He stepped out of view between two pillars and cloaked himself in his shadows. The familiar unpleasant, cold sensation settled over him as his magic took hold, hiding his body from view. He’d slip in behind another group and find a dark corner that the braziers’ light didn’t reach. He’d even leave before the end, reluctantly, to avoid the inevitable crush as everyone tried to leave at once. He’d be back at the inn and tucked up in bed before the last note was played.
This might be his first ballet in years, but he’d be better safe than dead.
The interior of the theatre was just as opulent as the façade. Hundreds of burgundy, velvet-upholstered seats for the wealthy citizens of Orovia filled the cavernous space behind the open yard, and every surface appeared to be decorated with gold leaf.
Anders pressed himself into an alcove and waited for the other attendees to fill the space and the performance to begin. He wasn’t sure what to expect, from everything he’d seen of Orovia, the Golds seemed to care more about appearances than actual substance. The dancers would certainly look the part, he would bet his last copper on that. But would they be able to convey the longing—the joy and pain and stubborn hope—that made the ballet so relatable and captivating? He only hoped they hadn’t altered the story of Asterina and Cethin.
He’d always envied Cethin, the young man who would give anything to be worthy of Asterina’s love. Even his life. Young Anders had hoped he would grow up to be as courageous as noble Cethin. That, given the opportunity, he’d be brave enough to lay his life down for his people. Only, when the time had finally come, Anders had failed.
He held his breath as a well-dressed couple passed close by, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as the woman’sdress snagged on his boot, but she simply gave it a tug and carried on towards her seat. Anders let out a slow breath, calming his racing heart, and checked his pocket to make sure the papers the ship’s captain had given him were still there. They may not stand up to scrutiny, but just knowing he had them made his pulse a little slower.
A hush fell over the theatre as the torchlight was turned away from the audience and towards the stage. Music began to drift up from the orchestra at the front of the yard, and Anders was immediately back in D’Argentis, watching the same ballet for the very first time at ten years old.
The curtain lifted and, one by one, eleven ballerinas in identical white dresses glided onto the stage. As the dancers began their choreography, Anders was swept up in the swell of music that filled the hall, all the way up to the rafters. His fear and worry melted away as the musicians took him back to his childhood in the Northern Isle, and all of those feelings he’d first felt watching the ballet with his family each year came rushing back.
The eleven ballerinas moved together in the centre of the stage, before gliding apart to reveal a twelfth dancer in a golden gown with a pair of feathered wings at her back. Her tanned skin glowed in the light from the braziers, and her dark hair flowed down her back in ringlets that swayed with each movement.
Anders’ breath caught as her gaze met his—could she see him, standing in the alcove wrapped in shadow? No, it wasn’t possible, she couldn’t be looking at him. She joined her fellow dancers and floated across the stage, becoming the centre of their dance, like a celestial body drawing them into her orbit.
As the ballet went on, Anders became more absorbed in the tale of the star-crossed lovers playing out on stage. The emotion on the face of the prima ballerina sent a jolt to his stomach,her dark eyes were filled with so much passion. But there was a sadness in them that tugged at his heart.
Her movements were precise, almost perfect, but not in any way forced or calculated. He could almost believe that this was the first time she’d done these movements in this particular order—that she was truly torn apart over a love that could not be and felt compelled to express herself physically, through dance.
The performance approached its dramatic climax, the music building to a crescendo as the other dancers glided off stage and the winged ballerina was left alone. She leapt downstage, coming even closer to the audience; Anders could almost have reached out and touched her. Longed to.
A shiver of revulsion ran through him as he remembered his shadows; the fact that he hid in darkness while the dancer on stage pirouetted in the light, admired and beloved.
All the air seemed to be sucked from the room, as the dark-haired ballerina’s eyes found his once more, and she stumbled. Her foot slipped and her arms shot out as she fell, her body angled towards the orchestra pit and the burning brazier that separated them.
Anders moved like lightning, leaping over the musicians and their instruments to catch the dancer and pull her back on to the stage, away from the flames. They went down hard together, thudding against the polished dark wood. Silence had fallen over the theatre as the musicians halted their playing and the audience held its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Anders got to his feet quickly and held out a hand to the ballerina. She hesitated before taking it and he helped her stand. He took some of her weight, wrapping her arm around his broad shoulders, and she looked at him, her gaze intense, breath hitching.
“Are you hurt?”
She didn’t speak; only shook her head, her startled expression changing into something like curiosity.
Anders felt a rush of warmth over his entire body as they stood there, pressed together, staring into each other’s eyes. He didn’t let go, and she didn’t pull away.
It was at that moment Anders realised he was standing on stage in front of the entire audience, his shadows discarded, and his hood had fallen back to reveal his head of pale-blonde hair.
A shout went up. “Guards! Arrest that man.” And the theatre exploded into chaos.
Chapter 3
Isadora
Isadora closed the door to the rooms she shared with her sister, Livia, and slumped against it with a sigh.
She’d waved off the help of no less than seven guards, two valets and a butler on her way through the palace. She was fine, just a little sore from the impact. And the weight of the Silver brute who’d slammed her onto the wooden floorboards.
He’d appeared half-wild, with that long, pale hair and straggly beard. And the look in his eyes, like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and she was a piece of meat. She shuddered, remembering how close they had been—and in front of the entire city. In front of her father.
She dropped onto the chaise longue and stretched out, reclining against the pillows. She grimaced, before yanking the feathered wings from her shoulders and tossing them to the floor. What a complete disaster. She had never stumbled on stage in her entire life, let alone fallen and almost landed on the orchestra. She’d been distracted lately; her usual focus gone, her mind wandering at all hours of the day.
Livia appeared from her sleeping quarters, still dressed in the white gown she’d worn on stage, long, wavy hair now loose and her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She looked youngerthan her sixteen years, in Isadora’s mind her sister was still that little six-year-old imp running around the gardens, chasing butterflies and pulling up their mother’s favourite flowers. So innocent. How she longed to go back to that time, before their mother had passed away. Before the curse.
Livia knelt at her sister’s side, a mischievous grin spread across her face, dimpling both of her cheeks. “Well, that was rather exciting, wasn’t it?”
