Chapter Six #2
Becka purses her lips at his instruction, then leads me through the packed room, a chaotic array of color, every surface flung with tutus and hangers, spools of ribbon scattered on tables, rows of accessories, shelves full of sparkling costume jewelry. Her voice is brisk. “Come, Bell.”
“Corliss Bell is actually my name, or just Corliss is fine.”
Turning back, she gives me a dry grin, spread wide. “You’re Bell on stage, may as well be backstage too. I can’t keep up with real names and stage names, both.”
“Alright.” I let out a laugh then pause, holding up the slippers. “May I wear the red?”
“Of course.” Becka shrugs and stops in front of a large trunk. She begins to rummage through it, and behind her back, I release a deep sigh of relief.
She goes on, “The costumes don’t belong to you—they’re on loan.
I make a new one for each dancer every few months, so if you have ideas tell me.
Don’t take them home, or for God’s sake, try to fix anything you break or rip.
Just bring it right back and I’ll take care of it.
” She comes up with a belt, tiny silver bells dangling from it.
“This is all I have with bells for the time being. Now, let’s get costumes. ”
Taking the belt, I follow, anticipation blooming in me, despite my nerves for what’s ahead. When she leads me to the racks, I can’t help but gasp aloud. “Oh, how beautiful they are!”
I move closer to get a better look. Some tutus are stiff and unyielding, others soft and gossamer-like.
They come in every color of the rainbow and some colors I’ve never seen on clothing before, even in Bricksbee’s fine dress shop.
There are dark and rich shades: mulberry, inky blue, a green almost black.
Then the pale colors: bone white, blush pink, ice aqua.
Some have beads that catch the light, metallic threads, lace, embroidery, even feathers.
On one costume, buttons as white and tiny as a child’s tooth all up and down the back.
There’s velvet, and tulle, and fabrics I’m not even sure the names of.
Some of them even seem to subtly change color as I stare at them.
I blink away the unsettling sense. Just a trick of the eye. In any case, they’re stunning.
I can’t believe I’ll get to dance in these.
Yet even with the red slippers, the pull of wanting to put them on right here, right now, there’s a bit of reality sinking in.
In mere hours, I’ll be onstage in front of an audience—one used to high standards—and before that, I’ll see the other ballerinas.
One particular face nudges its way into my memory.
Tanna, who taught me so much of what I know.
Her black curls. Red lips. The touch of her cool hand as she pushed me deeper into my stretches, as we learned each other’s bodies in the shadows of her rented room above the cobbler shop.
She’ll be here tonight, won’t she? Will she be surprised to see me, or will Julian already have told them all about me?
Will she have heard the whispers of how I danced in the streets?
I hide my apprehension and look at Becka expectantly.
She reaches up, fastening the bell belt around me. “Small waist, quite round hips, certainly en vogue. But busty. Let’s make sure you don’t fall out the top, huh?”
I grin. “I’d appreciate that.”
She looks over my pale, cool skin, my clear gray eyes, my dark-brown hair. “Hmmm. What shall we put you in?”
When I leave the room I have two costumes in my arms. I will rotate them, with a promise from Becka to make a custom costume for me.
I didn’t tell her, but I know I’ll request a blue costume—Aven’s favorite shade.
I’ll choreograph a routine in honor of my sister, in memory of her.
The grief shoves its way into my body, and I roll my shoulders back, squeezing the heap in my arms for strength.
Becka sends me to go find Dina to get my music set. Once there, I carefully place the costumes across a small table off in the wings. I tie the long ribbons of the slippers up my ankles, and when I’m warmed up, walk out on stage, where Dina looks up at me from the piano.
“What would you like?” she asks. “It’s just me for now; the other musicians will arrive within the hour.”
“Can you play what you did yesterday?” I ask. “I’ll improve upon that.”
In answer, her long fingers start up on the keys.
I take a quick breath and begin. Each beat of the music is matched in every perfect arabesque, every bourrée, every turn, the curl of my fingers.
But I need to finish the routine, so for the last part of the music, I simply play with some steps and sear them into my memory for the show later.
I don’t even notice when Dina gets up and leaves until I find myself alone, humming the melody under my breath, losing myself in the movement, in the feeling of flinging myself wide open, in the quiet of the theatre. The musicians haven’t arrived yet.
I feel like I have the whole world to myself.
Except—a shadow catches my eye, off in the red velvet seats of the audience.
It’s so far away, and with the gaslights shining in my face, I can only make out a black outline.
The theatre is quiet as I continue my work, though the person in the audience makes me nervous, somehow.
Julian is busy in his office, but maybe it’s a benefactor of the theatre, a nosy patron who shouldn’t be here yet, or even a guest of Julian’s, hoping to catch him before the show.
Self-conscious, I stop humming, and mark out the steps, trying to avoid glancing in the shadows at the silent figure.
I pause, debating between an ending pose en pointe or one sweeping downward, body bowed like a swan, when the stranger in the shadows speaks.
“You dance beautifully.” His voice is very deep, measured. Where have I heard it before? My skin tingles with apprehension.
I jerk up my head and squint to make out his figure, his face, his identity.
“Thank you? Mr.…?” I step forward, holding a hand above my brow so that the glare of the lamps is out of my eyes. I look to where I saw his outline before. But he is gone.
When I enter the dressing room after practicing, I’m acutely aware of the other dancers getting ready, eyeing me with curiosity. I drift to an empty chair, hands clammy with nerves, and lay my costumes across the back.
Is Tanna here? I wonder, refusing to turn around and check.
Someone speaks behind me, the faintest hint of an accent I can’t place, “There’s a wardrobe for your things.”
“Oh.” I turn, nodding my thanks to the tall girl who broke the silence. She looks about my age, maybe a bit younger—closer to Sélie’s age, maybe nineteen or twenty. She’s striking with vivid hazel eyes and glowing fawn-brown skin, legs so long they go on forever. I add, “Thanks.”
She reaches out her graceful hand, grinning as we shake.
“Of course. I’m Pearl, by the way.” Pearls decorate the bodice of her shimmering turquoise costume, and she wears her black hair twisted up in a thick braid coiled around the top of her head, held in place with a large jeweled pin shaped like a shell.
“And I’m Corliss Bell. Just Bell for the shows.”
“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” She cocks her head. “You bring our cosmetics. You work at the apothecary, no?”
“I do. I run it with my younger sister.” It hurts not to say sisters, plural.
It was Aven’s dream to run the shop after Mavis died six years ago.
She convinced me and Sélie not to sell it to the mustachioed gentlemen who’d wanted to turn it into a bank and “let The Pins finally turn into a modern town.” Sélie and I had wavered.
The sum they’d offered had been more money than we’d had in our lives.
We’d considered traveling, sending Sélie to art school (despite her resistance), me having proper dancing lessons (despite mine).
However, Aven insisted. “We can do it on our own, just like Mavis did, only better.” So we did.
We kept the shop, and the name—Boutique d’Apothicaire—though people began to call it “The Three Bells Apothecary” even after Aven married Darius and took the surname Winter.
We were still the Bell sisters. We still are, will always be.
“I love that place. Or rather, I love your products! I use them for our shows. I’ve been meaning to come into your shop for ages,” Pearl gushes, adding, “I’ve always liked cosmetics and find it fascinating, how you create such beauty.”
My cheeks warm at her flattery. “Thank you. Come any time you like, we’ll give you a tour.”
She opens her mouth to go on, but someone clears their throat impatiently.
“Corliss?”
I stiffen. I know that voice. Here goes. I look past Pearl to the woman seated in front of a mirror, drawing wings from her dark eyes.
“Tanna.” I smile tightly. “Or, what is it again?”
She gives me a tiny twist of her mouth. “It’s Flame here. Surprised you forgot.”
As if I could forget, especially with her posters papered on the outside of the building. It’s the first time we’ve been face to face since she married. But it doesn’t bother me as much as I thought; with Aven gone, this pain is like a crack in the heart compared to having my heart shattered whole.
She adds, “I’m more surprised to see you here, though.”
Her hand, the one drawing the charcoal along her lids, holds a large diamond ring that glints in the light. She must keep it on while she performs.
So what if she’s married now? Good for her.
“Yes, I decided it was time. Anyway, you look well,” I answer casually, admiring her sunset-colored tutu, the drops of rubies hanging from her earlobes, her bronze-kissed face. She’s beautiful. As always. Half-teasing, I ask, “Still eating fire?”
And hopelessly romantic girls for breakfast? Before you spit them back out? But I’m not angry, and I try to be gracious. She’s partly made me into the dancer I am today. Her, and the red shoes, I ponder uneasily.