Chapter 8
A few days later, on Christmas Eve, the dance studio’s Marley floor felt different beneath Daphne’s feet. Warmer. More lived in and creakier. Just another reminder that the new owners, who were taking over in January, would have to replace it.
One more reason she was glad she hadn’t bought the studio.
She stood at the barre, practicing relevés in first position. Slowly, she rose to demi-pointe, then eased back down with control. Her calves burned slightly, but it was the right kind of ache. Familiar.
She transitioned into rond de jambes à terre, letting her hips open with fluid, circular motion.
But the girls weren’t paying attention. They giggled in the corner, stretching in pink tights, the air buzzing with the kind of hopeful chaos only children could bring the day before Christmas, just hours before they’d take the stage in Kingsmill.
She pressed a palm to her ribs and inhaled. This is home now.
The last seventy-two hours had been a blur of hospital lights, scans, and arguments. No one—not even Holly, Luke’s doctor girlfriend—had believed her collapse was just adrenal fatigue. But after fluids, rest, and a lot of reassurance, they’d released her this morning.
Abe hadn’t let her out of his sight, either. He watched her like she was fragile glass, reminding her to eat, to hydrate, to breathe while she rehearsed with the girls.
Finally he’d finally gone off to do some secret Christmas thing.
Tess, Daphne’s assistant teacher, stepped beside her and bumped her shoulder. “Have you told the girls yet?”
“No.” Daphne lowered her voice. “Has my costume arrived?”
She’d asked Bella, her best friend and a ballet teacher from Sleepy Hollow, to overnight a Snow Queen costume to the studio.
Tess nodded. “It came this morning. How are you feeling?”
Daphne gave a wry smile. “My head doesn’t throb when I plié, so… progress?”
Tess’s laugh was warm and gentle. “We were all terrified. Both Kingsmill and Milltown heard about your collapse. One minute you were outside with Abe, the next—bam. Snow, blood, ice. It sounded like something out of a Christmas horror movie.”
“It wasn’t that dramatic.” Daphne hesitated. “But I’ve been pushing too hard. I was teaching and working out fourteen hours a day. Skipping meals, hiding bruises. Pretending I’m invincible.”
“You’re not.” Tess touched Daphne’s hand. “None of us are. But you came back to your students. And I heard you’re dancing professionally again? But as a freelance principal instead of with ABT?”
There was no judgment in her voice. Just kindness.
“Yes,” Daphne said, exhaling. “I spoke with the studio’s new owner. I’ll teach here when I can.”
“Every ballet student within six counties will want to train with you.”
Daphne shook her head. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“Don’t discount yourself.” Tess nodded toward the cluster of girls stretching. “Those girls adore you. Milltown and Kingsmill need someone like you. Not just because you’re one of the most famous ballerinas dancing right now—”
“Recovering ballerina.”
Tess smiled. “You’re also a wonderful teacher. I wish you could see yourself the way we see you.”
Daphne swallowed hard. Still sore. Still unsure. Still crawling back into her skin. But maybe that was enough.
She clapped her hands and returned to her students. “Let’s run the Snow Queen variation one more time before the final rehearsal at the barn.”
As the girls scrambled into line, she limped to her bag and pulled out her pointe shoes.
She hadn’t worn them since the cabin.
The girls quieted, watching her as she sat and began to tie the ribbons. Her hands shook. Not from fear, but memory. Her body remembered everything. The sting of fatigue, the ache of her instep, the knot that had to be tucked just so beneath the ribbon.
Pointe shoes had been her armor… and her prison. It was a realization she was trying to understand and recover from. When she rose to stand, she relevéed en pointe for a single breath. Her balance wavered. Her core protested, but she didn’t fall.
She called the girls forward, her voice steady. “Let’s go.”
To their credit, they didn’t scream or gasp. They didn’t even comment. They just moved into position, feet and arms in first position, ready for Tess to press play.
Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Snowflakes started softly, then swelled.
The girls danced like snow caught in the wind, light, luminous, and precise. They moved through patterns she’d drilled into them with aching, persistent care.
She danced small segments alongside them, adjusting a chin here, a port de bras there, encouraging a straighter arabesque. Her ankle ached. She ignored it. She trusted herself now. She knew her limits.
She didn’t do the full variation, but she did enough to feel the floor beneath her, to remember that movement didn’t have to be punishment. It could be love.
At some point during the turns, she noticed something at the back of the studio.
Abe.
He leaned in the doorway, jeans dusted with snow, a blue flannel shirt beneath his green field jacket. Arms crossed. Quiet.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at her, soft, steady, unshaken, was everything.
Their eyes met.
Her stomach flipped, not from nerves, but from something deeper. Something steady and warm. I see you. I’m here. I believe in you.
The music ended, and the girls clapped for each other, giddy with energy.
Charlie flung her arms around Daphne’s waist. “You’re a real Snow Queen.”
Daphne laughed, breath catching in her throat. “Maybe I am.”
Later that evening, Kingsmill’s community barn-turned-theater was lit up with string lights. The floors had been swept clean, and rows of folding chairs filled the space that was packed with parents and neighbors.
Abe stood behind the side curtain near the makeshift set pieces, holding a thermos of Daphne’s favorite peppermint hot chocolate. The velvet ring box pressed against his back pocket like a second heartbeat.
Daphne stepped into the glow of the stage’s wings, her tutu pale blue and white like spun frost, a glittering crown nestled in her pinned-up blonde hair. She looked like something from a dream. She was regal and radiant and impossibly real.
When the grand and swirling music began, it sounded like the whole barn inhaled sharply. She moved with quiet strength, rising onto pointe, spinning like a wind-up ballerina. The younger girls fluttered around her like snowflakes caught in a breeze, but he barely noticed them.
He only saw Daphne.
The lift of her arms like branches reaching for the sun. The way she carried herself, chin high, back straight, not just dancing a role but telling a story only her body knew how to tell.
It wasn’t flawless. He caught the slight limp when she moved to the side. Saw her ankle falter, just once. But it didn’t matter. It made her more beautiful. More real. A woman who had broken and healed and risen from the wreckage stronger.
And then, instinctively, he looked toward the back of the barn.
Damian stood near the last row, coat collar turned up, hands in his pockets.
His charcoal wool pea coat hung loose on his tall frame, showing off his massive weight loss.
After their rescue, he’d returned to the rehab center, but the administrators had allowed him to come tonight.
His expression was unreadable, his face half in shadow.
Then their eyes met. A moment passed between them. Not forgiveness. Not quite peace. But something close.
Abe turned back just as the music swelled to its crescendo. Daphne struck her final pose, arms stretched toward the stars, balanced on one pointe shoe, like a statue made of snow and light.
The barn went silent for a heartbeat. Then the audience surged to its feet. Thunderous applause echoed through the rafters.
Daphne lowered her arms slowly, then she curtsied and blinked like she wasn’t sure any of it was real. The girls squealed and clapped around her.
Abe stepped onto the stage, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. The room hushed again.
She turned, and her eyes widened.
He dropped to one knee. The velvet box was in his hand, open now, the diamond catching the string lights overhead.
“You already said yes,” he said, his voice low but unwavering. “But I didn’t get to do this the right way.”
Her hands covered her mouth.
“You’re the bravest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” he said, emotion thick in his throat. “And I want to spend the rest of my life making sure you never forget that.” He held the ring toward her. “Merry Christmas, Snow Queen.”
She laughed, choked on a sob, and launched herself into his arms.
In the back, Damian slipped out the barn doors, into the shadows.
His brother Luke stood in the back in jeans and a T-shirt, his arms crossed, frowning with that watchful, uncertain gaze Abe knew too well.
He couldn’t help smiling because Luke was probably annoyed that now he’d have to come up with some over-the-top, barnstorming proposal of his own… or risk looking like the emotionally stunted twin.
The crowd erupted, not just a cheer, but a full, rising wave of joy.
The girls swarmed Daphne, shrieking, laughing, tugging on her hands, wrapping her in hugs. One of them grabbed Abe’s hand, and before he knew it, he was pulled into the chaos, knee-deep in tulle and tights and squeals.
A former Army Ranger, once hardened by war, now stood in the center of a rickety stage beside his Snow Queen, surrounded by giggling ballerinas and an entire town clapping not just for a performance, but for healing. For love. For hope.
For home.