The music rose and tightened, crashing into crescendo after crescendo as Minna leaped and swept across the stage, then she sprang up into a sixteen-point fouetté with astonishing precision—kick after kick executed beautifully, ending in a lovely demi-pointe run and a dramatic faint at the end of the second act.
Bows stretched long over instrument strings and drew to a hushed close, and there were tears in my eyes as I lifted into position. I stood breathless and poised, my heart pounding inmy ears. Then the cheering roared from some distant place, rolling over us from the shadowed auditorium.
All at once I became aware of the immense size of this unseen audience.I scrambled from the stage and leaned on a wall in the wings, hand to my racing heart. What had I expected, an empty house? Yet there they were, all those people with eyes and ears and minds forming opinions. Thank heavens for those lights, which had helped me forget about the lot of them.
Jack had insisted on those hideous lights and the mirrors to magnify them, despite my arguments for more subdued lighting. No dancer wished her every flaw noticed and commented upon by the press, yet here they were, bright as ten suns—and just as blinding. Dear Jack. Sometimes he knew what I needed even more than I.
The curtain rolled closed, groaning along its metal rods, then reopened by the strength of two men with pulleys on either side. I was nearly run over by the great throng of corps dancers in tulle and silk rushing out to take their places for the closing bow. Applause rang through the auditorium. Thecoryphéedancers swept out next, four on each side. Minna and Philippe stepped forward and the applause rose with hearty approval.
It was then I realized, clinging to the velvet curtain, that I had no place. We’d barely rehearsed this ballet, let alone the curtain call, and with my odd role, I had no idea where I should appear. So I did not.
Until Jack, that is. He marched by in a long coat with tails, and in one deft move he took my hand, compelling me forward with easy spins and maneuvers until I found myself near the front of the stage with him.
Then applause rolled from the great belly of that auditorium like thunder, echoing up to the gilded ceiling and drawingpeople up out of their seats. All across the theater they rose with a flash of jewels and flutter of programs, their approval loud and enthusiastic as we stood there, the writer of this remarkable ballet and the novel sylph creature written in at the last minute. Flowers rained upon the stage at our feet and I blinked.
Through his stage smile, Jack whispered, “Minna may have the lead, but make no mistake—you are the Delphine Bessette of this performance.”
I swayed on my feet.Delphine. He was right, I was her. I’d lifted out of my body and was looking down upon Delphine Bessette. Yes, it was Delphine now bowing before them, accepting their praise. Delphine looking down the row at a deeply shadowed lead dancer she did not know. Jack’s words echoed:“You know exactly the sort of man I am, but Philippe ...”Her story had merged with mine so completely that I’d begun to take her spotlight. Her fame. Her glorious existence. Even her love story.
Yet the flames came in the next act. The final act wouldn’t be played until tomorrow, the official opening night, but as I thought of it I could barely breathe. I had to make a turn—but in what direction?
Three bows I took with Jack before I wrestled my hand away and darted from the stage on shaky legs. It was all the attention, wasn’t it? The lights, the applause ... it was dizzying.
Jack caught up with me in the narrow passage on the way to the greenroom. He did not touch me, but his eyes were arresting. “You are not well.”
“I need a rest.” I stumbled toward a straight-backed chair and sat, hand to my moist forehead. There was so much I wanted to say to Jack about truly knowing and being known, aboutthe heady reality of authentic love, which I had begun to feel for the first time in my life. I looked up at Jack, dear Jack, with eyes as blinding as those stage lights. “I know Philippe isn’t perfect, Jack. I know that.”
He took my hand, studying my face, brushing the hair away. “You need a doctor.”
“I have my own flaws, you know—a terrible secret I’ve kept for years.” There was something giant between us, standing in the way, just as there must have been for my parents. A large, hard ball of ugliness that could not be gotten around. My ears pulsed with the utter sameness of our stories, the inevitability of a shared tragedy.
But now, I would make a pointed turn away from their story, no longer allowing them to parallel. Instead of running away from whatever it was and from him, I would yank off the curtain and let him see. Then he could decide for himself if he truly wanted me.
Regret over the past came fast and hard. I began to cry, tiny pinprick tears leaking out. “I shouldn’t have kept the secret.”
He waved it off. “I already know it, and it isn’t even your secret. It’s your mother’s.”
“No, Jack.” I forced myself not to wilt, and whispered, “Not that secret.” Warmth flooded my face, my neck. I took a breath, then I told him. I told him everything about the night I’d ended up in Seven Dials, and about what I’d done with the cloak and its precious contents.
He was shocked. His shock turned to white-hot anger, then he left. It was the kind of leaving that wasn’t temporary.
I braced myself against the chill of his rejection and shivered hard. Why should it matter, anyway? It didn’t. Truly. All I’d done was rid myself of a rake. Not even a friend, as it turnedout, for what friend blanched at a person’s admitted mistakes and ran away? Good riddance.
Yet there it sat, the hard ball of guilt that was magnified by Jack’s reaction. For years I’d minimized it, but now I felt the full weight of what I’d done, seen finally through someone else’s eyes, and couldn’t dislodge it.
God ... Father...
I didn’t even know what to ask. All I felt was the echoing clang ofnot enough.
With three long breaths, I rose and forced myself to walk back to the stage with the other dancers—but all was chaos. Press men in bowler hats and cheap suits formed a tight circle around Bellini, who looked both shocked and pleased. “Congratulations” flew around. They were, it seemed, congratulating the ballet master for creating a unique sort of a dancer who broke the mold.Me.Forward thinking, they called him, and brilliant. I was his crowning achievement.
The poor man. He looked rather helpless.
Then they spotted me, and they shifted as one, ants piling from one crumb to another.
“Miss Blythe, where did you train?”
“What are your plans for the future?”
