“Any relations? Next of kin?”
He shrugged. “Alone in the world, far as I could tell, miss. She wasn’t one to talk to the staff, though. She mostly worked at the theater and stayed out to all hours.”
“Did she ever have visitors? Siblings, perhaps, or—”
“I’m sorry, miss. I truly don’t know more than that. Good day.”
The crack in the door narrowed, and I put my palm firmly on the wood. “Please, sir, it’s terribly important. Isn’t there anything else you can tell me? I’ve no one else to ask.” Desperation tainted my voice.
He dropped his gaze, fingers still gripping the edge of the door. “She is ... important to you?”
I nodded, my eyes pleading with him.
“Wait here.”
He shut the door, then came back clutching a black box with papier-mâché roses on the lid and little stone pieces embedded on the side. “Exactlyhowimportant?”
I stared at that unusual box, which was big enough to hold something crucial—something of her life I’d never seen before. “She was my mum.”
The man gripped the box and looked at me with wonder. “That one, amum?” He shook his head, as if ridding it of fog. “Well then, I suppose you should ... you should have this.” He extended the box. “Found it behind a bureau when the master went to sell her things. We didn’t know what else to do with them, of course. You understand.”
“Of course. And thank you for this.” I pulled the box close, fingering the scalloped edge of the lid. “If you would, please, don’t mention—”
He held up his hands. “I never do. Best of luck to you, miss. Hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
7
They were love letters—all of them. Some from working-class hopefuls, others from discreet noblemen, all full of passionate adoration of Delphine Bessette. I strained to read them by the glow of a few candle stubs in the materials room after lessons were over for the day. This, of course, was the only place I could freely examine these—and the place I’d need to hide the box. I’d waited until everyone left so that no one would stumble upon them and make them fodder for the press.
It was bittersweet to read all these words of adoration directed at my mother and terribly unsettling to see the sheer number of men from which they came.
To the brightest star of ballet, the incandescent and wholly unforgettable Delphine Bessette. I will ever remember the sight of your lovely white arms sweeping through the glow of theater lights, your beauty perfectly harmonious with the music filling the auditorium, dancing as if only for me. What is it about you that charms me so, charms every man who catches sight of you? No one elsebrings the world to life as you do from the stage, stirring every molecule of air and infusing it with your glow.
I closed my eyes and I could picture her. How radiant she had always been, how splendid, even in her patched gown in our little flat. All my life I’d been fooled into believing, by watching her dance, that it was effortless. No harder than rising up on one’s toes and moving along with the music.
Yet she had something special, as the letter said, and I’d quite forgotten that when I’d set out to have the same career. “It takes much work to appear effortless,”she’d once said, and I felt every inch of that in my tired body. Yet for all my straining and rehearsing, I wasn’t any closer to what she’d been. This time I did not feel our lives running parallel. I felt only my lack.
After making it through only a third of the letters, I forced back tears and rose to go. This was leading nowhere I wished to be. Why had she saved all these? Surely she couldn’t have encouraged this many men. The way she’d spoken of Father ... No one could be so double-minded. No one.
Shoes clicked through the echoey front hall and I tensed, sensing the presence of Philippe in the theater. I tucked the box away and rose onto demi-pointe and made a slow spin, feeling the perfect line of my body and waiting. For a flash, I imagined Philippe looking at me with the same admiration as that letter writer had felt toward my mother. It made my pulse flutter.
Yet ever since I’d returned to Craven, he’d been so closed off and difficult to read. A little attention thrown my way, then silence.
“There’s a secret part of himself he never shares with anyone—at least, not anyone in the ballet world,” Annika had told me. I could hear her quiet voice imparting these words, echoingwhat Minna had said, in a private training session in the morning hours. Bellini had asked Annika to tutor me privately, and I learned from her as the one who had already achieved all my dreams. I also soaked up everything she said about Philippe. “It fuels him ... and isolates him.”
“Why does he do that?” I’d asked. I’d taken advantage of how open she became without the crowds of dancers around, and she’d already noticed how interested Philippe seemed in me.
“There is deep hurt somewhere in his past, something that holds him back from trusting. About certain matters, he will not open up to anyone.”
There was always a first.
Philippe’s voice rang out in the auditorium, deep and unmistakable, sending a shiver up my spine and drawing me back to the present. He was coming, and there would be another escort home. I swept up to a finito pose and waited. But while those steps clipped over the distant stage, I suddenly became aware of a steady stare already in the mirror. I stiffened. Jack Dorian leaned against the doorframe, a playful look angled directly at my reflection. No telling how long he’d been there.
I had a full view of his well-cut figure, golden hair, and almost divine appearance the others found so intensely attractive. Judging by his manner, he shared their opinion.
“Spin like that for too long and you’ll need someone to catch you.” His voice was smooth, effortless.
Steel hardened my spine. “I don’t fall.”
