I had thought beauty was something obvious. Sharp. Immediate. But Anya’s beauty unfolds the way truth does—quietly, inevitably. Each balance stretches just long enough to make the audience lean closer, afraid she might fall, only for her to remain perfectly, impossibly suspended—strength disguised as serenity.
My throat tightens.
She does not smile. Not truly. The Lilac Fairy does not need to. Her expression holds compassion without softness, authority without cruelty. When she turns, her gaze passes over the sleeping court—and for one impossible second, I am certain she sees me. The sensation is absurd, intimate, and devastating.
I have admired dancers before. I have even loved some of them, or believed I did. But this—this is different. This feels like recognition.
As she moves, I begin to understand the role in my bones. We’re not meant to adore The Lilac Fairy; we’re meant to trust her. She does not burn. She endures. Watching Anya dance, I realize that falling in love with her would be the easiest thing in the world. As natural as breathing.
When she finishes her first variation, the silence stretches, reverent and stunned, before the applause rises. I do not clap at first. My hands rest heavy in my lap, my heart strangely full.
Only when the audience surges to its feet do I join them, the sound of my applause ringing through my palms like a vow.
Anya inclines her head in a controlled bow, serene and untouchable, and yet I feel more drawn to her than ever before. Not because she is distant—but because she is complete.
As the lights fade and the stage shifts, I remain still, her image burned into me.
The Lilac Fairy.
And somehow, impossibly, the woman I am already beginning to love.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: ANYA
The wings smell of powder, starch, and old wood—familiar, grounding, and tonight utterly overwhelming.
I roll my shoulders back and breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, the way I’ve been taught since I was a child. My hands tremble anyway. The Lilac Fairy waits just beyond the curtain, and so does the audience—hundreds of faces I cannot see but can feel pressing toward me like a held breath.
First entrance, I remind myself—just the first.
My costume is a pale whisper against my skin, layers of lavender tulle brushing my thighs every time I shift my weight. The bodice is snug, reassuring. The crown feels heavier than it did in the dressing room, as if it understands the responsibility of the role better than I do.
The orchestra begins the introduction, soft and deliberate. My cue is coming.
I think of the crowd despite myself. Of the darkness beyond the footlights. Of the critics, the patrons, the dancers’ parents, the strangers who will decide in the space of a single phrase whether I belong here.
And then, unbidden, my thoughts find Vladimir.
I don’t know if he’s in the audience tonight. He said he would try to come, his smile careful, his eyes too knowing. Theidea of him watching—really watching—makes my pulse stutter. I imagine him somewhere in the velvet seats, his attention fixed, his expression unreadable. I imagine disappointing him, and the thought cuts sharper than any review ever could.
Stop.
I press my fingers into my palms, grounding myself. The Lilac Fairy does not doubt. She does not scan the crowd for reassurance. She arrives because she must.
“Places,” someone whispers behind me.
The curtain shivers.
This is not about Vladimir. It’s not about the audience, or the applause, or the fear curling low in my stomach. It’s about the music waiting for me. It’s about the story that needs to be told.
I lift my chin and let my face settle into calm authority. The nerves don’t vanish, but they quiet down, folding themselves neatly beneath purpose.
When the curtain parts, light spills across the stage like a benediction.
I step forward.
The noise in my head falls away the instant my foot touches the floor. The world narrows to space and timing, to breath and balance. My arms open slowly, deliberately, as if I am gathering fate itself. The court freezes. The music bends.
I am no longer waiting to be seen.
