Chapter One #3
I nodded and she shooed me out of the stuffy shop and into the fresh air.
I went gratefully, although I did dawdle, meandering through the open market, the scents of hot, spiced nuts and ginger beer making my mouth water.
I lingered in front of the sweet shop to eye the delicacies in the window—voluminous cream puffs and dense cakes dripping with shiny chocolate ganache (some said you were guaranteed to remember your first kiss as if it were yesterday with just one bite of those chocolate cakes, but I’d yet to be kissed and didn’t believe anyhow).
I circled around, going out of my way to ogle the dresses in the dressmaker’s store.
They hung in the window—a riot of stripes, tulle, gold buttons, fine lace the color of fresh cream skimmed off the top of milk.
When I got to the theatre, I admired the marquee: The Red Clover Dance Hall, it said in curling, elegant script.
Once inside, while I waited for the owner to return with payment, I watched the stage from the shadows of the theatre, unnoticed, as a dancer with long, sepia limbs finished up her practice routine.
She wore pale pink, a blush-colored confection.
When she rose up on her toes, she spun like sugar candy, mesmerizing me.
I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life. For several perfect minutes, time paused. I didn’t mind that my sisters and I were orphans. Didn’t care that we’d been shipped from home to home. Didn’t care that I still wasn’t sure where I fit—if I fit anywhere.
At the time, I was too young to audition. Still, I needed to dance, and so I taught myself at first, learning from books, and yes, spying, and years later, eventually, from one beautiful dancer with black curls tumbling to her waist, who became more than just my teacher—Tanna.
Now, as I glide past the poster of Tanna hanging out front, her painted eyes seem to watch me and my nerves jump a notch.
Or ten. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this—I always hoped I would, eventually.
I had worked hard, the desire to someday audition always at the back of my mind, if I only could build up the courage.
That courage never arrived, and my dancing has remained private all these years.
And even though occasionally I have allowed my family to watch, dancing was mostly for me alone.
I admit the truth that my sisters could see clearly: I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them.
With their faces fixed in my mind—knowing how disappointed Aven will be if I turn back now—I force myself forward and reach for the door before I can talk myself out of it.
I go inside, and blink several times, adjusting my eyesight to the darkened interior.
“Miss Bell?” Julian appears before me too soon, wearing a crisp suit of cream that complements his topaz-brown complexion, with a lavender tie and shining toffee-colored shoes.
He looks at me in slight bewilderment, dark eyes curious.
“Right on time. I must say I was surprised to hear you’d like to audition… .”
I sound like some kind of monster, the way I clear my throat. My mouth is so dry I think I could spit cotton, but I finally stammer out, “Yes. I would.”
Steering me through the lobby, he says, “But you’ve been taking orders all these years, delivering them to me in person. Why have you waited so long to audition?”
It’s a struggle to find the words to satiate his curiosity. It’s partly true when I finally answer, “I did not believe I was good enough. And also, I don’t like strangers watching me dance.” I roll my shoulders back. “But I’d like the chance to try.”
When he smiles, I catch peppermint on his breath. “I’d love to see you dance. You have a grace about you—I see it now. A proper audition with music? My pianist is here waiting.”
I waver, still so very nervous. Yet, when he leads me through the cool theatre, I follow close behind.
Through a door, then a hall, then another door, then some stairs, where we emerge into the wings.
Shaking hands, shaking heart, I manage to change out of my boots and shove some lambswool over my toes, then into my secondhand pink slippers.
I warm up my body while the pianist plays a lively tune.
When he’s given me enough time, Julian takes a seat in the front row—dead center.
“Ready?” he patiently asks, to which I nod.
As I move to the very middle of the stage, my mind is a blank.
I can barely lift a foot to walk, let alone do anything of beauty.
Looking out, the limelight blinds me. The empty seats of the red-velvet theatre mock me—if I’m this terrified, this frozen now, how on earth will I ever dance in front of hundreds of people?
Their phantom eyes stare back at me. I’m going to faint is my first thought. The second: I cannot breathe.
“Miss Bell?” Julian prompts from the front. The piano stops, waiting, but the notes still pound through my head, taunting me.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I cannot do it. I’m sorry.”
I twist and run off the stage, grabbing my belongings.
Without bothering to change out of my slippers, I race out of the theatre and down the street then abruptly turn left and dart toward the forest that curls around much of our town, though there’s no path to follow home in this area.
I run and run north, as though the shame and embarrassment become a thing chasing me, instead of a thing inside of me.
All I can think about as I sprint, winding my way through the woods until I come to the dirt-packed forest road that will lead me to the cottage, is how I’ve disappointed my sisters.
Myself. When I can’t run any more, I slow, bending over, catching my breath.
Brushing my eyes of the hot tears welling up, I tug off my slippers with an anguished cry and toss them through a tangle of trees.
After a moment, I move forward again, my head held high, but something bitter roiling within me.
I shall never dance again. It’s time to grow up and put foolish dreams aside.
Magic isn’t real. Love dies or leaves. And passion is no match for fear.