Chapter 26
FOLLOW THE CUES
The air changes as I step across the threshold, frigid and teeming with possibility.
It’s at least double the size of the common room, with lofty ceilings and echoey wood flooring.
A unique sight, considering most of the training wing is tile.
A long black velvet curtain lines the back wall.
Furniture-wise, it’s sparse. A polished grand piano covers much of the back corner, surrounded by three high-backed chairs.
There’s a desk toward the back, with a chair on either side like it’s used for meetings.
The middle is barren, presumably for running drills and sequences.
I don’t say anything as I step in. Mister V is already here, tablet in one hand, stylus in the other.
He’s leaning over the desk with his sleeves pushed up, dark brows drawn tight.
A large canvas looms above him like a threat.
It’s simple, with sleek black lettering that reads “I am becoming my best self”.
He glances up at the sound of the door. Deep blue eyes sweep over me inch by inch.
Mister V always does that, but today his gaze lingers. I’m not even sure he’s noticed he’s doing it.
At first, I think I’ve done something wrong again just by walking into the room—then I realize what he’s looking at.
The uniform.
It’s still damp from where I scrubbed the stained hem in the sink. The sleeves still sit uneven, despite my best efforts to pin the longer one up.
His jaw flexes as he takes me in. He nods toward the center mat. “Stretch. I’ll be right back.”
I blink. “Aren’t we—?”
He’s already gone.
Confused, I lower myself onto the mat and start working through the warm-up sequence. It’s harder in this awful fabric. The dress bunches at my ribs when I bend, and clings awkwardly at the waist when I sit.
He returns without a word, holding something folded in his hand. It’s a deep gray, with fabric that looks strange for a uniform. Softer. Worn in.
He sets it on the edge of the table, then gestures toward the curtained wall. “Get changed.”
I hesitate. “What is that?”
“Training dress,” he says with a nod. “The instructors are out today. And Ashford wrote you off the schedule. That leaves us…” His eyes flick to the watch at his wrist. “Six uninterrupted hours.”
My mouth goes dry. “Six?”
“I’d like to complete a full benchmark. Movement, etiquette, speech, musicality. For that, you’ll need to be comfortable.”
I eye the dress again, closer this time. I can’t help but wonder where it comes from. The material looks strange. In a good way. It’s somehow the most reasonable thing anyone’s offered me all day, so the choice is obvious. I should shut up right now and go change.
Unfortunately shutting up isn’t my forte.
“I’ve never seen one like that.”
“You’re not meant to. It wasn’t made for the advanced wing.”
Oh.
I don’t ask how he has it.
I don’t ask why he brought it.
I slip behind the curtain.
I’m shocked to find a space that looks like it was made for changing.
There’s a small bench, a mirror, and a stack of folded towels that smell faintly of lavender.
I lay the strange dress across the bench and begin to change, carefully folding my white uniform and setting it aside in case it decides to retaliate and bite me for carelessness.
When I slip the new one on, I flinch.
It’s soft. Like, actually soft. Not something meant to punish you into pretty posture. It actually moves when I do. The waist hugs without digging. The neckline sits right. It’s a near-perfect fit.
Except for the straps. They pinch a little, just like my intake uniform would before I adjusted it with a safety pin. It’s not bad, just tight. Poetic, in a way. A quiet reminder that one part of me is always just a little off.
Still, it fits better than anything I’ve worn. Which only makes it more confusing as to why he has it.
Mister V’s waiting when I return. His eyes widen for a moment before he catches it, smothering whatever emotion was flickering with cool composure. He strides past me and sets a bottle of water on the bench.
“How’s that?” he asks, not looking at me.
I smooth the dress down. “Comfortable. Thank you.”
“Good. Let’s begin with movement sequences. How many do you know?”
“All four,” I say, trying not to sound too proud.
He lifts a brow. “There are twelve.”
My jaw hits the floor. For a moment all I can do is stare at him.
“Do you know all the social scripts?” he asks, now confused.
“There’s more than one?”
“You don’t—” He cuts himself off, inhaling sharply before continuing. “You have drill blocks every day. Do you mean to tell me you spend three hours a day running the same four sequences and a single social script?”
I shrug. “We mostly run cues.”
Or sit around waiting for Mister M to show up.
I don’t tell him that part. He seems boggled enough already.
He gestures to the center of the floor. “Let’s start there then. Show me each cue.”
I do. Mostly perfect, though I stumble slightly through the recitations. Mister V doesn’t correct me. His stylus flies across his tablet as he takes pages of notes, his focus on me more than a little unnerving.
“This won’t do,” he says the moment I finish. “I’m going to teach you a new set, all right?”
“Why?” I ask before I can think better of it. I literally just proved I know them.
“Because it seems your mentor is setting you up to fail.”
“That doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t waste time training us if he wanted us to fail.” My head spins as I defend a man who doesn’t deserve it. “I assure you, the last thing Mister M would tolerate is us embarrassing him.”
“Mister M thrives on performance,” he says, eyes rife with irritation that clearly isn’t directed at me.
“Every mentor’s cues are slightly different.
He designed his to be impressive, but they won’t hold up under pressure.
You need cues that work even when your mind goes blank—especially when your mind goes blank. ”
My mouth opens in protest, but I’ve got nothing. He’s right. I can normally pull off the cues when we practice them in enrichment or the common room. But when Mister M quizzes us in drills, every ounce of training goes out the window. I give him a curt nod.
Mister V sets the tablet down and moves to stand in front of me. His thumb brushes against the cuff of his jacket, a movement so minor I barely catch it. Icy blue eyes catch mine.
“This,” he says, repeating the brush motion. “Indicates breath reset. In for four, out for eight. Chin up, shoulders back.” I correct my posture subconsciously. “Good. Your breathing is one of the most crucial things to regulate. If I see you having difficulty, I’ll cue a reset.”
I nod, not sure what to make of it. Mister M says the cues help us shine. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing shiny about needing to breathe. He moves again, tapping his index finger against his thigh.
“Hold,” he explains. “If it’s cued: stop speaking. Reset your stance and wait for it to drop before continuing.” Simple enough. That one’s closer to Mister M’s.
He taps his leg twice this time. “Performance on, you’re being watched,” he says simply. My breath shudders. I thought we were always being watched? I follow him anyway.
Mister V teaches six more after that. Three recitations, all much simpler than Mister M’s, plus signals to mirror his stance, curtsy, and retreat. The last one felt silly, but sometimes a graceful departure is the best move. Once I’ve mastered them, he nods, the only indicator that he’s satisfied.
He steps closer to me, close enough that I can see the shadows under his eyes. “You don’t have to obey every cue. That’s the point. But you’ll know what I’m telling you when I can’t speak. Use them to ground yourself.”
Choice. That’s new.
I press my lips together and nod, somehow empowered. I don’t have to obey the cues. He said it like they’re a favor, not a method of control. Dangerous within the program.
Mister V is confusing. One second, he’s as hard as stone, the next I think I understand him completely. The mask he wears rarely slips. That makes him just as terrifying as Mister M.
“What’s next?” I ask. He grabs his tablet, swiping through without looking at me.
“Water break. Then we’ll start on speech.”
I make my way to the bench, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. I’ll never get over how nice it feels to learn something new without someone barking at me every step of the way. I look back over my shoulder to tell him as much, but he raises a hand.
“Don’t thank me yet. You still have five hours.”
Slowest yet quickest five hours of my life. V was right, we had a lot to cover. He gave me breaks when I asked, explained corrections clearly, and took notes like this truly mattered to him.
“Maysie,” he calls when I’m almost at the door. I pivot to face him. “Keep your head up, all right?” He’s not correcting me. It’s…encouragement? Maybe. In his own way. I don’t have a good response, but I volley something back anyway.
“You too, Mister V.”
The corner of his lip twitches as he turns away, gathering his files.
On the walk back to the common room, I can’t help but feel lighter.
Hope threads in my chest, burying a seed in a patch of dirt I had thought was long dead.
Maybe that’s what I am. A seedling. Something small, just waiting for the right time to grow.
Maybe—just maybe—with time, I could be something better than passable.
Not a star though. Stars burn.
“You missed the best drills block ever,” Bri calls before I’ve even crossed the threshold, waving her hairbrush in the air. “Ivy bet that Ryder couldn’t do sequence eight.”
June starts cackling behind Ivy, who grabs one of the throw pillows and tosses it at June’s face. She catches it with one hand, pressing it against her mouth and laughing harder.
I settle on the couch. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”
Bri snorts. “He tripped and almost took Mister M down with him.”
I gasp. “He didn’t.”
“He did!” June’s half-cry half-laugh is muffled by the pillow she’s smashed against.
“Change the subject.” Ryder grumbles from the corner. He’s sitting against the wall, boots kicked off, pressing an ice pack to his ankle.
Bri turns to me, eyes alight. “How was your lesson?”
“Oooh, yes!” June calls, throwing her legs over my lap and tossing the pillow back at Ivy. “Was he terrifying?”
“Not really.” The words taste strange as they leave my mouth. Maybe it’s because I’m not sure if it’s a lie. He’s undoubtedly terrifying, but not for the reason he should be.
I’m not scared of him. I’m scared of what his presence might bring.