The rest of us held our breath. He consulted his papers, frowned, and took three more steps. “You.” Another dancer peeled away. I held my breath as he paused at Tovah, looking her up and down, gaze landing on her wild curls. “Do something with that hair.”
“Yes,monsieur.” She melted back with a curtsy but remained in the line.
Two more strides and his gaze was roving over me from above, inspecting me for flaws. A chill overtook me as I stood waiting, breathing in the odor of his sticky-sweet cigar. I was positive his gaze deepened upon my face and I heard a low, guttural growl. Part bear?
“Put a little romance into your dance—a little warmth, yes? Ballet is not stiff, MissBlythe.” His voice was surprisingly elegant and controlled, all growling aside.
I drew in a breath and closed my eyes, then he was gone withawhooshof cool air, gliding down the line. I opened my eyes and looked about the greenroom where I still belonged. For now.
Romance, though. How did one dance alone ...romantically?
Bellini stood in front of the room, raising his arms to draw a close to the chittering conversations. When the room went silent, he bestowed his news upon us. “The next production will be the fairy taleCannatella. A king and his highly selective daughter, a magician who schemes to gain her hand, and the disastrous consequences.”
He paced along the stage, gaze lifted to the ceiling. “Revenge never ends well, a truth this world sorely needs to hear just now. And it’s up to you to convey it powerfully.” At the hush in the room, we all felt the weight of his words. Apparently he had his way over Fournier this time, and the ballet was to be a political statement rather than an escape.
“The magician, who is in fact the mortal enemy of the king, has married his daughter only to lock her up and taunt her with all the things she cannot have. The princess role will need to portray the depth of longing she feels when she is in want for the first time. Then as the captor begins to fall in love with her, I want every heart swelling with the pain of his unrequited affection.
“Of course the princess escapes, and when the magician comes to get her, I want the audience gasping as the king strikes him down for his crimes. Revenge turned back on the avenger.” He stalked harder across the stage. “Our audience must see France’s Louis Philippe in the fairy-tale king, and with the magician,feelevery inch of the righteous anger that flooded Paris. The absolute need to stand up and revolt. Tension is on the rise again in Paris, and so we in theater will do what all art does—delivertruth dressed in beautiful movement and magnificent storytelling.”
Murmurs resumed. Philippe, across the stage from me, stood straight and unreadable near the open curtain. France was his ancestors’ birthplace, the Parisians his people. What must he think of this project?
“I’ll have partial choreography to give you all by Wednesday. Audition and placements begin next week. Including for the lead female role.” That news brought total silence. “Regretfully, we’ve had to release our beloved principal due to a ... well, a sore knee.”
We all looked at each other. Of all things, a “sore knee”—Annika, with child? She’d never spoken of any romance, any man who might be the baby’s father.
“We’ll host an audition, as usual.”
But this time the stakes were higher, the opportunities more significant.
“Come fully prepared to amaze us. It’ll be the finest ballet this side of Covent Garden, and we expect to make headlines. I need it to be sensational, dramatic, and despite the tragic ending,exceedingly romantic.” He raised pinched fingers to emphasize the last point.
Romantic, of course. The one thing I, apparently, was not.
“It’s a retelling adapted, as usual, by our very own Jack Dorian.”
Jack, standing just behind the man, pinched the seams of his trousers and dipped in a mock curtsy, drawing feminine giggles. I steeled my jaw.
Perhaps I should study romance from Jack Dorian. He had it in spades.
No, there was one other option I’d try first.
“So about that little romance of yours.” I looked my sister over carefully, noting the healthy glow in her eyes. “I suppose I should hear the rest. As your sister, of course.”
Lily cut her haddock at a little table in the Blackgate Inn, a place that kept late hours to serve those from the theater. If anyone had insight on being romantic and falling in love, it was Lily. She did it once or twice a week.
Her smile pinked her cheeks, heightening her loveliness. It was easy to see how men had such trouble turning a blind eye to her. One glance and any man would be pudding at her feet. She leveled her playful gaze at me, leaning close. “There’s a man who takes walks through the square at luncheon to watch the construction. He’s bought me strawberry tartlets from the vendors and hot chocolate sometimes too.”
Summerandwinter treats? “This has been going on for quite some time.”
“It’s been most unusual, and I have not managed to look at another man since.”
“He must be a prince.”
“Captain. Of something. Gold tassels, medals, a sash across his chest...” She settled in with a crooked little smile.
I raised my eyebrows. She was like a magnet, drawing them to her. I could never be that. I stiffened as Philippe Rousseau’s recognizable form entered the café, brushing light snow from his greatcoat. I’d spent so long chasing men away that I hadn’t any idea how to invite a good one near. Not even for pretend, onstage.
I blew the hair off my face. “So you just ... happened to bump into a man at the park and what, you started talking?” Icouldn’t wrap my head around the way these romances of hers occurred. I attempted to start one, and five years later it was finally showing signs of beginning.
