Ballet Master by Cassie Mint

Six

Raphael

There is something wrong with Paige.

The first day in the theater usually bubbles with excitement. The dancers can imagine it properly for the first time: the rows of faces in the audience. The music floating up from the orchestra pit. The heat of the lights and the deafening applause.

The rest of the dancers chatter excitedly as Madame and I lead them through the backstage corridors, giggling and whispering as we pass the stars’ dressing rooms. And none have more reason to be excited than Paige—she has the biggest part. The most to gain.

Yet she trails behind the others, barely listening to whatever her partner David is droning about in her ear. Her eyes skate along the scuffed linoleum floor, the flyers pinned to cork boards fluttering as she walks past.

Her shoulders are slumped. Her face is pale.

My God, what have I done?

“The costume fittings are scheduled for 3pm.” Madame lists the day’s appointments in my ear, but I cannot concentrate either. Not when my angel is dragging her feet over the corridor floor, so lost and deflated.

Did I hurt her?

Did I—did I force her somehow? Make her feel obliged to me—the ballet master? Bile rises in my throat at the thought. It felt so perfect in the studio yesterday, the two of us falling into flawless sync when we were alone—did I imagine that?

God.

If I have harmed my angel… I cannot live with myself.

“I must speak to the leads.”

I contain myself until we are gathered on the stage, the dancers gaping at the scenery hanging in the flies overhead. But as soon as Paige’s eyes land on me, I can’t wait a moment longer. I need to speak with her. I need to know.

“The rest of you warm up. Run through the steps. We will block out the opening dance.”

I barely hear my own instructions. I can only see Paige, can only watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath her sweater. Her chunky sweatshirt is gone today—she is draped in a soft black woolen sweater which brushes against the dips and swells of her body.

Perfect for the black swan.

She is perfect.

“Paige. David.” I clear my throat. “Come here, please.”

David strides quickly over, but Paige drags her feet. She walks to me like she is walking to the gallows, and pain ripples through my chest.

“Are you ready?” I croak. She won’t look at me.

“Yeah, definitely,” David says brightly. “I’m so psyched.”

Fine. Whatever. I am happy that David is psyched, but can he not see that his partner is wilting?

“Give us a moment please, David.” Enough pretense. His eyes widen, but he walks away without another word. He joins the nearest group of dancers, dropping his bag to the floor and beginning his stretches, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Yes, Monsieur Dupont?”

Her voice is so quiet.

“Raphael,” I grit out. “Why do you not use my name?”

She looks up then at last, anger sparking in her eyes.

“Because we are in rehearsals, Monsieur. And here, I have no right—”

“You have all the right.” I step closer, hands itching to reach for her. “You more than anyone.”

She blinks, surprised, but then sets her chin again.

“This is my career, Monsieur. I want to be professional.”

She’s right. She’s quite right, and I know that she is, but I still hate this distance between us. If we were alone again, like we were in the studio, I could crush her to my chest. I could trail my lips along her hairline, I could suck in great lungfuls of her fresh cotton scent—

“What happened yesterday…” I need to know. “Did I force you, angel? Did I make you unhappy?”

“Um.” She darts a nervous glance around. Turns back to me, confused. “No. Of course not. At least…”

I clench my hands into fists. “At least what?”

She bites her lip. Answers in the smallest whisper. “At least until you pushed me away.”

“Pushed you—”

I dig my fists into my eyes. It is unthinkable.

“Paige,” I manage. My chest heaves under my shirt. “Do you think I don’t want you?”

“Um.”

Jesus Christ. This is a disaster. But Madame claps her hands, apparently tired of my neglect of her class. She gathers the dancers into their places for the starting dance, marking spots on the stage with strips of tape.

Paige glances over her shoulder, her arms wrapped tight around her middle.

“I should get back to rehearsal, Monsieur.”

“Of course.” I cannot speak anyway.

She looks at me one last time, chewing on indecision. Then she murmurs: “Thank you for this opportunity, Raphael.”

My heart flops over in my chest. The poor organ is too battered to do much more.

* * *

My chance comes hours later, when the afternoon sunshine filters through the open stage dock door and the dancers wilt with exhaustion. Madame is a taskmaster, barely allowing them enough breaks to sip their water bottles, but we have made excellent progress.

No one ever said ballet was easy.

I check my wristwatch, noting vaguely that my flight back to Paris will be landing around now, my seat in first class notably empty.

I don’t care. Paige is here.

The academy’s theater is small but refined. The seats can only hold a few hundred people, but every part of the building is well made. The cushioned seats are luxurious; the bars overhead bristle with stage lights; the wood panelled walls are glossy and fine.

“You will be called for your fittings in pairs,” I tell the students. “Do not keep the dressers waiting.” I school my features carefully blank. “Paige and David. You will be fitted first.”

It’s nothing unusual. And no one but Paige even blinks an eye when I fall into step beside them.

“You’re attending the fittings?” David asks, but there’s no layered meaning to his question. He is simply a friendly young man making conversation.

“Yes. For the leads.” I don’t care about the others. Madame will take care of them. I risk a glance at Paige, but she’s staring at the floor again.

God help me. Her sadness twists a hook in my gut.

“I bet you wore some crazy costumes over the years.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, David.” Costumes are most exciting for new dancers. When you start to win roles, when there are famous costumes you must wear, you find out that they are heavy and chafing. Often too delicate to clean properly, and stiff with other dancers’ sweat.

This will not be a problem for Paige. I ensured it. I placed a call late last night.

My Paige is soft. Delicate. Beautifully scented. She will not dance in sweaty cast-offs.

“Fit him first,” I tell the dressers when we step into Wardrobe. I nudge David forward, flashing a charming smile at the nearest seamstress. “Please.”

“Of course.” The woman flutters her hands for David to come closer, a long tape measure draped around her neck. “At once, Monsieur Dupont.”

“Paige and I will be just outside.” I take her by the elbow. “Running the steps one more time.”

No suspicious eyes follow us. No harsh whispers echo through the room. The workers are too busy rifling through huge dress rails, speaking to each other through pins pinched between their lips.

“Is there a problem with the steps?” Paige asks as I tug her through the doorway.

“Not with the steps.” I glance both ways along the corridor, then flatten her against the wall. She gasps, staring up at me with wide eyes. “My angel thinks I don’t want her. I must show her how wrong she is.”