"Can I have fourteen, please? Cue fourteen up, please?"
"Fourteen is up."
"No, fourteen includes that special, stage left."
"No..." The voices droned on. Franny stretched and shook her head, trying to stay awake. Bad dress rehearsal, good performance; that's what they always say. Well, if that were true, this production should rival the Bolshoi. In fact, this barely qualified as a dress rehearsal: lighting cues were still being thrashed out, and, to top it off, no one knew where the director was. Ironic, wasn't it, since "Cinderella" was almost the only thing Prokofiev ever wrote that didn't suffer some sort of pre-production disaster in his lifetime.
Franny rolled her head on her neck, stretching, and watched two stagehands try and wrestle the massive clock into place on stage, the clock that would strike midnight and warn Cinderella to flee from the ball. The thing seemed much too big, considering that the director wanted it to fly out instantly at the end of that scene-- they'd had to counterweight it with several hundred pounds, and nobody wanted to be anywhere near it when it moved. No one, though, had dared say anything to the director. And where was the director? Franny looked back for the hundredth time-- still no sign of Madame Ulanova; the Russian was mounting her first U.S. production here at Portland's Civic Auditorium, and if she didn't arrive soon to take charge, it would certainly be her last. Still, this was hardly the first strange thing Franny had noticed about the woman. Tall and beautiful, with a haughty air and an absolute certainty that she was always right, there was nonetheless something furtive about her. The others might see only a stern taskmistress with her dark hair perpetually in a severe bun, but Franny could see something more. The woman was nervous-- she feared something or someone.
Finally, Franny decided that she had simply been sitting in the stiff theatre seat too long. The young dance teacher got to her feet. She was dressed in her dark leotard and pink tights, with leg warmers and a pair of slippers. Since the air-conditioning was set to cool off hundreds of bodies, it always seemed chilly in here when the house was nearly empty, so she had draped a long acrylic scarf over her shoulders. Franny's long, brown hair was still tied up in its bun, even though she'd done little dancing recently. It had, of course, been an honor to have three of her pupils selected for the corps de ballet, but her vision of mentoring them through this experience had been quickly dashed by Madame Ulanova, who peremptorily informed Franny that she was to "leave these children to me." Still, Franny came prepared; you never knew when one of the girls might need help with a tricky movement, or just a partner to rehearse with. And, she had to admit, Madame Ulanova knew what she was doing: for all the show's technical problems, she'd rarely seen such a beautifully-coordinated group of dancers. Heck, she thought, just dump all the sets and let the troupe perform on a bare stage: the dancers are ready to open, even if no one else is.
"All right, everyone." The voice of the stage manager, came over the P.A. "Still no sign of Le Grande Madame." Some of the girls waiting onstage giggled. "We're not going to get much more done today, and everyone needs their rest. So, let's call it here. Final run-through with the orchestra is tomorrow, call is ten a.m. See ya." No one needed to be told twice, and in minutes, Franny seemed to be the last one left in the house. Of course, this would be the day she'd had Erik drop her off, rather than driving herself. He wasn't due to pick her up for over an hour, and she had no way to contact him. One of the girls could drive her, of course, but it would be too hard to be sure he got the message not to come for her. Better to wait.
As Franny stood up to head for the green room, she noticed movement back toward the control booth. She recognized Brenda Joyce, the theatre's new house manager (or should it be mistress?, she wondered). The regular manager had been in a terrible (and, the police said, suspicious) car accident just this week, and everyone had been amazed and relieved that Ms. Joyce had appeared, almost out of nowhere, to take his place. Franny waved to her, but the woman seemed not to notice. Instead, she was looking over her shoulder rather intently, and then turned and made her way toward the door to the box office area. She paused, listening for a moment, and disappeared up the stairs.
Without really thinking about it, Franny started off after her. The diminutive dance teacher wasn't sure if it had been the woman's strange manner, or just the fact that she appeared to be the only other person here, but almost before she knew it, Franny was heading up the stairs where Brenda Joyce had disappeared.
Franny had never been to this part of the building before; the upper floor was used for business offices, and had some storage areas for lighting equipment. She listened, to see if she could detect the sound that Brenda Joyce had heard. Nothing. Or was there? She couldn't place it, but there were faint sounds coming from a room down the hall. Was there a shuffling, or a thumping? And was there just the faintest hint of a human voice, in a low and muffled register? Quietly, she approached the room. Yes. There was certainly someone inside. Franny called out, "Hello?" No answer came, but the bumping sound seemed to grow louder, then stop. Well, she thought, I hate to disturb anyone, but what if someone needs help? She opened the door, and stepped into the room.
It was dark inside. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw movement on the floor. Someone was lying there-- and then the figure wiggled itself so that its face was hit by a streak of light coming through the crack of the door. It was Madame Ulanova! The missing director looked pleadingly at Franny, who was paralyzed with astonishment-- the elegant Russian was lying on the floor, with her hands bound behind her. Some kind of straps of leather were pinning her arms to her sides, and similar thongs were tied about her ankles. The bottom part of her face was obscured by some sort of pad over her mouth. She seemed to make a sound-- certainly, some kind of noise came from the other side of the room, but Franny realized that whatever was over her mouth had prevented her from uttering anything but a tiny whisper of sound. As Franny tried to recover from her shock, she noticed that there was another figure in the room behind where Madame Ulanova lay. Franny was about to ask who it was, when she felt herself seized from behind!
A man's arm had grabbed her around the waist. Franny wasn't a big girl, to begin with, and this man's strength was tremendous. She was held in a grip of iron. Franny opened her mouth to scream, but the man's other hand clamped firmly down over her mouth. Almost without effort, he pulled her head back so that it rested on his shoulder. Franny squirmed, her lithe dancer's body trying to find some slack in the man's hold on her. As he adjusted his hold, Franny found that she was able to twist her head away from his palm. He reached for her, and she flailed her head, her bun of hair coming loose, her eyes searching frantically for some way to escape.
"Help!" she cried. Hee---mmmpphh!" The man had his hand back over her mouth again, but for all his strength, Franny's determined struggles continued. She bit at the hand over her mouth; startled, the man pulled it away. "Heeeelllp!" she repeated, and was rewarded by the sight of the other figure in the shadows moving into view. Franny's eyes grew even larger. Brenda Joyce was walking purposefully toward her. For a moment, instinct overrode logic: here was someone she knew, someone who would help her! Franny tried again to call to the woman. Brenda Joyce was looking at Franny strangely. Instead of rushing to her aid, or trying to escape, the woman reached into a bag she held, and removed a white pad of cloth. Suddenly, Franny felt the man's hand leave her mouth; still holding her waist, he used his now free hand to imprison her wrists. Before the confused girl could get out a sound, though, Brenda Joyce had pressed the cloth she held over Franny's mouth and nose. Franny looked wildly into the woman's face; Brenda Joyce returned the look with a strange intensity-- as though she saw, not Franny herself, but simply some obstacle that must be dealt with.
The cloth gave off a powerful, sickly-sweet odor. Franny felt it suffocating her, and desperately tried to pull her head free. She succeeded for a moment, turning to the side, and gulping in as much air as she could. Now, she didn't dare waste breath on screaming, she would need it just to stay conscious! It was no use, though. Brenda Joyce gave a look of annoyance, and reached behind Franny's head. The girl felt the woman's fingers take a firm grasp in her hair, and then her face was held still as the cloth was reapplied. Unable to move her head at all now, Franny desperately tried not to inhale. Joyce waited for a moment, and when Franny didn't take a breath, gave a vicious yank on the girl's hair. Franny gasped at the pain, and her lungs surrendered, drinking deeply of the drug on the pad. She began to feel strangely warm, and her muscles started to relax. As the fight drained from her body, she felt herself sink into the powerful arms of the man who held her. Finally, satisfied that the girl was helpless, Brenda Joyce released her grip in Franny's hair; Franny's head slumped forward, she felt the man gather her in his arms, and then she knew no more.