Robbie Ashton lay in bed, listening to distant night-sounds fade into morning darkness. The house was in low pulse; his parents had been asleep for some hours. Outside, the dawn was empty save for the weary drone of some long-distance driver vanishing down some far away highway. Robbie loved these deep, quiet hours. The world seemed to begin here, and the day was still waiting to be born. He waited out the long minutes, patiently marking the passage of the stars past his bedroom window.

Pushing aside the covers, he slid noiselessly out of bed, leaving behind a pool of warmth shaped like a child. It would still be there when he returned later on, that was part of the magic of these silent risings. He tiptoed through the hallway in his PJs, avoiding a hundred different obstacles with practiced ease. Like most boys of his age, Robbie had an uncanny sense of stealth and direction. He was headed for the back room, where The Stage would be waiting with its polished ornaments gleaming in the dim light.

It had been weeks since he'd had the place to himself, and he was almost fainting with excitement as he hurried down the central hallway towards the rumpus room. He'd been planning this show for close on a week now. He could already feel the blush tinting his features.

Robbie had hidden his costumes in one of the built-ins that lined the rumpus room's back wall, and the thought of all that red satin drew a wicked smile to the edge of his lips. In a few fleeting moments he'd be laced up into one of his gleaming outfits and the spectacle would begin. The program was ready, the posters were up and Robbie was heading the bill; the star performer of the greatest extravaganza of the century.

Which role would he adopt this time? The Spoilt Girlfriend? The Sweet Young Thing? The Lingerie Model? The Burlesque Dancer? It didn't really matter. He had dozens of scenarios stored in his memory vault, hundreds of scenes he could act out in a thousand different variations. He collected personas the way other children collected pennies.

Cancan!

Yes, he'd begin with the cancan. La Chahut was a good place to start, it had always been one of his favorites. He must've had at least a hundred different cancan scenes down pat; saloon girls from the Wild, Wild West; Parisian danseuses from the Merry Widow, English showgirls from The Olden Days.

Retrieving the dress from its plain-view hidey-hole, he put a slim hand to his ponytail and removed the sequined elastic binder, allowing his dark, tangled hair to cascade down past his shoulders. With his thick, curly tresses sweeping down to his waist in a shimmering black arabesque, he looked pretty and fragile; a sleek teenaged girl with crystal blue eyes and delicate, alabaster features. Robbie had been rather fortunate in this respect, possessing a sexually ambiguous appearance since his early childhood. The recent onset of puberty had had little effect on his largely androgynous form.

It had been nearly two months since he'd last emerged from his colorless male identity. Sixty days trapped in a thirteen year-old boy's life and body, repressing his true identity and nature. Well, no matter; he now had a few hours to revel in his innate femininity, indulge his fantasies and allow his intrinsic personality a free reign.

He threw off his pajamas with a few careless movements and slipped rapidly into his costume, his entire nervous system flaring with pleasure as each flimsy, gossamer layer touched his flesh. Putting on his outfit was like assuming a new body. He always felt this way before the curtain rose on his Grand Performance; a swirling rush of backstage anxiety and moist, rippling expectation.

Closing his eyes, he began transforming the room around him, allowing furniture and panels and lights to dim non-existence. The Music-Hall leapt into sharp, technicolour resolution, its looming, cavernous space darkened by drifts of purple smoke and brightened by the radiant, crystal tiers of the grand chandelier. He could hear the quavering notes of the orchestra tuning up, the low, droning rumble of a moody crowd…

It was Friday night at The Iron Duke, and the patrons were getting restless. The show was about to begin, and the girls were milling about behind the curtains, trading whispers and giggling feminine stories as they waited for the conductor to raise his magic wand and signal the start of their opening number.

The Can-can was the scandal of the century. Banned by an act of Parliament for over two years, it had been denounced from every respectable corner as a threat to the moral fabric of British Society. A shocking and licentious dance which could only corrupt and incite with its insidious European influence. Nevertheless, despite the press reports of brute, unbridled lusts, the crowds had never been bigger. The girls played before a packed house every evening; the audience simply couldn't get enough, even when they hit the stage as many as three times in a single night. Nor could Robbie blame them. She LOVED crossing the floorboards with her frothy, pink petticoats flailing through the air.

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