“Good. Even more important than turnout is posture. Aballerina stands tall and straight. Shoulders over hips, hips over knees, knees over toes. Now imagine a string coming out of the top of your head.” Lucie tapped the crown of her head and pulled the imaginary string. “Imagine someone pulling up that string at all times—when you stand, walk, bend, kick, or jump.”
Josie lifted her chin, hunched her shoulders, and stretched tall, her eyes shining.
Lucie tapped Josie’s curly head and lifted the string. Then she guided Josie’s chin level, her shoulders down, her hips forward, her knees straight, and her arms gently rounded. “Do you feel that string?”
“I do!”
“I can tell. You already look like a ballerina. So graceful.”
“I do?”
“You do. Let’s come to the barre. Mine is too tall, so you’ll use this chair.” She led her to a wooden armchair, then Lucie laid her hand on the barre. “First position. Now we’ll learn toplié, to bend. Keep your heels glued to the floor and bend your knees. Keep your back straight—remember that string.”
Lucie demonstrated, and Josie copied. After a series of pliés, Lucie showed her how to rise to the balls of her feet in arelevé, then to point her toe in abattement tendu.
Watching Josie learn the moves warmed Lucie’s heart. She used to love helpingles petit ratsin the Paris Opéra Ballet School, and she’d hoped to teach at the school after she retired from the stage. But since she’d retired at only twenty-six and from the lowest rank, she’d never have a teaching position there.
Sitting on his crate, Paul smiled at Lucie, no veil concealing his affection. Now that warmth touched every corner of her heart. If only they could stay in this room forever, where they could be open with each other.
Even now she couldn’t be completely open, not with young ears in the room.
Paul tilted his head and gave her a concerned frown.
Lucie blinked and spun to the phonograph. “You’re doing well, Josie. Now you may dance.” Her own teachers would have fainted. They believed in developing a dancer’s training in a proper sequence. But Josie was younger than most girls when they started, too young for rigidity.
She pulled a record from a sleeve and placed it on the turntable—the waltz from Tchaikovsky’sLa Belle au bois dormant, or as it was known in English, Sleeping Beauty. “All right, Josie. I’m going to talk to your father. Go ahead and spin and jump, but I also want to see pliés and relevés and tendus.”
After she lowered the arm to the record, majestic music swelled. Josie swayed, raised her arms, and turned, all very charming.
Paul stood, and Lucie joined him by the wall, facing Josie.
“What’s wrong?” he said in his low, rumbling voice.
Despite her turmoil, Lucie smiled for the child’s sake. “Did you hear what happened Monday on the Champs-Élysées?”
“I did.” The wool of his jacket sleeve brushed her bare arm.
“I was coming out of the bank and ran into Alice Young. We—we saw it.”
“Oh no. But you—”
“We’re all right. We ran.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
That wasn’t what kept her gut churning. “One of the notes that came through my store read ‘Champs.’ One of the men—I realize I’ve seen him before. I think...” Her throat closed off.
Paul rubbed her back and murmured to her.
Out on the floor, Josie had stopped spinning and was doing pliés.
Lucie swallowed hard. “Then on Thursday, a man handed me a book. It was far too heavy. After the store closed, I opened it. Someone had hollowed out the pages. There was a—a revolver inside.”
“Oh no.”
“I won’t have it.” She shook her head rapidly. “I told my contact I won’t be a part of shootings and if I find another weapon, I’ll shut down operations immediately.”
“That was wise. If you get caught with weapons...”
