Chapter Five
I run as fast as I can once I leave the house from the same open window I came in through.
A rush of energy sharpens my vision, and my legs ache from the exertion as I escape to the safety of the deep woods, pink skirts fisted in one hand, hopping over fallen branches and sidestepping roots twisting out of the ground, the shoes gripped to my heaving chest.
They beat against my fingers like a heart.
When it is clear nobody is coming after me, I finally slow.
Bent over, I drop my head and steady my breathing, wipe my forehead.
I stare down at the slippers, a deeper red than burgundy in the shadows of the darkening woods.
Something pumps inside me, in my blood. Relief.
Fear. Longing. A hungry beast arising from its slumber.
I need to dance.
Without another thought, I slip off my hot leather boots and toss them to the ground.
I simply must try the slippers on. Because the hope in my chest has withered away and been replaced with a fierce desperation.
Perhaps if I dance, I can forget about this second ripple of grief coming over me.
The demon does not exist. It was foolish to wish it so.
The path to return Aven to life is no path at all.
She’s gone, for real. For good.
I swallow the bitter cry burning its way up my throat and put the slippers on; they fit as if made for me.
Tying the ribbons around my ankles only takes a moment.
And then, I have the shoes, or maybe the shoes have me.
Nothing hurts at all. Even while I dance, I’m feverish with the passion for more.
To move, to keep going, to reach some destination I know nothing of.
I cut through the woods at the edge of town and dance out to the road, twisting, leaping, gliding with ease, despite my heavy skirts, my heavy heart.
I don’t care who sees me. The birds, the trees, the leaves, the flowers, the wind, the watercolor-streaked sky—all are my audience; and I put on the best show of my life.
Every movement is deliberate, perfect. It is all of my passion and all of my pain pooled together into two pulsing symbols on my feet.
I am untouchable. The tears streaming down my face—even they are a kind of grace.
With the slippers, I can reach like never before, can jump higher.
It is as easy as breathing, as I dance my way through town, passing staring shopkeepers closing up their stores, gaping market vendors, snickering sailors, and children gobbling spools of pastel sugar that change color in the light.
I leap with arms stretched all the way through my fingertips, the dying sun hitting my skin as I move, salt air and sweat clinging to me, the way sadness has hung on me for so long. Though, I don’t feel sad now.
With these shoes, I can forget. I can hardly remember what it is I don’t want to remember in the first place.
Then, everything comes crashing down. Standing outside The Red Clover dance hall, with his arms folded against his chest and his mouth hanging open, is Julian, Gatekeeper to my dreams. Watching me dance. Actually dance this time.
And now I stop with a jolt in the middle of the road, and as some sense returns, mortification follows. I’ve opened myself up before strangers, making a spectacle of myself in front of half The Pins!
A crowd has gathered to gawk at me. I step forward, meaning to slip off the red shoes in the shadow of some alley, then go home.
I’ll forget all this ever happened, forget that I went in search of a demon to bring my sister back from the dead, that I danced in the streets, that I stole something—me, stole something!
But something in me longs to keep dancing.
Something in me is still restless for more.
Someone claps, breaking my thoughts apart, and then another, and another. Someone whistles in the background, and I startle when I feel a touch on my arm. I look up into Julian’s face.
“May I ask what in God’s name that was?”
I finally let loose some of the tension in my shoulders, and a laugh bubbles out of my dry throat as I answer him, “I’m not even certain. I simply had to dance.”
He shakes his head, leading me away from the people and toward the Clover’s doors. I go willingly, grateful for the chance to escape attention. “It appears your stage fright has eased…if that is the case, won’t you try again for me now?”
Within minutes, I find myself back on the stage, all of us in the same positions as before: Julian, front row; the pianist, a woman named Dina, behind me and off to the side; and me, center stage and, this time, more thrilled than scared.
It’s a less fevered tempo than what I danced to in my head through the woods and down the road.
I count down and begin, sweeping across the floor in petit jumps and piqué turns as the music lightens and quickens, celebrating with the movement, allowing the joy of dancing again—for myself—to rush over me.
Because I’m here, because after all these years and a prior failure, I’m finally dancing at The Red Clover.
And for some odd reason, I don’t care who sees me; I’d let anyone watch.
Besides, after all that I’ve lost, I have nothing more to lose.
The slippers take over. It’s as though they want me to dance, or perhaps it’s just that everything weighing me down falls away like rain, or, like fog, evaporates off me, and I let my body do what it wants.
Nothing is planned—not the fouettés I whip out with ease, not the pirouettes I follow with a grand jeté so flawless I even let out a breath of surprise.
My skin feels tight and alive. I was born for this.
When the weakness in my legs finally forces me to stop, Julian stares at me thoughtfully from his front-row seat.
He doesn’t say anything. The pianist rises from her seat with a smile and walks off into the shadows.
I stand in the center of the stage, dripping with sweat, fidgeting.
Now the worry sets in. Maybe he changed his mind, seeing me dance to music.
Maybe I was off beat after all. Maybe I just don’t belong here, with my tattoos and complicated past and family drama.
Maybe I don’t belong anywhere anymore—now that Aven is gone.
Eventually, he stands. “Can you dance tomorrow evening for the show? And come early to get your costumes and set sorted?”
I waver, heart thundering. Hesitation, gratitude, shock all intermingle within me. I close my eyes for one breath. But then I open them and say, “Yes.”
“Well, welcome to The Red Clover, Miss Bell.”
My hand is shaking when I place it against my heart, a single whisper escaping me, “Really?”
“We’ve rarely had anyone just come in off the street and audition—and make it,” he muses. “Our dancers usually come to us recommended from the schools in Warring’s Cross or Manuette. Sometimes further.”
“Why do they come here?” I wonder aloud before I can stop myself.
But he only chuckles and shakes his head, slick black hair staying in place.
“Yes, The Pins is odd, I know. My grandfather started the Clover many years ago, and I don’t think anyone anticipated it doing as well as it has, but something about this place draws people in.
I know I never had the heart to go anywhere else. ”
I nod. “I understand. And thank you…for this opportunity.”
“I’m excited to have you, and the audience will be too, when they hear about how you danced on the road, for those who weren’t lucky enough to see.”
I look away, embarrassed, but then I peep down at the slippers on my feet, at the red ribbons tied up so prettily around my ankles. And I smile.
I stroll through the darkening woods in a daze, ballet shoes flung over my shoulders by the ribbon.
My stockinged feet are dusty, my boots abandoned in the woods somewhere between the Colehart Mansion and town.
I frown about that now; I’ll have to fetch them at some point.
As I run the afternoon’s events through my head, it seems hard to believe it’s still the same day.
I know it’s wrong, but I somehow don’t regret breaking into the mansion or taking the slippers.
I spend the entire walk home ruminating on this.
Why am I not sorry? Perhaps I’m still in shock, frozen in grief over accepting Aven’s death.
Perhaps I’m broken in some way. Lots of ways.
When I open the cottage door, Sélie is banging about in the kitchen.
“I’m home,” I call. “Sorry I’m so late.”
“In here! I’m making supper.” She walks over, apron dusted with flour, tendrils of hair loose about her face. She stops short when she sees me. “What happened?”
I touch my face self-consciously, I’m sure my cheeks are red, my eyes wild with delight.
“Sélie…” I stumble over her name in my excitement; now that I see her, I can’t wait to share the news.
“You’ll never believe it. I got invited to dance at the Clover.
Julian hired me! He wants me to start tomorrow evening. ”
Her big blue eyes go even bigger. “You auditioned again?”
As I drop to a seat, the bone-tired feeling catches up with me, my legs sore. “Not exactly. It’s a long story, and strange. I was dancing and Julian saw me.”
“Dancing where?” Confusion creases her face.
“Um…” I won’t lie. She’ll hear eventually, anyhow. I admit, “On the street.”
I’ve danced in the tiny back room of the shop, in our cottage, on our beach, for myself, for my family. But never on the street. Never for strangers. Her mouth falls open in disbelief. “On the street, as in, in town?”
“I know that sounds odd,” I try to explain, though I don’t quite understand myself. “It’s just, something came over me and I had to dance. I didn’t care who was watching me, or how bizarre it was. And then he hired me.”
She takes this all in stride, allowing it time to sink in. Her smile is more than a little smug when she finally says, “See?”
“What?”