My heart skittered, mind turning that name over. “How do you know all this?”
He laughed. “How do you not? Everyone in the ballet world, especially at Craven, has stories about being haunted by poor Delphine’s ghost. She is known for her tragic end, and for her red slippers.” He sobered, something odd flickering over his features.
He went back to studying me again in that terribly unnerving way. “Ones that look exactly like these.” His gaze dropped toward the shoes, then at me, head tilted in question. Our gazes tangled and held, and I couldn’t breathe. He lifted one hand as if to poke me. “I’ve never seen her, though. That is, until...” His fingertips brushed across my face, a whisper-soft movement.
I shivered again, then ducked away, flustered and speechless.
“Very well then, you’re not a ghost.” He continued to watch me, a sparkle of wonder dancing on the shiny blue surface of his face. “Care to try the shoes? I hear they’re special—the secret to her legendary success.”
Normally I’d refuse, but moonlight softened my reasoning. It cast an intoxicating glow over this man who saw the ballerina in me, melting my insecurities. He moved so close, his breath warm on my cheek, and I felt suddenly, for the first time, that I could not fail.
The evening’s encounter with this stranger was brief but significant, sinking deep into my memories to remain forever bottled there—a most precious experience that would never quite seem real once we left this place. “All right, then.” I took his hand and we moved toward an open space. He pulled me directly toward his solid frame, hands resting on my waist, and with a thrill I finally understood why the finer set of London declared dancing immoral.
I could smell whatever made his glossy black hair wave so perfectly across his forehead and feel his breath across the parton my scalp. I felt his heart beneath his shirt. The moment was dreamlike, separate from my fruitless days in the washhouse, and I could not turn away from the gentle frame of his arms, the promise of my firstpas de deux—a partner dancethat, for once in my life, included a partner.
Yet the minute we stepped into the muffled rhythm, moving through the familiar paces—relevé,attitudeleg lift,cambréto the right—my defenses melted in the cool moonlight. This was not carnal—it was art, and it was sacred. My feet arched easily into tinypas de bourreésteps forward, propelling me into a spin with foreign hands bracing my waist. He was self-assured but in an easy, gentle way. I became aware of my every curve in a manner that made me feel more alive, more comely, than I ever had before.
We danced through discarded scarves, thick cobwebs, and broken chairs, then he spun me with a lavish release, and the distant music of the second act twirled me up in its magic. I arched my back and glided into the familiar precision of ballet, feeling that glorious stretch again in my calves. I lifted the warm air with my arms, and I was off, spinning and gliding, my patched skirt flipping against my legs.
I twirled over and over, the world fading easily away around the face that held my focus with each turn. As the music below crescendoed and faded in its finale, I finished with a small spring, folded down, and rose with a gentle curved back, chest high, arms overhead. When my vision centered on his painted face, the astonishment there was absolute.
And utterly gratifying.
His clap split the silence as I caught my breath. A giant smile broke over his face and he stepped toward me, glancing at the shoes. “Perhaps theyareenchanted.”
I pushed stray hair away from my eyes. “As I told you, sir, I am a dancer.”
That gaze was back on my face, studying. Assessing. “Indeed.” His reply sank into the silence.
I sat to remove the slippers and replaced them with my well-worn work boots, wondering how I could possibly return to the washhouse at five the next morning.
He crouched before me, face vivid as if wanting to say more but not possessing the right words. I wasn’t about to offer any information—he’d already gotten more out of me than most anyone ever had.
“You’re quite blue.” I nodded toward his costume, desperate to divert the focus.
“As the North Wind should be. Come to think of it, they’ll be expecting me onstage with the third act, so I should take my leave. Such is the life of a dancer. It’s a terrible flurry of—”
“Of wonderfulness.” The words slipped out on a breath.
He paused, eyeing me. “Would you care to see it?”
My mouth hung open. “Theballet?”
“Come.” Grabbing my hand, he pulled me out the door, into the dark corridor, then up narrow steps that led high into the rafters. “The third act will begin presently.” He stopped me in a narrow passage and pushed open a tiny peep that looked down over the lavish royal-blue and ivory auditorium glinting with gold trim and muted gaslights, over the upswept hair and top hats and smartly glittering jewels in the audience.
I’d never seen it this way, so full and alive. “It’s magnificent.”
“I used to watch from up here at times. Just keep quiet and no one will know. And watch out for Delphine’s ghost.” He winked.
“North Wind!Get your sorry hide in here.”The harsh whisperjolted through our quiet moment and the dancer sprang up. I cringed at the way the manager spoke to the stranger who’d been so kind to me, even though this level of rudeness was far too common in theater.
He paused and cocked a half smile, seeming to sense the longing he’d magnified in me. “How’s about this? I’ll put in a word, and we’ll see where it gets you. One day we’ll be dancing together on that stage. I vow it. Keep that focal point as you spin through your days, and don’t stop dancing.” With a salute, he spun in a whirl of sheer organza and crepe but quickly turned back, grabbing the doorframe. “Oh, and keep those shoes close, love. Wouldn’t want anyone else knowing you have ’em.”
Then he was gone, lighting like a gazelle down the stairs.
I stared down at the red shoes in my hands, fingering the perfect stitching along the soles.Enchanted, he’d called them. But as I flexed the tingling hand he’d squeezed, I wondered if maybe it wasn’t the shoes.
Settling noises sounded throughout the auditorium as the intermission melted away, musicians cuing up, then the orchestra eased gently into the third act. Two callboys parted the heavy blue curtain, and I plastered my face against that little peep, my nose pressed into the rough pine-scented wood around it. The music thrummed and so did my heart, matching beat for beat, then the dancers leaped onto the stage from both sides, two by two, trailing flowered ribbons and spinning pirouettes. Color. Beauty. Artistry. Symmetry and grace. My heart unfurled as a blossom in spring.
