Ballet Master by Cassie Mint

One

Paige

Madame claps her gnarled hands together, an immediate hush settling over the rehearsal studio. She stands in the center of the floor, her back ramrod straight and her chin tilted high. Though she hasn’t danced on stage in decades, Madame still holds herself like a prima ballerina. Her graying hair is scraped back into a flawless bun, floaty fabrics flutter around her as she moves, and she watches us along the narrow length of her nose.

“Students.”

Her throaty growl comes from her only vice—the cigarettes she still sucks down one after the other at the stage door. A habit from her performing days, when the dancers smoked to settle their nerves and chase the hunger away.

We murmur our greetings. Madame is… unpredictable. Sometimes she shouts that she expects a reply when she speaks. Other times, she wishes silence.

We hedge our bets and murmur quietly. Little indistinct sounds that we can swallow back if she frowns.

“We have a visitor today.” She arches one heavily penciled eyebrow. “A very important visitor.”

I keep my face carefully blank, my hands clasped loosely in front of my waist. Madame does not tolerate gaudy shows of emotion—it’s better to play the silent, dutiful dancer.

Inside, though, curiosity gnaws at my stomach. A visitor? So early in the year?

It’s too soon for recruiters from the big dance companies. Too soon for the parade of directors, come to snatch up budding talent.

We haven’t even been cast for the showcase yet.

A very important visitor. I fight the urge to fiddle with my worn leotard. If only I’d splashed out last month like I’d planned and bought some new dance clothes.

“You will have heard of Monsieur Dupont.”

A sharp intake of breath hisses through the studio. A flash of movement draws my gaze—a man pushing away from the doorway where he was leaning, away from prying eyes. The man strolls into the center of the room to join Madame, a panther’s grace in every fluid step.

His dark eyes scan the crowd as we stare at him, shell-shocked.

Raphael Dupont.

The legend.

He’s older now than in the videos I’ve seen—the bootleg clips of his most triumphant performances. The roles he danced that shook the ballet world to its core.

In those clips, he danced with fury, with hunger, with a snarl curling his top lip and sparks glancing from his heels. He was younger then, vibrant and vicious, but the man standing before us still crackles with power. He must be in his late thirties—a retired dancer, yes, but a man in his prime.

“Ladies.” Monsieur Dupont nods at the cluster of female dancers in our corner. “Gentlemen.” At the men in the other. The faint tinge of his accent has softened since his earlier interviews.

We hold our breath, too afraid to shatter this moment. To risk displeasing this legendary dancer, and carrying that shame for the rest of our lives. The silence hangs in the studio air, taut and shuddering, until Madame claps and the spell is broken.

“Take your places.” We hurry to do as she says, lining up at our allocated spots at the barre. “Let’s show Monsieur Dupont what you’re made of.”

What we’re made of? I settle a trembling hand on the barre, the polished wood worn smooth by thousands of hands before mine. I’m dressed in a faded gray leotard and there’s a tiny ladder at the heel of my pink tights. The satin on the bottom of my pointe shoes is frayed. Wisps of caramel hair frame my face, escaped as always from my bun.

What I’m made of…

I swallow hard, wait for the tinkle of piano keys, and wish I could disappear.

I’m not sure I’m made of anything.

* * *

“Paige.”

All around the studio, reflections of me jerk in the mirror. Madame stands at my elbow, watching me run through the warm-up exercises with her mouth pursed.

“Yes, Madame?” I murmur, trying not to move my lips. Monsieur Dupont watches us from the front of the room, his arms folded over his broad chest. Even under his long-sleeved black t-shirt, the shift and rise of his sculpted muscles is clear.

Madame starts to say something, then gusts out a sigh. It’s not like her to hold back criticism, and I risk glancing in her direction.

Her eyes darken.

“Face forward,” she snaps. “Did I tell you to break form?”

“No, Madame.”

Monsieur Dupont watches us, his expression tight. Am I messing up so badly? All around us, legs bend and raise. Limbs float through the air, the movement made to look effortless while we sweat and ache and tremble.

“You are wooden.” Her harsh words cut through the music. The tips of my ears burn, but I keep dancing. It’s so much harder when she is watching me, when Monsieur Dupont is watching me, but I try to make my movements fluid. Lyrical.

Perfect.

“Better,” she growls, like I’ve wasted her precious breaths. I don’t relax, even when she turns away. She strides across the studio, her heels drumming on the floor, but with the mirrors everywhere, it is never safe to slack.

I can never ease off, not even for a moment.

And especially not with a legend in our midst.

I steal another glance at Monsieur Dupont, and flush hot when I find him still watching me. His dark eyes are narrowed, his jaw tensed, and he stares at me with such intensity that my knees tremble.

I rescue my posture at the last moment, strengthening my limbs. I cannot mess this up. Not more than I already have.

By the time we leave the barre and step into the center, I feel one thousand years older. Every fumbled step, every wobble of my ankle, and misery churns worse in my gut. The worst part is Monsieur Dupont’s heavy gaze, settled like iron weights on my shoulders.

I idolize this man.

The clips of his performances have stolen my breath; have brought moisture brimming in my eyes.

And now he’s playing witness to what is quickly becoming the worst moment in my career. Why won’t he show mercy and look away?

“Enough.”

We freeze as the first bars of music stutter to a halt. Spaced in three lines in the center of the studio, we hold our breath as one. Even Madame, with her hardened eyes and pursed lips, seems to falter at Monsieur Dupont’s tone.

“A moment, please.” The way he says it, it’s not a request. It’s a command wrapped up in manners.

“Of course, Monsieur.” Madame’s hand flutters at the base of her throat. She marches to the piano, her palm slapping down on the wood. “Listen, class. Give Monsieur Dupont every scrap of your attention.”

As if we would not. What a nonsensical command. Monsieur Dupont’s eyebrow twitches, like he too finds the notion insulting, but he spares her further embarrassment.

No. All the humiliation is saved for me.

“Girl.” His eyes fasten on me. “With the ladder in her tights.”

Shame floods hot over my cheeks. I nod slightly to show I’m listening.

“Come here.” He points to the front row. “In the center.”

I dart a nervous glance at Madame, flinching at her scowl. The front row is reserved for her favorites. For the dancers she’s ear-marked for greatness. But even she does not dare to contradict Raphael Dupont, so I inch forward, my heart pounding against my breastbone.

Monsieur Dupont strides forward to meet me. He takes me by the arm, placing me in the center of the row. His grip is warm and firm, his face unreadable as I gaze up at him, lips parted.

A hiss echoes through the studio as he lowers his head. Murmurs in my ear, just for me.

“Your nerves are terrible, pretty dancer. Torn to pieces, just like your tights.”

The reminder of my threadbare clothes makes my cheeks burn. I duck my head, so ashamed, but the warm pad of his thumb draws light circles on my forearm.

“Ah, no. No tears, sweet girl. Only deep breaths and beautiful dancing. Yes?”

I draw in a shuddering inhale and nod. He smiles, faint and brief, then steps back. Glares around the class like their stares offend him.

“Well?” He claps twice, hard. “Get to work.”