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I couldn't look at Paul. He wanted to be my father, not my touchstone. If I failed and embarrassed him, certainly he'd see me differently. I'd lose what charm I had for him. I'd be nobody special.

A touch on my arm made me jump. Whirling about I confronted Julian Marquet. "Break a leg," he whispered, then smiled to show his very white and perfect teeth. His dark eyes sparkled wickedly. He was taller than most male dancers, almost six feet, and soon I'd learn he was nineteen. His skin was as fair as mine, though in contrast to his dark hair it made him look too pale. His strong chin sported a devil's cleft and another dimple in his right check teased in and out at his will. I thanked him for his wish of good luck, very much taken by his astonishing good looks. "Wow!" he said when I smiled, his voice husky. "You're sure a beautiful girl. Too bad you're only a kid."

"I'm not a kid!"

"What are you then, some old lady of

eighteen?"

I smiled, very pleased to think I looked that old. "Maybe so, maybe not."

He grinned as if he had all the answers. From the way he bragged of being one of the hottest dancers in a New York company, maybe he did have all the answers. "I'm only here for the holidays--to do Madame a favor. Soon I'll go back to New York where I belong." He looked around, as if the "provinces" bored him beyond belief, while my heart did a flipflop. I was hoping he was one of the dancers I'd work with.

We exchanged a few more words and then my musical cue sounded. Suddenly I was alone in the attic, with colored paper flowers dangling on long strings; nobody but me and that secret lover who danced always ahead, never letting me get near enough to see his face. I danced out, fearful at first, and did all the right things, the entrachets, the arm flutters, the pirouettes. I was sure to keep my eyes open and my face always toward the viewers I didn't see. Then the magic came and took me. I didn't have to plan and count, the music told me what to do, and how to do it, for I was its voice and could do no wrong. And as always that man appeared to dance with me--only this time I saw his face! His beautiful pale, pale face, with the dark and eyes, and the blueblack hair and the ruby lips.

Julian!

I saw it as in a dream, stretching out his strong arms as he went down on one knee, and the other leg backward gracefully.. With his eyes he signaled was to run, then leap into his receiving arms.

Enchanted to see him there, a professional, I was halfway to him when a terrible pain seized my abdomen! I doubled over and cried out! At my feet was a huge pool of blood! Blood streamed down my legs; it stained my pink shoes, my leotards. I slipped and fell to the floor, and grew so weak I could only lie there and hear the screams. Not my screams, but Carrie's. I closed my eyes not caring who it was who came to pick me up. From a far distance I heard Paul's voice and Chris's. Chris's concerned face hovered above me, with his love for me too clearly revealed; it both comforted me and frightened me, for I didn't want Paul to see. Chris said something about not being afraid as blackness came and took me to a far, far place where nobody wanted me.

And my dancing career, not yet begun, was over, over.

Out of a dream of w

itches I emerged to find Chris sitting on the hospital bed, holding my limp hand .. . and those blue eyes, oh, God, those eyes . . . "Hi," he said softly, squeezing my fingers. "I've been waiting for you to come around."

"Hi yourself."

He smiled and leaned to kiss my cheek. "I'll tell you this, Catherine Doll, you sure know how to end a dance dramatically."

"Yeah, that's talent. Real talent. I guess I'd better go into acting."

He shrugged indifferently. "You could, I guess, though I doubt you will."

"Oh, Chris," I stormed weakly, "you know I've ruined what chance I had! Why did I bleed like that?" I knew my eyes were full of fear. Fear that he saw and knew the cause. He leaned to draw me up into his embrace and held me fast against his chest.

"Life offers more than one chance, Cathy, you know that. You needed a D & C. You'll be fine and on your feet by tomorrow."

"What's a D & C?"

He smiled and stroked my cheek tenderly, always forgetting I wasn't as medically sophisticated as he was.

"It's short for a procedure in which a woman is dilated, and an instrument called a curette is used to scrape waste material from the lining of the uterus. Those missed periods of yours must have clotted and then broke free."

Our eyes met. "That's all it was, Cathy . . . all, nothing else."

"Who did the scraping?" I whispered, scared it was Paul.

"A gynecologist named Dr. Jarvis, a friend of our doctor. Paul says he's the best gyn. around."

I lay back on the pillows, not knowing what to think. Of all times for something like that to happen-- in front of everyone I was trying to impress. My God, why was life so cruel to me?

"Open your eyes, my lady Catherine," said Chris. "You're making too much out of this, when it doesn't matter. Take a look at that dresser over there and see all the pretty flowers, real flowers, not paper ones. I hope you don't mind if I took a peek at the cards." Of course I didn't mind what he did, and soon he was back from the dresser and putting a small white envelope in my flaccid hand. I stared at the huge floral bouquet, thinking it was from Paul, and only then did my eyes flick to the card in my hand. My fingers shook as I extracted from the envelope the small note that read:

Hope you recover soon. I expect to see you next Monday, three o'clock sharp.

Madame Marisha.