Chapter Twenty-Two Anya
The wings smell of powder, starch, and old wood—familiar, grounding, and tonight utterly overwhelming.
I roll my shoulders back and breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, the way I’ve been taught since I was a child.
My hands tremble anyway. The Lilac Fairy waits just beyond the curtain, and so does the audience—hundreds of faces I cannot see but can feel pressing toward me like a held breath.
First entrance, I remind myself—just the first.
My costume is a pale whisper against my skin, layers of lavender tulle brushing my thighs every time I shift my weight. The bodice is snug, reassuring. The crown feels heavier than it did in the dressing room, as if it understands the responsibility of the role better than I do.
The orchestra begins the introduction, soft and deliberate. My cue is coming.
I think of the crowd despite myself. Of the darkness beyond the footlights. Of the critics, the patrons, the dancers’ parents, the strangers who will decide in the space of a single phrase whether I belong here.
And then, unbidden, my thoughts find Vladimir.
I don’t know if he’s in the audience tonight.
He said he would try to come, his smile careful, his eyes too knowing.
The idea of him watching—really watching—makes my pulse stutter.
I imagine him somewhere in the velvet seats, his attention fixed, his expression unreadable.
I imagine disappointing him, and the thought cuts sharper than any review ever could.
Stop.
I press my fingers into my palms, grounding myself. The Lilac Fairy does not doubt. She does not scan the crowd for reassurance. She arrives because she must.
“Places,” someone whispers behind me.
The curtain shivers.
This is not about Vladimir. It’s not about the audience, or the applause, or the fear curling low in my stomach. It’s about the music waiting for me. It’s about the story that needs to be told.
I lift my chin and let my face settle into calm authority. The nerves don’t vanish, but they quiet down, folding themselves neatly beneath purpose.
When the curtain parts, light spills across the stage like a benediction.
I step forward.
The noise in my head falls away the instant my foot touches the floor. The world narrows to space and timing, to breath and balance. My arms open slowly, deliberately, as if I am gathering fate itself. The court freezes. The music bends.
I am no longer waiting to be seen.
I am here.
The Lilac Fairy has arrived.
The moment my foot leaves the stage after my first exit, my lungs burn—not from exhaustion, but from relief. I am shaking, just slightly, adrenaline humming beneath my skin like a second pulse. I don’t let it show. The Lilac Fairy does not rush. She withdraws with intention.
In the darkness of the wing, I listen.
The ballet unfolds without me for a time—Aurora’s christening, the bright precision of the court, the ripple of unease as Carabosse storms in.
I know every count, every cue. I mouth the music silently, my body responding even when I am still.
When I return to counter the curse, my entrance feels different from the first—firmer, steadier.
The fear is gone now, replaced by something like resolve.
I shape the story's fate with my hands.
I feel it when the audience leans in, when the orchestra breathes with me, when the stage seems to tilt toward my center. Each balance settles deeper than the last. I am not proving anything anymore. I am doing it.
Time passes strangely after that. A hundred years flicker by in music and motion.
When I guide the Prince toward the sleeping court, my steps feel inevitable, as if they have always existed and I am simply uncovering them.
I sense him behind me, following not because he must, but because he trusts me.
That realization tightens my throat.
In my final appearance, when the spell breaks and the world awakens, I feel an unexpected ache bloom in my chest. Joy, yes—but also farewell. The Lilac Fairy does not stay. She ensures the ending, then steps aside.
As I hold my last pose, arms lifted in quiet benediction, I allow myself one heartbeat to feel everything at once—the music vibrating through my bones, the heat of the lights, the weight of the crown, the knowledge that I did not falter.
The curtain falls.
Backstage erupts in sound—laughter, breathless congratulations, the rustle of tutus and relief. Someone squeezes my hand. Someone else hugs me hard enough to knock the wind from my lungs. I smile, dazed, my heart still racing as if the music hasn’t stopped.
Then the call comes.
“Curtain.”
We line up quickly, principals first, the familiar order grounding me again.
When the curtain rises, the applause crashes over us like surf.
I step forward with the others, bowing once, twice.
When I am called alone, I feel it fully—the roar, the warmth, the undeniable certainty that tonight, I belong.
As we join hands for the final bow, I glance out into the darkened house, searching without meaning to.
I don’t know if I can find him.
But I know this: the Lilac Fairy has done her work.
And as the curtain falls for the last time, I carry that truth with me, steady and shining.
The corridor outside the dressing rooms hums with a low, happy chaos—laughter echoing off concrete walls, the rustle of tulle, the sharp scent of champagne uncorked somewhere nearby.
I’m still half in costume, my crown gone but lavender ribbons trailing from my hair, when Skylar throws her arms around me.
“You were magnificent,” she says into my shoulder. “I mean it. Not just good. Transcendent.”
I laugh, breathless, the sound still unfamiliar after holding so much control for so long. “You’re biased.”
“Maybe,” she admits, pulling back to look at me properly. “But the audience wasn’t.”
As if summoned by the thought, my father steps closer, carefully navigating around bouquets and dancers shedding layers of costume. Alexandr’s expression is composed as always, but his eyes shine with something dangerously close to pride.
“You were spectacular,” he says—high praise, from him. “The Lilac Fairy requires authority. You had it.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you, Papa.”
He kisses my cheek, brief and formal, then allows Skylar to reclaim me.
Someone presses a plastic cup into my hand.
I take a sip—sweet, fizzy, grounding. My legs are beginning to feel heavy now that the adrenaline is ebbing, but my heart is still soaring, buoyed by smiles, congratulations, and the shared glow of survival.
“How do you feel?” Skylar asks as she sips from her cup.
“Exhausted, but revved up,” I admit.
“I imagine so,” Skylar says with a laugh.
I turn slightly, scanning the narrow space without meaning to.
And then I see him.
Vladimir stands at the far end of the corridor, just inside the backstage threshold, dark coat open, posture relaxed but intent.
The noise dulls around me as our eyes meet.
He doesn’t look away. His gaze settles on me with unmistakable focus—warm, assessing, undeniably hungry in a way that has nothing to do with the performance.
My breath catches.
He starts toward me, unhurried, certain.
And in that single, charged moment, surrounded by flowers and fading music, I know exactly who he has come to see.
Vladimir stops in front of me as if the rest of the corridor has dissolved, leaving only the two of us suspended in the afterglow of the performance.
“You were extraordinary,” he says quietly. His voice is low enough that it feels like it belongs only to me. “Not just beautiful. True.”
Heat rises into my cheeks. Compliments after a performance usually slide off me, absorbed and forgotten in the rush. This one doesn’t. This one settles.
“Thank you,” I manage. “I was terrified.”
“I know,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s what made it compelling. You held the entire ballet together. The Lilac Fairy is the axis—everything turns on her.”
I blink, surprised. Not many people understand that.
Before I can respond, he lifts his hand. The movement is unhurried, deliberate. His fingers brush my cheek, barely there, as if he’s testing whether I’m real. The touch sends a shiver through me, sharp and undeniable.
I hold still, suddenly hyper-aware of my breath, the warmth of his skin, the intimacy of the gesture amid so many people.
His eyes darken, and there is no mistaking what I see there. Admiration, yes—but also desire. Focused and intent, like he has already decided something and is simply waiting for the right moment to act.
I drop my gaze, shy and flustered, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself. “You shouldn’t,” I murmur, though I don’t move away.
He lets his hand fall, but the space where his fingers touched me still burns.
I glance to the side, needing air, needing something solid. That’s when I notice him—standing at the edge of the crowd, half in shadow. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way he holds himself, pricks at my memory.
I frown slightly.
I know him. Or I should.
The light shifts as someone passes in front of him, and for a moment I think I catch the outline of his face—but then it’s gone again, swallowed by movement and noise. My attention drifts, curiosity tugging at me harder than it should.
“Anya?” Vladimir says.
“I’m sorry, I thought I saw… Never mind, I couldn’t have,” I ramble before taking a deep breath and focusing my attention on Vladimir. “You came to the opening?”
“Of course I did,” he smiles. “You were breathtaking. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you.”
I flush and avoid meeting his eyes. “Thank you.” When I finally get the courage to look at him, he’s frowning as he follows Skylar with his eyes. I hadn’t noticed her leaving my side. “Is something wrong?”
“No, but I need to go. I’ll let you get back to your fans. You were amazing. I plan on coming to your next performance just to see you again.”
Then he’s gone.
Confusion curls low in my stomach. I stand there, suddenly very aware of how exposed I feel—still in costume, adrenaline ebbing, the world settling back into place around me.
My cheek still tingles where Vladimir touched me.
I scan the crowd once more, searching for the shadowed figure, for Vladimir, for anything familiar.
But all I see are strangers, and the echo of a moment that feels unfinished, as if something has been interrupted before it could fully begin.
The shine of the evening is wearing off, and I realize that all I want is to change and go home. Leaving the noise behind me, I head for my dressing room.