Waltzing with Ghosts
The practice room smelled like rosin dust. Afternoon light striped the floorboards. Someone had polished the mirrors so carefully that the windows’ reflection looked real, a second city caught in the glass.
Two people missing now. Cordon dead. Merit—no one knew where Merit was. Just gone.
And Talent stood there, still breathing. The tilted mirrors showed her three times over. None of the reflections looked quite right.
“Begin with a simple waltz step,” said Madame Cross. “Posture, please.”
Talent’s slippers carried her to the edge of the marked center square and stopped. Cordon used to spin her here until both of them were breathless, collapsing in a tangle of laughter.
She could not step into that square.
“Miss Salaren?” The metronome clicked. “One, two, three.”
“I can’t,” Talent said. It came out small.
A figure stepped onto the floor. Holloway bowed slightly to Madame. The look he gave her carried more authority than a raised voice.
“Let me take it from here,” he said.
Madame pursed her lips. “We are already behind.”
“Then we can’t waste any more time.” He held her gaze until she stepped back, gathered her things, and left. He was only fifteen, a year younger than her, but people listened to him.
He crossed the room. He looked impeccable—neat waistcoat, precise knot at his throat. The only thing out of place was his hair, a cascade of golden curls that followed no instructions.
He offered a hand. “May I?”
She took it. “I hate this room.”
“I know.” His voice was quiet. “So do I.”
He placed her right hand on his shoulder; his left found the small of her back. They stood like that for a breath.
“One,” he murmured. “Two. Three.”
He stepped back, and she followed. Her left foot dragged where it should have lifted. He shifted his weight, turned the mistake into a pivot.
“Look here,” he said gently. “At me. It’s easier that way.”
“I can’t do this.” Her voice cracked.
“I’m right here.” His thumb brushed her knuckles once, then twice. “We’ll get through it together.”
She made the mistake of glancing toward the mirror. Cordon looked back—his face pale and wrong, the way it had been when they pulled him from the river.
She stopped hard, breath catching. “I keep seeing him.”
Holloway didn’t tell her she was crazy. He held her hand steady. “Breathe with me.”
They moved again. She stepped on his foot. He didn’t wince, just guided her through the turn as if that was the step all along.
“I must look ridiculous,” she said softly.
“You look brave.”
The room slid past: window, mirror, empty chair, door. She made mistakes. He covered them. Each time, she leaned harder on his shoulder.
He hummed under his breath, and she followed the sound. The pressure in her chest eased, just a little. She felt safe within the circle of his arms. By the final figure, her feet had remembered. When the dance ended, they stood in the center of the square, hands still joined, breathing matched.
A sob caught in her throat. Holloway pulled her close, and she rested her forehead against his shoulder.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she said. “Without Cordon. Without Merit.”
Her fault. All her fault. If Holloway knew what she’d done, he wouldn’t be holding her like this. He’d push her away.
“We’ll figure it out together,” he said quietly.
“We’re the heirs now. Everyone’s watching us. Expecting us to be perfect.” She didn’t even know how to get up in the morning. How was Holloway so steady?
“We’ll make them proud.” His arms tightened around her.
She nodded against his shoulder. Tucked his words away like gifts. She wasn’t watching his reflection in the mirror. If she had been, she might have seen it sway, just a little, as the weight of her grief pulled him off-balance.