possessed by the dance—”
A banged cacophony of dissonant notes interrupts Camille, as though something heavy had been dropped over a piano. Your eyes meet for a split second, your wide, unprotected shock mirrored in Camille’s, before Camille rushes out of the parlour and down the stairs with you close behind.
The piano bench you’d sat on earlier is upended over the keys; as you watch, it tips back over the edge and crashes to the floor with a tremendous explosion of sound and chipped wood.
“Sébastien!” Camille calls, scanning the atelier for any sign of their apprentice. You skim in the wake of their search and find nothing—a shiver of motion in your periphery catches your attention.
The window is thrown wide open, curtains fluttering freely. Broken, bulbous chunks of wax and jagged wood litter the floor beneath, but no glass glitters at you, save for the intact panes, as you hurry to the window and lean out of it.
The street is clear in both directions—<<linkappend 'no!'>>
To the south, a shadowy figure in the distance enters the wavering pool of light beneath a streetlamp and your breath hitches; another step and a half and the figure exits the circle of light, extinguishing its visibility. You squint at the next dot of light, mentally sketching in details on the shade-stretched silhouette.
A booted foot breaches the border of the light and you fight the urge to tip even further out the window. Slowly, light creeps up to reveal a wide trouser leg; your eyelids flicker shut for the briefest of moments, your vision burning in the instant of pure darkness. When you look out the window again, you’re just in time to catch a glimpse of a shaggy wool coat, wrapped around a stocky frame. Dark curls spring out above the upturned collar as a cabriolet pulls up to the side of the street, window shades drawn, and the coated figure stops to peer at it.
A long, pale arm stretches from the window and beckons. The figure hesitates. The head of curls shakes; the pale arm motions again, more insistently this time, and the figure in the coat swats it away with an irritated hand. Once more the hand from the window beckons, and when it is ignored, lunges out and seizes the arm of the coat; you catch the gleam of gold on its extended wrist before the figure in the coat surrenders with a vexed shrug. The cab door slams after its new passenger and starts off down the street again with a clatter of wheel on stone.
Camille rejoins you in the centre of the atelier, their features arranged grimly. “The door was locked from the outside,” they say.
You relate what you witnessed from the window and the line on their brow furrows deeper. “A brown coat, with the collar flipped up? Heavy boots, and dark?”
You nod in confirmation and Camille’s eyes narrow. “That was Sébastien. But he could not have run from here to the crossed avenue so quickly. And the matter of this cabriolet is yet another thing…”
They scan the atelier once more as though it might provide an answer to the questions floating in the air. When they look up again, it’s with a determined glint in their eyes.
“Auditions for the violin solo part are tomorrow morning at the Palais. I’d like you to be there. It may be that nothing of import occurs, but even so…another pair of eyes and ears can do no harm.”
<span class='choice'>[[There’s no refusing this invitation.|atelier 2]]</span>
<</linkappend>>During the rehearsal of the //pas de deux// in Act Four, you find yourself returning to what Camille had said in their atelier about the two lead dancers' styles.
It was true: Élodie, the untouchable //étoile de Paris//, dances like a woman driven mad by love, her desire to have it, to hold it alone in the palm of her hand and truly //know// it.
You watch her leap into the centre of the scene, arms outstretched dramatically, and execute a dazzling series of jumps and turns. Laure shies away but then, unable to resist her curiosity, leans in and takes Élodie's outstretched hand.
Élodie pulls her in, spinning Laure into a line of dizzying pirouettes that send her skirt flying in a circle around her hips. You tilt your head and study the delicate movement of Laure's steps as she extends a leg smoothly into an arabesque behind her and lets Élodie lead her in a measured turn, their hands clasped firmly together.
Where Élodie's movements are striking, Laure's are delicate, bending to the music as a green willow to the wind. Camille was right about her too; she does dance like someone whose world was illuminated anew by the discovery. Her tiny, shuffling steps are light as a feather on the wind; captured in the clean grace of her motion is the wonder of pure, inspired love.
Watching their styles intertwine in the pas de deux instills in you the same awe as witnessing an eclipse; possessor and possessed, both desperate to belong to the other, Élodie and Laure form a wild kind of harmony where jagged melds into curve, molten amber into brilliant sky.
Élodie lifts Laure to the resonance of a triumphant chord before sliding down on one knee below Laure’s hand as she bends into an arabesque. The music melts into a slow waltz, each note pulled slow and aching.
You survey the studio; it’s much less crowded than you’d expected, thanks to Camille herding the corps into another studio with instructions to run choreography from the first three acts under the supervision of a few senior dancers. They had wanted to devote their full attention to this final //pas de deux//, you suppose, and looking at the intricate choreography and score, you can see why.
Giselle, perched on a stool beside the piano with her eyes closed, pours her soul into the rich theme of the scene. Beside her, Sébastien lures a soft, honeyed melody from the piano; although his fingers dance over the keys as precisely as a puppeteer’s, his eyes are fixed on Giselle. Camille leans against the wall opposite the barre and mirror panels, watching Élodie and Laure dance with a hand pressed to their mouth.
Laure goes spinning across the floor, her face turned into a blur with every revolution. A few steps short of the other end of the room, her extended foot connects with a small cloth bag and sends it flying across the room. Giselle falters at the sudden thump and skid of fabric, but picks the line back up nearly seamlessly. She releases it again a few seconds later, however, when Camille claps twice, the signal to stop, and everyone slows to a halt.
Élodie, though her aloof regard almost entirely disguises it, looks at Camille apprehensively. Their gaze pauses on her and for one breathless moment, the broken, sobbing Élodie you’d seen earlier that morning surfaces in your mind. But Camille’s gaze slides over to Laure and they ask, genuine concern colouring their voice, “Are you injured?”
Laure (whether deliberately or subconsciously, you can’t tell) turns slightly to hide the saffron-edged bruise on her knee and answers brightly, “No, not at all. I just hope there was nothing fragile inside—I’d hate to have broken something that wasn’t mine.”
The pause that follows is just long enough to sour into awkwardness before Élodie says abruptly, <<linkappend '“It’ll be fine.”'>>
All eyes turn to her and the icy façade setting her features freezes harder, prouder, just on the precipice of cruelty. “It’s mine,” Élodie admits in a way that makes it sound like anything but a confession.
Camille blinks and nods. “Honesty well marked, Mademoiselle.”
You scoop up the bag from the floor—it had landed only a little stretch from where you are—and stash it beside you.
<hr>
<center><h2><b>Save here!</b></h2>
The demo story ends here, so if you'd like to continue from this point in the next update, be sure to save to disk on this passage.
<span class='choice'> [[A message awaits...|temp end]]</span></center>
<</linkappend>>
<center><h2>Thank you for playing!</h2>
<hr>
You have reached the end of the demo (31.01.22). //Rougi// will be updated in the coming weeks with more clues to discover. Return to unravel the mystery behind //Les Souliers Rouges// and what part everyone has to play, both onstage and behind the scenes.
For updates and bonus content, follow the development blog <a href='https://rougi-if.tumblr.com/'>@rougi-if</a> on tumblr and/or my main game development blog, <a href='https://lapinlunaire-games.tumblr.com/'>@lapinlunaire-games</a>. Thanks again for playing, and I hope to see you soon.
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