Designs on Love (Friends of the Unexpected Royals #1)

Prologue

As I glance in the mirror one final time, I tap the crown of my head.

I’ve used almost an entire can of hair spray to achieve an ultra-slicked-back helmet-hair look.

Taking my sparkly snowflake tiara from my makeup table, I place it a few inches in front of my bun and begin the task of jabbing the pointy end of the hundred or so bobby pins into my scalp.

“You were a genius to add the fabric bands to the crowns, Min. This is the first time it’s felt nice and secure,” Corinne says, gently shaking her head side to side. “The wardrobe department should be paying you extra for all the wardrobe malfunctions you’ve helped them avoid.”

“Just doing my job, making sure the show goes on.” I sigh.

As amazing as it would be to work in the costuming department, even on a part-time basis, there’s no way the current wardrobe mistress would let me get anywhere near her precious tutus.

I’d be relegated to doing laundry or cleaning up the sewing room.

Madame Lim is like an evil troll guarding a bridge crossing.

No, make it an ogre. She only likes one or two people in the entire department—her daughters.

“You’re too modest.”

I don’t respond. It’s true, I really am just helping out to help out. I don’t want anything out of it. The girls in the corps know that I’m pretty good with a needle and thread. I’ve always found sewing therapeutic, so I’ve taught myself a few things here and there off SearchTube videos.

“Anyway, are you ready, Min?”

“I guess.”

Corinne stands and brushes off the top of her white tutu.

A few stray pieces of glitter cascade to the ground.

Like me, she’s exhausted. With the amount of heavy stage makeup we have on, it’s hard to tell, but we both have puffy purple rings under our eyes from a consistent lack of sleep.

Every muscle in our bodies aches. It’s been a long, long last couple of weeks.

We’re counting down the days until New Year’s.

“Chin up. After tonight, we only have eight more shows to go,” she says.

I suppress a groan. “Eight shows too many.” As if to prove a point, my calf muscle cramps when I stand, causing me to wince.

“Do you need a banana?”

“No, I’ll be fine once we get going.” I jump up and down, pound the top of my legs, then lean against the wall to stretch it.

“Attention, dancers, this is your five-minute call. All corps dancers in the Snow scene, please proceed to the stage,” the stage manager announces over the loudspeaker backstage.

“You sure? Last chance.”

“Positive. If it’s still cramping after Snow, I’ll take you up on it.”

We leave our closet-sized dressing room and power walk down the darkened hall to the stage entrance, finding a scene of organized chaos.

Stage techs, dressed in all black, are scurrying around, ushering children dressed as rats and toy soldiers off the stage.

They’re whispering animatedly to one another.

“Kids, remember, no talking until we’re fully backstage in the green zone.” A tech puts a finger to his lips. “We don’t want the audience to hear you.”

Despite his best efforts, the children continue carrying on. He huffs, knowing it’s a lost cause, and instead urges them to pick up their pace.

“Snowflakes, I need all snowflakes please,” another tech says in a low tone.

Corinne and I maneuver past the cannon and other scattered props from the Nutcracker party scene to join the other twenty-five members of the corps de ballet lined up in the stage wings.

“Merde,” we whisper to one another. We’re superstitious, and we’d never tell someone to “break a leg.”

Corinne joins the front of row three, and I, the middle of row two. Around me, everyone is silent. We’re each gathering our thoughts and reviewing the choreography we’re about to perform.

I roll up onto the tip of my toes and test my shoes. The left feels solid, but the right is too soft. I try and remember if I have another pair of shoes I can swap it out for before the “Waltz of the Flowers.” My thoughts are interrupted as the music the orchestra is playing suddenly changes.

Onstage, Clara and her Nutcracker Prince are greeted by the King and Queen of Snow. They’ve already arrived at the enchanted forest.

My pulse quickens. I wipe my clammy hands against my tights and roll down so I’m standing on a flat. My body goes on high alert. I’m laser focused on the dancer in front of me. My ears are preened, listening for our cue.

Thirty seconds later, it arrives. As if I’m racing in a hundred-meter dash, I enter the stage with a series of bounding leaps and cha?ne turns, mirroring the timing and the movements of all the other corps dancers. Artificial snow begins to rain down upon us from above.

For the next few minutes, we’re dancing full-out as we enter and exit the stage more than ten different times. We’re constantly sprinting from one wing to another, and in some cases, one side of the stage to the other. It’s a marathon race.

On top of that, we also have to use extreme caution and channel an ice skater. The fake snow may look beautiful to the audience, but it comes at the price of making the stage extremely slippery. One wrong step can send us flying to the ground.

Another three minutes pass. The music crescendos, and finally, our pace slows. I’m breathing heavily through my nose as I fight to keep the features of my face neutral. It isn’t until the curtains close that I’m finally able to exhale and allow my body to relax.

I hear families in the audience getting up from their seats to take advantage of the fifteen-minute intermission.

Odds are that the children need to use the restroom while the adults slip into the bar area for a glass of champagne.

They’ll linger in the lobby chatting about The Nutcracker’s first act until they hear the bell signaling for them to return to their seats for the second half—the journey through the land of the sweets.

Behind the scenes, it’s a rat race. The technical crew rushes out onto the stage to vacuum the fake snow. The props team begins to exchange the wintery scenery for the palace of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

“Are you in Flowers today?” I ask.

Corinne’s hands make quick work of unpinning her tiara. “No, I’m in Spanish.”

“Nice one!”

“What about you?”

“Just Flowers.” A look of surprise crosses her face. “Oh, I thought . . . er, well . . . never mind.”

“What did you think?”

We enter the dressing room and each seat ourselves at our makeup tables. I begin to unpin my own tiara.

“I thought I’d heard that they were short-handed for the “Dance of the Mirlitons.” Lily has the flu. You’re the understudy, aren’t you?”

The pins in my hand clatter onto the table. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I didn’t check the casting sheets after class this morning.”

“Minerva! You’d better go check. We only have twelve minutes.”

Jumping to my feet, I rush out the door and down the hall. My clunky pointe shoes fill the empty space with a clatter. Why hadn’t I thought to check the list?

The answer is easy—I hadn’t wanted to get my hopes up.

I’m not one of the artistic director’s favored dancers.

He’d only put me in a featured role if there were an injury or an illness.

Yes, it happens often during the busy Nutcracker run, but I’m still at the bottom of his list. Sometimes I wonder if he even knows my name.

Reaching the corkboard next to the medical training room, I come to an abrupt stop and run my finger over the call sheet.

Snow—Minerva Hana

Waltz of the Flowers—Minerva Hana

Dance of the Mirlitons—Eileen Wood, Sage Hunter, Viola Beech

My breath hitches. Lily isn’t listed, but Sage and Viola are? This doesn’t make any sense? Why would they be in Mirlitons instead of me? They’re apprentices, not members of the corps.

I double check the list once more. Nope. I was right the first time. In fact, as my finger travels down the paper, I realize that I’m the only corps dancer not to be given a featured role in the shows scheduled for today.

“Minerva!” I jump at the sound of my name. The ballet mistress has her hands on her hips, her brow furrowed. “Why haven’t you changed yet? You’re due on stage in five minutes!”

“I heard Lily was out and—”

“She is, but Artem decided not to use you. Now go, you don’t have any time to waste.”

My stomach muscles clench, and in four minutes, I’ve performed the fastest quick-change of my life. I’m back at the stage wings with a minute to spare. I’ll have to manage with the pointe shoes I have on, even if they feel like they’re about to die.

“Did you get it all sorted out?” Corinne asks. She’s wearing a black-and-gold Spanish dress.

“Yes,” I wheeze, still slightly out of breath. “I’m just doing Flowers. Viola and Sage are subbing for Lily.”

The audience claps and the orchestra begins to play the overture for the second act. The curtain rises and the Sugar Plum Fairy bourrées across the stage on the tips of her toes as if she’s floating through the air.

Corinne frowns. “What?”

I don’t have time to reply, however, as the stage manager nods for us to make our first appearance.

As I run out and find a place in formation on stage, I clear my mind. Whatever is going on can wait until later. For now, I focus on the job that matters—fitting in with all other flowers.

“Are your parents coming down to visit for Christmas?” Corinne asks after the second show of the evening. We’re both soaking our feet in buckets of ice water and Epsom salt, teeth chattering and blankets draped over our shoulders.

“No, not this year. They’ve seen me dance in Nutcracker a thousand times. The plane ticket is too expensive during the holidays. The plan is to go home for New Year’s.”

“Do you want to come with me to my parents’ place? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. We’ll probably have so many people over that they won’t even notice I’m home.” She chuckles.