Chapter 1
Wild Rose
The Curse of Quiet Grace
My feet quicken as I move through the portico, surrounded by sculptures and Pentelic marble columns hewn from local stone, that support the structure. Mosaic floors, etched with intricate patterns, adorn the ground—setting the perfect tone for the weighty, leaden walls that encase me.
If I were not in such a hurry, I would take a moment to relish the imprints that melt onto the walls. Or maybe the oeuvres that color them, as well as the prodigious clerestory and rose windows with unequaled motifs on them that trickle sunlight into the academy.
Reverie Etoile Ballet Haven is mammoth and old. It’s big in structure with ruins that tell of a history far beyond. Of ancient tales filled with golden curses. The building stands well and beautifully, with an antique and timeless ambiance.
During the day, when the portieres —drapes which are meant for doors but are hung on the windows—are pulled open and light drips in, this place will marvel you. The aged stone glistens while the windows glimmer from the inscribed patterns. However, at night, when the quietness engulfs, and the lights turn off, Reverie turns rather ghastly and eerie.
A story—a crime of sorts is veiled behind this facade. One that has long been buried under the atrocities that once sparked to life here. But all that’s left of such tales are whispers and assumptions.
I’m late.
A mouthful of lewd, vulgar words spill from my lips as my clammy hand twists the knob and pulls the door open. A class filled with only preeminent dancers, those of principal level, remarkability, and rareness, stare back at me. Yet, I do not feel as if I’m part of such a rarity. With my lack of refinement and lateness, I feel out of place.
The voices I could hear behind the door wane away as Ballet Mistress Anoushka turns to face me with a scowl so deeply marred on her wrinkled face, it could offend an entire population. She is mad, but then again, when is she never irate at me. I must be the bane of her existence, like a leech she tries so hard to scratch off.
Well, cry me a river, you are not my favorite person either.
Pondering on it, I do not think the Russian woman has ever once looked at me with anything but a scowl—pardon me, I beg to differ. At one point, she gave me something that bordered on a scowl and a thin-lipped smile. I thought she was having a stroke.
Her glare could start and perish wars. It is glacial and unrelenting with the intent on making me grovel and feeble in her presence. Her sadism has never colored her more. The ‘mean’ girls of the class stifle their browbeat, snickering with heinous smiles.
Some, if not most, would be blithe to see me fail because I’m not one of them, and I never will be. I’m the penury-induced dirt that surprisingly got a scholarship. And a place in this prestigious ballet academy where only the affluent can afford to study–or for a few, can cost an arm and a leg.
Whereas their greens are opulent and plenty, I am rich with tragedy.
They despise me, and that is putting it lightly because money does not buy class, but entitlement and snarky, condescending behavior.
“It will not happen again,” An eminent line and, like a litany, I’m always preaching it. Not because I want to, but because I have to. The words have lost meaning, and so has the promise behind them. I know it, and so does she. It is a blunt matter, yet she will not simply spurn my existence like most do. How I crave to be in her shadows, but the woman refuses to keep me anywhere but in her sights.
“Miss Fontaine—” she brings her fingers to the bridge of her nose, pinches the wrinkled skin there, and sighs. Here comes the mantra. It is almost like a prayer she saves just for me. Where I sound like a broken record, she sounds like a beggar that will not stop nagging for money. But in this case, it is my sanity.
“Your behavior is troubling, and it bewilders me how someone of your nature could have ever been allowed into a place like this if you lack punctuality just as much as you do manners.” She sighs cogently, as if talking to me is simply beneath her. “You act like a parentless child. Are you being raised with humans or animals?”
Ouch
Her wording might be different every time, but the sentiment remains the same. And you would think that the knife she continuously lodges into my bleeding heart would hurt less over time. What troubles me most is her interest—why does she care so much?
She is right, though. I am odd and perhaps disturbing to some. And what they lack in understanding, they fill in the blanks with their own soiled perception. One that simply fails to define the diseases I have no cure for. Mama used to say a touch of gold can make wilted and mottled pomegranate shrubs come to life, and the very same finger can be a malignant that feasters and tarnishes.
I was not always like this, hurt with dark and ugly wounds. Yet somehow I am the malign in my story.
Eyes brimming with judgment and detest leer at me, challenging me, daring me to pick a match and flame it. But then again, there is only so much I can take. Right here might have been it, because I have no control nor regret over what I say next.
“Animals,” My voice comes out rather tauntingly sweet. It was not a statement she expected me to answer, other than her way of goading me.
“Excuse me!” She looks appalled as she reaches to clutch her wraith pearls. If melodrama could be embodied, she would take its throne and crown. She looks at me as if I have said something so ludicrous and horrendous.
“Did I stutter?” A few gasps sound around the mirror-walled room. Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut and sealed tight. As I’m now skirting on a glacier, I can not afford to sink in. Regret.
“This is utterly unacceptable, utterly !” Her eyes are wide with either dubiety or ire, maybe both. And oddly, it tightens the skin around her eyes, making her sockets bulge out. It is almost an eyesore to look at.
She turns to the class. “All of you do a piqué tournés,” she ushers with her hands, “And do not stop until I tell you.”
Everyone in the room remains glued to their feet for a second longer before trotting to her orders. She walks over to me, her steps slow and irksome. Once close, she clasps my arm with a grip that digs into my flesh. It is sure to leave a bruise.
She is taller than me, so her height forces me to look up at her.
“Little girl,” she snarls with each word heavily accented, “tread lightly. Monsieur Oscar might have a penchant for your skills, but your dearth of manners will surely get you kicked out, so let this serve as my last warning.” She pushes my arm away from her grasp like it kindles her.
Connasse
She pulls a madras from her skirt pocket and wipes her hand as the scowl on her face mushrooms.
“ Be careful, my beggary might rub off on you.” I smile at her, masking the tears and anguish that threaten to break free, before walking over to the rest of the group and getting in pose. Some girls do no better than to offer me their own scowls, eye rolls, and taunts.
“You are not made for here, stray —you look like a sore thumb, so out of place, so wrong, ” Elspeth snickers and her entourage of puppets follow. I roll my own eyes, disregarding her words and turning my back to her.
“Come up with a better insult, then maybe, I can offer you a speck of the attention you are thirsting for.” I can not see the displeasure streaking on her face, but feeling it is just as good.
I just need to get through the day. I take a deep breath—patience being my saving grace at the moment .
“Heed her no mind,” Naseria offers me one of her fuzzy smiles. The only friend I have in this savagery place. Well, her, and Miro.
“And who may that be?” I return her smile with a lopsided grin.
“Exactly, they are not worth a second thought.” I know an array of questions are about to flow out of her mouth. Concern rather. I see it in the way her friskiness melts away and her shoulders slump.
“I woke up late,” I rush out, in hopes of dulling her worry. I lied , but she does not have to know the truth.
But before she can say anything, Anoushka begins uttering instructions. Naseria’s disquiet does not go unnoticed. I do not think she believes me, but she takes my response with a hum, regardless, and turns her attention to our ballet mistress.
Her voice, dripping with cunning, falls on deaf ears as my mind spirals into the abyss of what awaits me at home. The choking dread clings to me like a second skin, while the scars—both old and new—gnaw relentlessly at my soul, each one a silent testament to the turmoil and suffering that have long since taken root in my life. It is a quiet torment, insidious in its persistence, wreaking havoc in ways both seen and unseen, shaping my every step with its’ burden.