Into the Fire
Chapter twenty-two
The break between acts was too short, giving Lorelle only enough time to change into her next costume and sneak a peek through the curtains to see her aunt and uncle—her family—sitting in the audience.
It hadn’t been a dream or a figment of her imagination.
They were there, sitting in the second row to the left.
Isabel caught her in a hug. “You did amazing, Lorelle,” she said. “I really hope la directora changes her mind. She’d be stupid not to have you as a part of the company.”
Lorelle didn’t know how to say it wasn’t in her heart to stay anymore. Instead, she smiled and nodded. “Thank you.” She followed Isabel’s gaze across the room, where Vanesa was tying her shoes.
She was speaking to Oliver again, and this time she seemed very angry at something. She gestured over to Lorelle, and that was all Lorelle needed to know what they were talking about: her.
No, she couldn’t stay a part of the company. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to dance at all, but she hoped that, somehow, she could change the way things were. Maybe the princess would be open to working with her.
“Have you talked to him?” Lorelle looked over at Isabel, but she had disappeared. She made a note to talk to her later.
All too soon, she was back onstage, creeping ever-closer to the finale and a new season of unknowns in her life when the curtains would finally close. A rumble of thunder sounded faintly through the walls, heightening the tension of the battle scene.
The mice pressed around her and the wooden soldier as they defended the kingdom.
The wooden soldier brandished his musket, aiming for the crowd, and with a clash of cymbals, two mice went down.
More mice appeared in the audience, and they disappeared with the next crash of the cymbals.
Now the wooden soldier aimed up to the balconies, where the mice from the first wave had gone up to taunt them.
The wooden soldier’s musket clicked. Ice froze Lorelle’s spine, and she stumbled. The prop musket was supposed to be made of solid wood. The only time she’d heard that mechanical click was with Antonio’s revolver.
This was a real gun. And it was loaded.
Realization smacked her as the cymbals clashed.
The audience cheered as another mouse fell, but Lorelle felt sick.
The vying for the role of Maria, the costumes, the imperial sailors moving from port to port to the capital—Antonio had been right to investigate.
The Empire was not yet finished with Monte Rico.
But Lorelle, like Maria, would not let her kingdom fall.
She didn’t have time to shout for the guards, if she would even be heard above the music. And if she waved frantically at the royals, would they even see her actions as anything more than a part of the ballet, a new twist on the production?
Though the mice were supposed to surround both Maria and the wooden soldier, they formed a barrier between Lorelle and her target. Had la directora changed the choreography?
She shoved her way through the mice, toppling the dancers and interrupting the dance. Gasps came from the audience, but she didn’t care. She reached the wooden soldier just as he trained his aim high and to the left, not where a mouse waved from the second balcony, but directly at the royal box.
Lorelle kicked as the gun went off, hitting the barrel of the musket and sending the wooden soldier off course. But he’d been exposed. Cries arose from the audience, though some clapped, unsure whether the spectacle onstage was part of the ballet.
She glanced back at the royal box. It was empty. Relief surged through her, but only for a moment as the wooden soldier turned on her. “You weren’t supposed to be here,” he snapped, “but I have alternate means of finishing the job.”
And with that, he aimed the musket up once more and fired at the stage lights.
Gas lamps shattered, raining fire down on the audience, who burst out of their seats.
The wintry spell of the ballet had shattered, replaced with fearful reality.
Orange flames lapped at the curtains, quickly engulfing the powdery “snow” on the front of the stage.
Lorelle reeled back as the flames neared.
She prayed her family got out safely—she couldn’t shout to them over the chaos of the fire in the theater and the crush of people moving.
The wooden soldier—the loyalist—had disappeared, his coat and mask lying on the stage.
Antonio had been right, but there was no victory in the revelation.
She ran backstage, where Isabel was ushering a few of the younger dancers, keeping them moving despite the terror plain on their faces. Lorelle scooped up her satchel, checking for Peluche’s squirming form, and latched the bag tight so he wouldn’t jump out.
Screams caught her attention, and she started toward the source. She found Vanesa, batting at the flames licking at the feathers of her costume. Wood cracked as flames seared the walls and up toward the beams that held up the room.
Lorelle tore at Vanesa’s costume, helping her remove the flaming skirt and stomping out the embers.
“Thank you,” Vanesa coughed. Then her eyes widened when she realized who had saved her.
“Come on.” Lorelle grabbed her arm. “Let’s go.” Somehow, she was sure Vanesa was involved in this, and she would have a lot of explaining to do.
They jumped back as a wooden beam fell, blocking the exit out the back wing where Lorelle had been earlier. The only exit was through the stage to the other side. Lorelle yanked Vanesa across the stage, moving quickly as the old wood warped and burned, and they reached the other side.
But now a wall of flames stood between them and the final door to freedom. Vanesa yanked her arm from Lorelle’s grip. “Muchas gracias,” she snapped. “This is all your faul—” Her words cut off in a fit of coughs.
Despite the chaos swirling around her, peace fell over Lorelle. She was in the middle of a storm, but Jesus was calling her to step onto the waves. Staring at the wall of flames, she suddenly knew what to do.
She put a hand on Vanesa’s shoulder. “Do you trust me?” she asked.
Vanesa shook her head, coughing again. She tried to pull out of Lorelle’s grip, but she held tight.
“Do you trust God?” Lorelle asked.
Vanesa shook her head again.
“Well,” she said, eyes watering with the smoke, “now’s a good time to start.” Grabbing Vanesa’s hand, she pushed her through the flames ahead of her and stepped through.
Burning alive didn’t feel like she expected. Where flames licked her skin, it felt like the peaceful waters of the harbor, and before she could marvel at the miracle, she was on the other side, breathing cool night air, her knees digging into the soil.
Arms grabbed her, pulling her and Vanesa away from the theater and into the dousing rain. Lorelle got to her feet, leaning on the stagehand that had helped her. “Thank you,” she rasped.
“How did you get out that way?” the stagehand asked.
Lorelle didn’t know how to answer. Her clothes, hair, and skin were unscathed, as if she had just finished the ballet, not walked through fire. But though she was untouched by flames, her gloves were gone, her tin hand melted to nothing.
“Lorelle!” Her aunt’s voice cut through the air, and Lorelle’s shoulders slumped with relief at the sight of her and her uncle pushing through the crowd. And then she was crushed in a hug, and she felt like a child again, wrapped in the arms of her family.
“We’re so glad you’re all right,” Tío said. “Let’s get you home—” But his words were drowned out.
A terrible creaking filled the air, and they barely got the chance to move farther away as the rest of the theater collapsed in a burning heap.