Perhaps this evening wouldn’t be a waste of time after all.
Ronin settled into his seat and the second act began. Even with the mind-softening effects of the elixir, he couldn’t take his eyes off Mireille.
In the role of the High Goddess Faurana, she’d offered blessings of abundance to the farm in exchange for the man’s devotion.
A fair exchange until a lovely young female arrived to purchase a bushel of wheat. Ronin recognized the yellow-winged dancer, Juliet, from Riashi’s last night.
Juliet and the farmer performed a dance together—apas de deux, Ronin heard one of his seatmates call it—and even as a ballet virgin, Ronin could tell Juliet wasn’t nearly as skilled as Mireille.
His leg bobbed impatiently as he awaited her return.
When Mireille re-took the stage, the music shifted. Lively strings and bubbling flutes gave way to droning cellos and booming timpanis as the Goddess ripped the lovers apart.
Ronin held his breath, enraptured, as Mireille executed spins, lunges, and the highest leaps he’d yet seen. Even higher than the Windriders who had wings to assist.
Mireille defied gravity, and his chest swelled at her mastery.
High Gods, she was fuckingincredible.
Ronin was so caught up that he barely felt his rodent-toothed seatmate tugging on his sleeve.
He bared his teeth at the male, annoyed that his attention had been taken from Mireille’s solo, and the male pointed toward the aisle.
A female stagehand was waving at him.
Ronin ignored her. He wanted to see how the ballet ended. Wanted to know what would become of the farmer and the Goddess he’d forsaken. Surely this was some sort of allegory for the perils of denying the High Gods.
The stagehand snapped her fingers, and his seatmates muttered in frustration.
Ronin rolled his eyes and exited the row, knocking knees and crushing toes again. Petty, but he was pissed that they’d get to see the grand finale and he would not.
He followed the stagehand out into the lobby.
“Ronin Matakos, right?”
“You didn’t think to confirm that before you interrupted the show to fetch me?” he grumbled.
“Follow me.” She turned on her heel and led Ronin through a door markedTheater Staff and Performers Only. They traveled down into what Ronin assumed was the backstage area, a maze of low-ceilinged hallways lined with props, painted flats, and racks of costumes.
“She said you should wait in here until the performance has finished.” The stagehand opened another door with a star on it, then closed him inside.
Mireille’s dressing room was clean and well-organized, not a stray pin or shoe out of place.
On her vanity, a neat row of cosmetics stood in order from smallest to largest, labels facing out. A silver-handled brush sat exactly perpendicular to the edge, and he nudged it slightly off center. Couldn’t help himself.
He sank down onto the tufted white couch, crossing an ankle over his leg, and waited for hisgirlfriend.
Applause thundered through the ceiling. The finale. That he didn’t get to fucking see.
The stagehand bustled back in, setting an overflowing vase of pale blue roses onto a low table. She beamed at him, making false assumptions about the flowers’ origins, and he didn’t correct her as she flitted away.
A few moments later, Mireille herself swept in, her silver eyes glancing off him and landing on the bouquet.
“Butcher,” she cooed, slightly out of breath from her performance. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t.” He shrugged as Mireille plucked out the card nestled between the blooms.
“Perfect,” was all she murmured before handing it to him and twirling a finger. “Turn around. I need to get out of this costume.”
