Chapter 1
CATELINE
Concordia is best known for its chocolate cake—three layers of moist deliciousness cushioned by fluffy buttercream and topped with a rich ganache.
As someone with what I privately call a “Chocolate tooth,” having easy access to this kind of confection is vitally important. For the uninitiated, a chocolate tooth is like a sweet tooth, but specifically for all things cocoa-related. My dentist does not approve.
The chocolate cake was but one of the pros of moving to Concordia. Another thing this small country is famous for is the sweeping view of the ocean to the south and the lush mountainsides that give way to impressive peaks to the north.
The third is the sunrises. I live for those. Don’t get me wrong, sunsets are pretty, but there’s something especially promising about a new day.
If you’re a night owl, please don’t hate this early bird.
Upon waking, my first thought is chocolate cake. Don’t judge.
My second one is much like a character in a fairytale cartoon. I envision rushing to the window, throwing open the curtains, and letting in the light of what’s sure to be a beautiful day.
However, I don’t dare because I’d risk stumbling over the assortment of nearly-identical shoes, clothes in need of dry cleaning, and the rest of my life scattered on my bedroom floor like confetti.
Also, it’s still dark out. Like clockwork, my body knows what day it is without having to look at the puppy-themed calendar on the wall. I guarantee that if any of my clients wandered in here, they wouldn’t believe this is the headmistress’s room. Like my chocolate tooth, I keep my mess to myself.
I flop back onto the mattress, but something pokes into my side.
I dig out one of my many black high heels—this one with scalloped detail on the top line.
One of my previous clients pointed out that I have an assortment of black high heels—different heights, textures, and styles.
All black, all designer, all made to elongate my legs.
I suppose some habits don’t disappear after the thirty days they say it takes to break one.
How many years has it been since I gave up what everyone said was a promising future in ballet? Before I can make that calculation, something else pokes me.
I click on the dim light on my bedside table.
The piece of mail is addressed to me, Cateline Berghier. The first one like this came a few months ago and they’ve increased in frequency. I ignored it until last week and was instantly sorry that I opened it.
The immigration office regrets to inform me that my work visa has expired and blah, blah, blah.
I’ll deal with that problem later. After I get this school back on track and after I deal with today. Every year, in late March, a tsunami-sized wave of regret and relief washes over me.
Yes, it’s that big. I’m French and have been told I have a flair for the dramatic. Actually, my mother said that. But trust me, when it comes to her, I have my reasons.
To everyone else in the world, I’m calm, reasonable, and have the style and poise that got me the job as headmistress and ranks me as one of the top etiquette teachers in the world.
Take that, mère.
However, it’s my clients who have a flair for the dramatic, evidenced by them messing up their lives in such a way that necessitates character rehabilitation at Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia.
Then again, I’m all too familiar with messes.
My private bedroom in the headmistress’s suite notwithstanding—this space is an exception.
The main room is tidy and organized, as it should be.
My room, not so much. There are only so many things I can stay on top of, and this one I can leave behind a closed door.
About a decade ago, my entire life was a mess. I made a vow to be true to myself and have kept my word ever since. But that doesn’t stop me from pulling out the box at the back of my closet once every year to make sure I made the right choice.
After carefully picking my way across the room, and kicking aside yet another pair of black high heels, I open the closet. From the back, I pull out a box and remove the lid. My hand immediately lands on the pale pink tulle tutu. A ripple runs through me, landing deep in my stomach.
I set it to the side and remove the leotard, the tights, and at last, the ballet slippers—my satin pointe shoes. They’re as worn and beloved as I remember. My fingers smooth across the ties and the ripple inside turns into a tug.
As usual, I have a long day ahead, but this is something I get up early for once a year. It’s something I have to do. I owe it to the brave young woman who made a tough decision all those years ago.
There is only one way to confirm that I didn’t choose the wrong path.
As the sky lightens, I clear the furniture from the middle of the spacious main room in my suite.
As the headmistress, it’s the largest in the manor and aside from my bedroom, the tidiest. Ordinarily, I feel like it’s a bit excessive, given the financial situation at Blancbourg, but today, it’s necessary.
I draw a deep breath, already feeling warm from rearranging the furnishings and rolling up the rug to reveal the hardwood floor. A pinkish-yellow light, like a ripe peach, filters into the room as the sun rises.
Next, I pull my hair into a smooth bun—not at the nape of my neck like how I usually wear it when working, nor is it the messy kind I wear on the top of my head when I’m alone—which is the rest of the time.
Even in the dim light, my fingers remember what to do without me needing to think about how to achieve the perfect ballerina bun. I did it so many times when I was growing up, the motions are programmed into my hands like a hair-styling robot.
Work is my life now, but before that, it was ballet. Gaston, my dreadful barbarian of an ex, tried to slip in there, but when he revealed his true—and at times aggressive—motives, I said goodbye to love and hello to my future.
My best friend and former assistant, Gemma Nelson, thinks I could stand to let a little love into my life, but this way, I don’t have to clean my room, won’t have to share my chocolate, and don’t have to worry about heartbreak.
Relationships are messy, and in my experience, they can be dangerous.
But before I made my great ballet escape, I’d been in what felt like a lifelong relationship with the guy my mother wanted me to marry and who was my dance partner.
When I wasn’t with Gaston (and often when I was), I practiced ballet before school and afterward until my mother eventually found a tutor and my schedule switched.
After that, I studied early in the morning and late into the night while spending the majority of the day dancing.
Then they sent me to the academy where I danced full-time.
After doing my hair, I pull on the tights, leotard, and tutu. Lastly, I grip a shoe in each hand. Closing my eyes, I feel the curve, the potential, the meaning. They are the final piece to the version of myself I’d left behind. When I put them on, I’ll dance and know if I did the right thing.
Like every other time I perform this annual ritual, my stomach flutters with reluctance and anxiety, because what if something is different? What if I changed my mind? What if I lace up the shoes and realize I made the wrong choice?
I’ll have to live with that regret and tell my mother that she was right. She’d respond, It’s too late. You should have listened to me. You’re too old. You messed up.
Although my bedroom is a mess, I’m otherwise a perfectionist and can’t tolerate the thought of being wrong.
However, there is only one way to find out.
I slide my foot into one shoe and then the other. If anyone were watching, they’d witness a ceremonial, almost reverential, method to my lacing the ballet slippers around my ankles.
Next, I point and flex my feet, do a few ankle rolls, and then go through the steps that I performed daily over the span of years.
Afterward, I move through first position, second, third, fourth, and fifth, then continue with centre practice.
I do a few more warm-ups and then glide effortlessly across the floor performing arabesques, grande jetés, and a pirouette as part of but one of the many choreographed dances that are etched into my DNA.
The movements are part of my muscle memory, having been drilled into me early and often.
It’s like my bones are the worn grooves of water over stone.
My body knows what to do.
But my mind?
My heart?
My mind pings me with a reminder that I have to get ready for work soon.
Although I don’t currently have any students, I’m actively looking for new coaches, have to plug a hole in our finances, and find someone to plug a hole in the roof—we had to let the groundskeeper go and I don’t want to ask Arthur to climb up there.
He’d do it, but I can’t risk anything happening to him.
In other words, I must be on my toes—pun not intended.
My mind is hungry to learn, grow, and pursue opportunities to further my career as an educator. To remain independent and provide myself with a secure future.
However, my heart... My heart beats out a rhythm that I wasn’t expecting. It catches me off guard, and I stumble but quickly recover.
I assumed it would have the same response that it’s had for the last ten years that I’ve suited up on the anniversary of my decision to leave ballet. To leave France. To pursue a life for myself.
Closing my eyes, I press my hand against my chest. My heart races from exertion, leaving me more breathless than I’ve been in a long time. But there’s something else too. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
However, there isn’t time to try to figure it out right now. The church bells in the village where I attend worship service every week ring, signaling the hour. Panic jolts me into action. I danced longer than usual and lost track of time.
I quickly unlace my pointe shoes, tear off the tutu, leotard, and the tights—not taking the usual care to make sure they don’t snag and run.
As I shove everything back into the box, I pause when I glimpse the contents at the bottom. The many newspaper articles, clippings, programs from shows, and photographs draw my attention.
My heart lurches—probably strained from the effort of dancing.
I’ve been holding my breath and gasp. Something foreign and liquid springs to my eyes as I gaze at the image of a young woman.
She stands under the spotlight, perfectly poised in the traditional ballet stance with one arm lifted, one leg extended in a clean line as she gazes at the sky, in the distance, at her future.
From the photograph, an innocent seventeen-year-old girl looks back at me.
It is me. Who I once was.
The photo had been captured during my last performance. But there is no time for reminiscing. I rub my eyes and stow everything back in the closet. Hurrying as I rearrange the furniture, uneasiness wells inside.
“Things sure have changed,” I mutter. For some reason, I don’t think that’s all the change on the calendar this week.