Stand. Get up. Go after her.My leg—it wouldn’t even straighten. It was as locked as my words. I should cry out for her—or for help. I should call upon God. Should, should, should. So much Ishoulddo. But couldn’t. Stony and wretched inside, I swept together all the broken pieces of that music box and bowed my head.
I will make thy name to be remembered in all generations: therefore shall the people praise thee for ever and ever.
Another fire, and so much had been lost. Ruined. My heart ached with unquenchable pain when I thought of Jane Fawley, Lady Gower, who had died wrapped up in the bitterness that had plagued her.
Yet somehow I had been spared. All this twisting and reshaping of my heart, all God had brought me through, was in vain.No, you’ll never be able to repay it.I could do nothing for God. For the theater. Nothing for anyone.What good am I to you now, Lord? Why rescue me at all? What on earth do you want from me?
It never had made sense, God’s personal pursuit of me. The longer the pain wore on, and my dim future stretched beforeme, the less I believed it had ever truly happened. And that thought made life seem bleak.
As I lay there trembling, distant pops of footfall echoed through the heart of the building. A man’s long stride, somewhere deep within the theater. The structure around me creaked and groaned under life’s heavy weight, shifting on its foundation as wind pushed and pulled on its walls. Another of the candle stubs—now a puddle of wax—sputtered and died, turning to a long curl of smoke, and the room grew even dimmer.
I lifted my gaze as a massive figure blacked out the light from the passageway. It was Fournier, the Great Fournier, whose name meant “oven” and whose standards I’d nearly ruined myself attempting to reach. “You’re leaving.” It was a statement rather than a question, and he looked more uncomfortable than I’d ever seen him. He wouldn’t step inside.
“I am, I’m afraid.” I swallowed, forcing myself to hold his gaze so he could see my sincerity. “I’m ever so grateful for the chance—truly, more than you could know. I’ll do anything I can to repay the investment. I know it was quite a lot and—”
“A lot. Yes.”
“I’ll give everything I can, however possible, until you are satisfied that I have repaid the contract.”
“Don’t bother. You can’t.”
A fresh wave ofnot enoughpassed over me.
He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Why?”
I owed him the truth. “I cannot dance anymore.” I wanted to cry. “At least, not right now. In time I may heal, but I’ve been injured, and I ... well, I won’t be of much use to you.” I took a deep breath. “I never did belong here, did I?”
He stiffened, backing into the corridor, as if his body was suddenly compelling him to leave. He looked hurt, as thoughI were personally rejecting him. “I didn’t bring you here to be ofuseto me. What do I care about any of that?” With that, he spun on his heel and left the room.
I sat in shock for a moment, then I pushed up onto my feet and went limping through the darkened corridors to find him. He had vanished though, and I saw only Mama Jo in the greenroom.
She turned from balling up strewn silks and fabric and came to stand before me. “What has happened, Miss Blythe? What have you said to Fournier?”
“I’ve just given my notice and the man seems unwilling to accept it. I’m afraid I’ve cost him a great deal. And now I will cost him this theater since I cannot dance. The money he could be using now to save the theater was spent on years of training and ... Oh, it’s all such a mess.”
“He’s asked me to have your things sent to his house. If you agree, that is. He does not wish you cast out in the street.”
I blinked. She couldn’t be serious. “But whatever for?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps he’s lonely, wishing for a ward to keep him company. Or perhaps you remind him of someone. He lost his only daughter years ago, you know, and he’s not been the same. They say she was a dancer too, and he was quite hard on her. She left her father’s house on bad terms with him.”
I gripped the chair nearest me, digging in my nails. “Indeed.”
“You don’t look much like her—at least, the few times I met her as a child—but he did say something about your having similar shoes when you auditioned for the scholarship. I came to believe that was the reason for his unusual favor toward you.”
“Favor?” I breathed out the word.
She patted my arm. “Believe it or not, he thought a greatdeal of you. He took extra time with you because he saw what you could become. Just like he did once with his daughter.”
I could hardly breathe as the truth of everything settled into my mind.
“Give him a chance, ma petite. He may be gruff, but he’s been hurt badly. He misses his little Viola. He could use a bit of sweetness in his house, I suspect. If you’ve no other plans, that is.”
“No.” I quivered inside. “No other plans.” I paced back to the materials room and fetched the little ballerina still attached to her mechanism from the box, turning it over in my hands. I limped slowly past the stage where my mother had seen her rise and fall, where my parents had fallen in love, and out the auditorium doors toward the one man who still truly loved her.
Who truly loved me.
It was impossible. Unbelievable. Shocking in its unexpected beauty. All the bound-up tension of striving dropped away with each step down the center of that auditorium, the clanging echoes ofnot enoughfalling silent in the opulent place that had yet one more surprise to unfurl for me. I belonged here, more than I could have ever imagined, and it had known all along, drawing me in, embracing me until I fully understood. And it was all tied together by those scarlet slippers.
