23. Thirty-Two Fouettés #3
I climb the stairs to the stage and make my way to the wings, where the corps are warming up. Everyone is in full costume, stretching, snacking, and chatting. I scan for Eleanor, but she’s nowhere in sight. Then like clockwork, she emerges from the dressing room in her Odette costume.
She looks beautiful. Beneath the pale skin and visible bones, there’s courage radiating from her, and that alone is breathtaking. Dark circles line her eyes, and makeup tries to cover the fatigue. My heart sinks at the sight. She isn’t looking much better than yesterday.
I move through the sea of dancers toward her. Her eyes meet mine, unreadable.
“Eleanor,” I greet quietly.
She fiddles with her fingers, twisting them together nervously. “Hi,” she whispers.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” she murmurs. But she isn’t. Not by a long shot.
I bend slightly, lowering my voice. “Listen. You don’t have to go out there. If you decide not to dance, Eleanor… I’ll still respect you, and I’ll still think the world of you.” I give her a rueful look. “You don’t have to do it. You really don’t.”
Her gaze scans the space around us. “Nik,” she whispers, voice cracking, “this is all I have.”
I lift her chin gently so her eyes meet mine. “But you’re not well, Elenochka.” I curse myself for calling her that.
Her eyes widen, and she steps back, my hand dropping from her face. “I’m okay,” she mutters.
I want to scream that she isn’t. That I’ll still care if she puts herself first. But I can’t force her. I give a slight dip of my chin. “Be careful out there,” I murmur and turn away, not looking back.
My chest aches already. Watching her dance, seeing her falter—if she messes up once, I know Kasper won’t hesitate to pull her out, crushing a dream she’s fought so hard for.
As I exit the wings, a flash of perfectly styled blonde hair collides with me. Brown eyes meet mine.
“Catherine?” I choke on the name. Catherine Montgomery, Eleanor’s mother, stands before me.
She surveys me from head to toe. “Yes… and who are you?”
Of course she doesn’t remember. “Nikolai Kozlov. We met at the Fall Gala.”
Recognition crosses behind her eyes. “Right… of course. Nikolai. I’m here for Eleanor Montgomery. Do you know her?”
I force myself to keep calm. “Well, I’m her coach, so of course I do.”
“Coach?” Contempt laces her tone. “Right. Where is she?”
I jerk a thumb behind me. “She’s back there.”
Her nod is curt. “Thank you.”
Her heels click toward Eleanor, and I watch as Eleanor’s eyes widen to the size of saucers.
“Mom?” her voice quivers.
It takes sheer force of will to stay rooted to the spot and not step in to protect her, because it isn’t my place. I turn back to the audience’s perspective, Kasper and Russell already seated in the front row, my heart tensing with worry and anticipation.
After a few moments, Catherine marches out of the wings and slips into the second row, directly behind Kasper, Russell, and me.
Kasper leans across Russell. “Who’s she?” he asks, voice low.
“That’s Catherine Montgomery,” I murmur back. “Eleanor’s mother.”
Kasper’s eyes widen as he glances behind him, then quickly forward again. “What’s she doing here?”
I sit a little straighter, forcing a shrug. “No idea.”
Kasper gives a short nod, while Russell’s gaze darts between us, curiosity plain on his face.
The lights dim. The orchestra swells to life. Gabriel enters first, Eleanor trailing close behind.
I can’t help stealing glances at Catherine, though I try not to be obvious. I pray that her presence won’t make Eleanor falter.
Act I passes without incident. Eleanor keeps up, and for a moment I let myself breathe. But Act I is the easy part. Act II is where her stamina always frays.
As it begins, I can’t stop glancing over my shoulder.
Catherine sits stiff as marble, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line, as if just being here inconveniences her.
Parents rarely show up the day before opening night, and that oddness gnaws at me.
Catherine hasn’t come once this season, at least not that I’ve seen.
Eleanor has said their relationship is strained, and I doubt there are phone calls or comfort exchanged behind the scenes.
I force my focus back to the stage, but the cracks are already showing. Eleanor’s legs tremble and her arms falter in their swanlike sweep. My breath catches as I brace for the inevitable.
Act III comes, and thankfully her pas de deux with Gabriel is smooth enough.
As she steps into Odile and begins her thirty-two fouettés, I dare to look again.
Catherine’s face has sharpened into open contempt, her gaze cold and unforgiving.
My blood boils. How can a mother sit there and watch her child come apart?
How can love be so conditional, so merciless?
Then I hear it. A sudden, sickening snap, followed by a blood-curdling scream that tears through the orchestra.
I whip around just as Eleanor crumples, clutching her ankle, tears streaking down her face.
Dancers rush toward her, the stage a blur of chaos, but I don’t wait.
I shove past seats, past people, my heart lodged in my throat.
I don’t care if Russell or Kasper sees. Nothing else matters but reaching her—consequences be damned.