From the outside, Opéra Garnier resembled a huge, extravagant golden wedding cake. The façade was covered with elaborate gilt designs and sculpted figures, and winged angels seemed to be flying alongside a big domed roof that looked like a crown. Even in New York, Amy had never seen anything quite so grand.

She flipped open her guidebook. “It took thirteen years to build this place,” she told Monica and Christophe.

They weren’t listening. “Do you go to the ballet often?” Monica was asking the new love of her life.

“Not very,” Christophe said. “It is … how do you say in English?” He rubbed his thumb across two fingers. “Very expensive.” He smiled sadly. “I am a poor struggling artist.”

“Well, we certainly don’t expect you to pay for us,” Monica assured him. “Believe me, I know what it’s like to struggle as an artist. But you do like the ballet, don’t you?”

“I am French, chérie. I appreciate all the fine arts.”

Three wide avenues converged in front of the opera house. “Amy, take my hand,” Monica said nervously, and Amy didn’t object. The way the cars were speeding along, the street in front of Opéra Garnier looked more like a racetrack. “Why are they driving so fast?” she asked Christophe.

Again he smiled sickeningly. “They are French, ma petite.”

So she was visiting a country where everyone was cultured and drove like a madman. Of course, she had to remind herself who was providing this information. She had a feeling that Christophe was prone to exaggeration. After all, he was already calling Monica chérie, darling, and he hadn’t even known her for a full day. Amy herself wasn’t too crazy about him calling her “my little one.”

They made it across the busy intersection and into the grand entryway of the opera house. Amy tried not to stare at the other people streaming in. Everyone was dressed up, and the women looked perfectly groomed. Their clothes weren’t fancy, but they were very elegant. Amy smoothed the front of her long flower-print skirt and hoped she didn’t look out of place.

At the ticket booth, Christophe asked for three of the best seats available. When the man produced them, Christophe touched the pocket of his jacket and issued a soft moan.

“Oh dear. I seem to have forgotten my wallet.”

“That’s all right,” Monica said. “I’ll treat us all.”

Amy did some rapid calculations, converting the French francs into dollars. These tickets weren’t cheap. She hoped Christophe wasn’t going to make a habit of forgetting his wallet, though he certainly seemed like the type who would. Back home, Amy had once seen a movie about a man who got women to buy him things. He was referred to as a gigolo. She had a feeling the part could easily have been played by Christophe DuPont.

They climbed a magnificently decorated marble staircase to get to their section, accepted programs from an usher, and found their seats. Amy looked around and noted that the place was filling rapidly. There had to be almost two thousand people in the five-tiered auditorium. It was nice to know this teen ballet company was doing so well, especially since one of the dancers was her clone.

She opened the program and began looking for the name. She found it almost immediately. Annie Perrault. She would be appearing in the first and third ballets.

The lights went down, the music began, the curtain went up, and Amy was immediately transported into another world. A dozen girls in soft white skirts floated across the stage, leaping lightly, spinning and twirling, moving in perfect synchronicity. They looked delicate and ethereal, but she knew how strong they had to be to perform all the intricate steps.

Then one of the dancers emerged from the line and did a short solo. Her feet in their pink toe shoes moved so fast they seemed to blur, and her leaps were so high that there was an audible gasp from the audience. Amy smiled. Despite the heavy makeup, which made all the girls on stage look pretty much alike, she knew who this one was.

Her heartbeat quickened. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation. She’d experienced this before with Aimee Evans, the actress, and with Aly Kendricks, the reject clone who didn’t have any powers. There were also the other Amys she’d seen—or thought she’d seen—in the New York City hospital. Each time, Amy had been so excited at the mere thought of meeting someone like her, of meeting in essence a sister. But every time, the encounter led to sadness or betrayal … even to danger.

Amy wasn’t giving up, though. Someday she’d make a true heart-to-heart connection with another Amy. Maybe this was that day.

More dancers came onto the stage, and now Annie blended into the scene. Still, Amy didn’t take her eyes off her. She didn’t know much about ballet, but she didn’t need to be an expert to know that Annie was incredibly talented. She had two more solos, and each time she danced superbly. Amy couldn’t help feeling proud. At the end, she shouted, “Brava,” with the rest of the audience when Annie took her solo bow.

As the applause subsided, Amy looked at the program. There would be an intermission now, followed by two more ballets. Again Amy noted that Annie was in the first one after the intermission but not the second. That meant she might be leaving before the performance was over. Amy had to find her now.

As soon as the lights came on, she told Monica she needed to find a rest room. Her search began. People were milling about in the lobby, and Amy had no idea which way to go. She spotted a uniformed man carrying a huge bouquet of roses wrapped in plastic. They had to be for one of the dancers. She followed the man down two flights of stairs and into a passageway.

There was a flurry of activity below. People carrying costumes and props rushed up and down the hallway. No one paid any attention to Amy. Some doors along the corridor were open, and she caught glimpses of dancers fixing their hair and touching up their makeup. At one of the doors, she stopped.

Six dancers sat at a counter, facing a mirror that ran the length of the wall. They were chatting as they applied their cosmetics. One of them was Annie Perrault.

Amy was a bundle of nerves. She didn’t know how to approach Annie, or what to say. She didn’t know if Annie knew about her own special talents. Or whether it was going to be a shock for her to see another girl who looked exactly like her.

Thinking about the previous disastrous encounters with other Amy clones, Amy didn’t think she could go through it again. She was almost ready to back up and return to her seat, but it was too late.

Annie Perrault had seen Amy’s reflection in the mirror. Her hand, clutching a brush, was frozen in midair. Amy could see the stunned expression on her face, and she steeled herself for whatever reaction Annie might have.

The last thing Amy expected to see was a smile. But that was what spread across Annie’s face.

She rose from her seat and came out into the corridor. She looked at Amy steadily for a few seconds and then spoke in French. Amy had no problem at all understanding her.

“I knew this would happen someday,” Annie was saying. “I prayed for it.”

“You did?” Amy asked faintly.

Annie nodded. “You are American, yes? Then I will speak English.” With her stage makeup and her hair in a bun, she looked older than Amy. But they had the exact same smile.

Annie continued in perfect English. “Ever since I learned about myself, I have been waiting to meet another like me. I hoped that perhaps one of us might see me in a performance. And here you are.” She leaned forward and embraced Amy lightly, kissing her on both cheeks.

Amy hadn’t been expecting this kind of reception. The warmth of Annie’s greeting was overwhelming. “I’m—I’m so happy to find you,” she said.

A woman at the end of the hall announced that it was time for the dancers to return to the stage. Annie spoke hurriedly. “I must go, but we will meet tomorrow, yes? Where can I find you?”

Amy told her the name of her hotel and its address.

“I will be there at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” Annie said. She pressed her lips against each of Amy’s cheeks again. “Au revoir!” she called, and joined the other girls who were moving down the hall.

“Au revoir,” Amy repeated faintly. It was a casual way of saying goodbye in France, and it meant something like “See you again” or “See you next time.” Next time, meaning tomorrow. Amy couldn’t believe the encounter had gone so well. Ecstatic, she sailed back upstairs to her seat, floating like a ballerina.