Page 85 of Swallow Your Sorries

“For any newcomers, I’m Mistress Errard. You may address me solely as Mistress.”

“Good morning Mistress,” a chorus breaks out.

“I trust you all practised well over the summer. Well, those who have any hopes of securing a leading role in our midterm production.”

“Has the ballet been selected already?” Rin asks, her eyebrows flying up.

Mistress nods teasingly.

I straighten at that. We were talking about productions already? At my old school, we had a month before showtime to prepare. Mid-term break is still two months away. Then again, what did I expect from such a professional school as Beaulieu? Their elaborate stage sets alone were Royal Opera House worthy. The props department probably needs more time than the dancers.

Everyone waits on bated breath, the room growing deathly silent and Mistress is enjoying the tension because she pauses for effect before saying, “This year, we’ll be performing Cinderella.”

Cinderella was the play that got me interested in ballet in the first place. Sure, I’d been happy for the Nutcracker and Carmen, two plays that my instructor had chosen a dozen times over, but I’d never performed Cinderella before.

Just being at Beaulieu felt like a Cinderella story.

My heart pulses to the excitement buzzing around the room.

“Cinderella?”

“My favourite.”

“Which version though? There are two popular choreographies.”

“I hope it’s—”

But I never get to hear which version a petite brunette prefers because Mistress is already cutting on the music.

“Get into position. We shall discuss more about the play later. For now. Let’s see how miserably, or how well you’ve maintained your skills.”

At that, we transition into an intense stretch routine that’s borderline brutal.

Still, I managed to keep up decently with the class, much to my elation. That is until we’re split into rows of three for Mistress Errard to analyse every position, leap, and turn with a magnifying glass.

The boys go first, and my eyes are immediately drawn to Gant, who dances like a dream. Of course, he does. He’s prima ballerina Pelliot’s offspring, so why did I secretly hope, no wish, he’d be anything but polished perfection?

His body is like one of those ancient statues, carved and chiselled immaculately. His lean muscles, so visible through his tights, flex and retract powerfully, effortlessly with every moment. That’s what he is, powerful effortlessness and suddenly I find myself adding a new emotion to the dozens that already encompass Gant Auclair.Envy. I’m envious of the jackass.

I’m bitter about how he moves and lands so gracefully, so quietly, and yet his presence still commands and dominates the entire room. The independent nation, Platinum Blonde, comes in a clear second, and Étienne in third.

I’m envious of the way his inky locks fall into his eyes with every turn, adding to his mystery and intrigue.

I’m jealous that all eyes follow him around the room, including Mistress Errard, who can’t pry her eyes away long enough to offer much critique to anyone else when Gant’s on the floor.

That is until it’s my turn, however.

“Eloisa!” Mistress Errard shrieks for the third time in the past ten minutes. “Are you an aeroplane?”

“N-no miss,” I say, wondering what I did wrong this time. The fifteenth time, to be exact.

“Then why are you leaning forward in your arabesque like you’re about to take flight?” She pushes on my stomach hard with her cane, forcing me to straighten.

“More like Big Bird,” Rin sniggers to Kesia.

With each new position, my critiques grow worse.

“If you sickle those feet anymore Eloisa, you’ll be able to harvest an entire wheat field.”

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