His rock-carved face melted into wonder, shock, and he stepped toward me, standing in the path of a long beam of moonlight that highlighted every perfect cut of his figure. How lost he suddenly looked—helpless and vulnerable. “How can this be? How can you ...Who are you?”
I allowed myself a deep breath. “I am Elodie Blythe. They call me Ella.” I looked at the ground. Why was I even sharing such details with him? Why was I opening myself up so? I knew why. “You, I am told, are my father.”
His jaw firmed. Eyes flashed. Fingers raked silver hair. Hepaled and sparked in rapid turns. A door clicked shut behind him and he spun. Of all people, Fournier stepped from the shadows. I held my breath.
“All is well, I trust?” Fournier paused, looking from one to the other. “I’m not interrupting anything?”
“No.” We said it together, quick and sharp.
I suddenly saw this shadowed tryst through Fournier’s eyes, and the creases across his face made sense. My face flamed with heat. Fournier looked the hardest at me, steady gaze boring holes in me, and I wondered what he saw. A theater girl, like the rest? I felt the prick of embarrassment, the moisture at the tightest places of my costume, despite my innocence. It was that stare—never pleased, always searching for that pinhole of error in the women at Craven. Especially, it seemed, in his scholarship dancer.
“I should rejoin the meeting.” De Silva’s tone didn’t waver from that gunmetal smoothness, even in the presence of the Great Fournier. With a poised bow, he turned and left us, but his demeanor had changed and he was shaking.
I sagged against the window frame, heedless of the curtains smashed between me and the glass.Father, what on earth do I do now?He’d seemed so affected by everything I said, my words assaulting him with each sentence. Mama’s warning rang like gongs in my head, her fear tightening in me as well. I’d vowed to keep away from him. All this time, I’d borne her secret, honored her request to keep hidden, but now ... Well, I no longer saw the point. She was gone and out of danger. A bridge had been roughed out and I wished to cross it. If ever I had the chance.
Fournier stood staring at me, heaved a breath. “You are all right?”
“Much as ever, thank you.” Which lately, was not at all.
27
He always came. No matter what other catastrophes or celebrations went on in the world, no matter how many times I betrayed him by shifting my focus to some shiny thing or failing to notice him, my Creator came to every rehearsal in that old materials room. No father on earth could compare.
Practices had transformed into something new. It wasn’t about the art itself, I found, but the creation of it. All those daily tasks like tiny brushstrokes that blended into the grand whole, that’s where the color and flair was. Each brushstroke was offered up in thanksgiving, every small rehearsal a sacred act of worship, no matter the outcome.
I put on the ivory shoes from Jack and lifted onto my toes, reaching toward heaven. It took effort, but I could hold myself up on the tips of my toes. Instead of the heavy feats of acrobatics we’d seen at the Theatre Royal, I danced on my toes in a slow spin, feeling the stretch across my calves, through my arms and upper back, bringing my own swan-like style into the move. My feet held the arch in these wonderful new slippers as I moved sideways in a pas de bourreé, then I spun round andround with my arms stretched heavenward and my toes barely touching earth.
Dancing was different now, or at least springing from a different place inside me and, though my toes still blistered and my muscles ached, those private moments with God were refreshing to the core. Turn after turn, dance after dance, I found myself unwinding from the constraints of this world, muffling its beat as my heart matched the rhythm of its Creator. Simple and useless as practice might be, there was something sacred in the monotony.
I will praise thee, O LORD, with my whole heart; I will shew forth all thy marvelous works.
I had no choreography chart to follow, but I wasn’t here to prepare for a performance. I was merely here to dance, and I danced the Psalms.
The LORDis the portion of mine inheritance and of my cup: thou maintainest my lot.
Others may look on from the audience, from around me in the greenroom, but this was for the King, an offering that overflowed from a grateful heart.
I have set the LORDalways before me: because he is at my right hand, I shall not be moved.
There had come a new strength at the core of me, anchoring me and yet somehow giving me flight. We’d been living in limbo as a company, waiting to hear what we’d dance, if anyone would be cut, if the theater would go broke preparing for a possible royal visit, but I was more centered than I’d ever been. I’d forgotten, and God had, through Jack, reminded me.
My heart shall rejoice in thy salvation. I will sing unto the LORD, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.
“You should dance this way.” A familiar voice echoed in the room. “Always.”
I pulled myself from the dance as if forcing wakefulness to leave a dream. Lily stood framed in the doorway, gloved hands clutched before her. It had been more than a week of silence, a full eight days since our disagreement outside of my boardinghouse. This was her version of a truce, a temporary sort of cease-fire that occurred when necessary between sisters who often walked the line between rivals and close friends. I lowered myself to the ground, still feeling the weight of unusual grace, hearing the silent music that had fueled my dance.
“You remind me of your mum.” Her face was oddly tender.
“That’s the highest praise I could imagine.” I offered a genuine smile. “And she wasourmum.” I removed the white shoes, gingerly touching the raw places on my feet.
“I’ve come to look in on you, make certain you’re doing well.” She eyed me. “Are you?”
I smiled. Her, checking on me?“Quite well.”
“You’ll also be pleased to know of a new development in my personal affairs.”
I sucked in my breath at those words. There was no telling what might come after them.
