Page 8 of Daring to Love

3

Amelie

Isquint against the lights at the ceiling as I warm up, rolling my neck and shoulders. I go through my routine, memorised to the very tips of my fingers, and once my limbs are warm and loose, I breathe deeply through my nose. My sole aim tonight is to do what I know I was born to do.

Dance. It’s all I’ve ever known and wished for – to lose my heart and soul in the movements that come as easy as breathing to me. To make the people I dance for forget there is a world outside. To make them believe in the dream I, and my fellow dancers, create on the stage.

Yes, dancing creates powerful magic, both for the performers and the spectators, just like words and books do. It is equal parts beautiful and terrible. I shudder when I think of one of my fellow dancers, Christine, whose world was torn apart only a month ago when a simple routine warm-up turned into every dancer’s nightmare.

She fell badly on her ankle and broke it. None of us know if she will ever dance professionally again, and it breaks my heart whenever I think about it…which, I admit, I do often. I’ve been where she is now, and her fall brings back painful memories that are difficult to chase off.

That is the problem with using your body as your livelihood – there are no guarantees. One minute, you can go through the familiar steps, literally soaring in the air, and the next, an accident can happen, and you drop…tearing the world from under your trusted limbs.

I paste a confident smile on my lip, willing such dark thoughts from my mind, as my gaze falls on our dance instructor and choreographer, Aidan. He’s hovering in the shadows next to the stage, his blue eyes cool and assessing as usual. The man gives me chills – and not the good kind – what with his displeasing countenance, but there is no doubt about the fact that he is brilliant. He was once a formidable dancer, and though he’s now in his fifties, his body is still as muscular and graceful as when he was young.

As brilliant and terrifying that he is, I don’t like him, but I respect him; maybe it’s because his demeanour never gives his thoughts away that I feel slightly uncomfortable around him? Who knows?

“Okay, everyone, gather around!” he barks, and we do as we’re told at once and glide along the stage to meet him at the heart of it. The nervous energy as we form a half-circle around him is palpable, and my heart does flip-flops in my chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a door opens, and someone enters, but my sole focus has to be on Aidan, so I ignore the prickling of my hair at the nape of my neck as I feel something brush against my shoulder blades. I can’t shake the feeling of being watched, though, and I frown, annoyed at whoever it is.

Aidan claps his hands once, and I stand up straighter.

“You know what is happening tonight.” His voice rings out clearly. “You are here,” he starts circling us, “because your abilities are extraordinary. Each of you has been chosen because you possess that certain jene sais quoi that all performers strive for.”

I hold my breath when I hear his steps slow down and stop, hoping this time, I will feel the sharp point of his finger as it lands on me, but my hopes are dashed when his steps sound again, moving away from me.

“You are unique.” He chuckles, the low baritone rusty as if it is not prone to laughter. “But is that enough? Dancing is much more than technique, ladies and gentlemen – it is not enough having the steps down pat. No. You must open yourselves up, let out the fire and passion that live inside you and make everyone watching you believe you. Some of you have yet to let your armours down, and that won’t do. Not in a performance such as The Swan Lake.”

He stops circling us, and I blink rapidly as his eyes land on me. “Miss Winters.”

“Yes?” I squeak, and immediately clear my throat.

“Dance.”

Doubt fills me at his command.

“Pardon?”

“Dance.” His gaze pierces me, and I have to suppress the shiver that runs through me. “Show me your fire. Convince me to choose you.”

I blink rapidly, thinking quickly. “Yes, sir.”

This wasn’t part of the plan, but I know better than to question his motives. He could be asking me to hop on one leg, flapping my arms like a pigeon, and I’d do it – grudgingly, yes, but I would.

Right now, I can feel my entire future is hanging on by a thread. This is my one chance, and I have to take it. The other dancers move away from the stage, and on a whim, I free my hair from the messy bun atop my head before I take my position on the stage.

I turn my head to Aidan and nod once.

“Lights!” he barks and then walks slowly backwards as the lights dim, enveloping me. It doesn’t matter there isn’t a real audience to watch me this time; as the familiar tones of the overture sounds softly around me, I fall to the stage and wrap my arms around my middle and calves, closing my eyes at the same time. The sound of the violins and the familiar tune draw me out, just like it always does, and I force my unwanted spectators from my mind.

I forget about the challenge in Aidan’s eyes.

I forget what he’s forcing me to prove.

I forget everything except the music and the feelings it evoke in me.

I dance. I twist my upper body up, up, up, trusting the muscles in my legs and feet to carry me, and I open my eyes. The moment the music becomes louder, more forceful, the bolder I become, needing everyone to see my passion unleashed. I don’t think about the steps, the jumps, or the twirls. No, instead my entire focus is on not only letting my moves speak for me, but my face as well – they must see the power my dancing conjures inside me.

The world around me ceases to exist. There is only me, the music, the faith I put in my limbs. I don’t have to count the time or the steps I take. I am simply me – free of all that ties me down. The dance sets my soul free.