lip in my impatience to know what lay behind their mysterious folds. Thierry chuckled behind me, as well he might at my youthful impatience and enthusiasm. But at the time, I took no heed, staring only at the darkness behind the velvet cloth as it slowly retreated to either side of the stage.
My eyes saw nothing at first. Then I—and, I presume, the rest of the clientele—was blinded by the fierce glare of an electric light, like a bolt of lightning that went on and on. In its glow was revealed a shapely, buxom deer, standing with one hand behind her head and the other at her hip, one foot on the ground, the other resting on her knee with the leg bent to one side. She wore a large, thick petticoat and a tightly laced corset that must have been trimmed with gold for all that it sparkled in the electric glow. Her own coat was brushed so finely that it shimmered—at least, so I thought, until she made a slow movement and I saw thousands of tiny sparkles like fireflies hidden in her skin. Now I know that she brushed mica flakes into her fur; then, it was magical. The light revealed every hair, every layer of fur that covered her shoulders, arms, and lower legs, that conformed itself to the elegant curve of her muzzle and up the delicate cup of her ears, that hid in the shadows under her collarbone and blazed brightly along the top of her chest, down to the golden line of the corset.
She stood for a moment, letting us admire her and drink her in. Father, I have told you that I have no desire for the female form, but this dancer quickened my blood and made my lips dry. I wanted to see her move, wanted to watch the unfolding of those elegant limbs. I wanted to see where those deep brown eyes would wander in the crowd, and yes, I hoped they might catch mine.
Slowly, the music started, a quiet duet of piano and horn. Then she lifted her arms, stepped forward and turned, and the fireflies danced amidst her fur with every motion. She danced with the precision of clockwork, except that she moved with a fluidity and grace that no clockwork can ever hope to achieve. The circles described by her limbs flowed like water, the one into the other and into the next in a cascade as entrancing, as unpredictable as any forest waterfall.
The music quickened. Without any hitch or flaw, the dancer’s movements kept time as the piano rubbed sleep from its eyes, as the horn stretched and blared a liquid tripping of notes. The drum joined in so subtly that I did not notice it until the dancer’s foot tapped the stage in time. The xylophone, by contrast, announced itself with a ripple of sound. It became a sort of tuneful drum after that, as the deer stepped in time with the rest of the music. It was from that point on that the dancer began to lift her skirts, that the dance became the kind of dance that the Moulin Rouge is famous and infamous for.
She held up her skirts and skipped from one side of the stage to the other, lifting one knee, kicking the leg, lifting the other knee, twirling the foot in a circle, and so on. The nearer patrons half-rose from their seats looking for a glimpse of underclothes, but all observed the etiquette of the club and none rose further than that.
Thierry’s breath came warm on my cheek. “Quite something, eh?” he breathed.
“Yes.” I could barely form the word. I could not look at him because to do so would have been to look away from her.
He gave a long, deep chuckle. “She’s only the third best of the dancers here. And she’s not the one I brought you to see.”
Chapter 5
Sol awoke in his shirt, his muzzle open and pressed to the pillow. His tongue had soaked the fabric, and his mouth was full of rough cotton fabric and the taste of his sour morning breath. Reflexively, he smacked his alarm off and then fell to the side of the bed. For a moment, he had the impression that he’d been somewhere else. Gold patterns floated just outside the haze of his recollection, jazzy music played, but as
My eyes saw nothing at first. Then I—and, I presume, the rest of the clientele—was blinded by the fierce glare of an electric light, like a bolt of lightning that went on and on. In its glow was revealed a shapely, buxom deer, standing with one hand behind her head and the other at her hip, one foot on the ground, the other resting on her knee with the leg bent to one side. She wore a large, thick petticoat and a tightly laced corset that must have been trimmed with gold for all that it sparkled in the electric glow. Her own coat was brushed so finely that it shimmered—at least, so I thought, until she made a slow movement and I saw thousands of tiny sparkles like fireflies hidden in her skin. Now I know that she brushed mica flakes into her fur; then, it was magical. The light revealed every hair, every layer of fur that covered her shoulders, arms, and lower legs, that conformed itself to the elegant curve of her muzzle and up the delicate cup of her ears, that hid in the shadows under her collarbone and blazed brightly along the top of her chest, down to the golden line of the corset.
She stood for a moment, letting us admire her and drink her in. Father, I have told you that I have no desire for the female form, but this dancer quickened my blood and made my lips dry. I wanted to see her move, wanted to watch the unfolding of those elegant limbs. I wanted to see where those deep brown eyes would wander in the crowd, and yes, I hoped they might catch mine.
Slowly, the music started, a quiet duet of piano and horn. Then she lifted her arms, stepped forward and turned, and the fireflies danced amidst her fur with every motion. She danced with the precision of clockwork, except that she moved with a fluidity and grace that no clockwork can ever hope to achieve. The circles described by her limbs flowed like water, the one into the other and into the next in a cascade as entrancing, as unpredictable as any forest waterfall.
The music quickened. Without any hitch or flaw, the dancer’s movements kept time as the piano rubbed sleep from its eyes, as the horn stretched and blared a liquid tripping of notes. The drum joined in so subtly that I did not notice it until the dancer’s foot tapped the stage in time. The xylophone, by contrast, announced itself with a ripple of sound. It became a sort of tuneful drum after that, as the deer stepped in time with the rest of the music. It was from that point on that the dancer began to lift her skirts, that the dance became the kind of dance that the Moulin Rouge is famous and infamous for.
She held up her skirts and skipped from one side of the stage to the other, lifting one knee, kicking the leg, lifting the other knee, twirling the foot in a circle, and so on. The nearer patrons half-rose from their seats looking for a glimpse of underclothes, but all observed the etiquette of the club and none rose further than that.
Thierry’s breath came warm on my cheek. “Quite something, eh?” he breathed.
“Yes.” I could barely form the word. I could not look at him because to do so would have been to look away from her.
He gave a long, deep chuckle. “She’s only the third best of the dancers here. And she’s not the one I brought you to see.”
Chapter 5
Sol awoke in his shirt, his muzzle open and pressed to the pillow. His tongue had soaked the fabric, and his mouth was full of rough cotton fabric and the taste of his sour morning breath. Reflexively, he smacked his alarm off and then fell to the side of the bed. For a moment, he had the impression that he’d been somewhere else. Gold patterns floated just outside the haze of his recollection, jazzy music played, but as
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