Page 4 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
“I saw. No one could’ve missed his colossal grand entrance,” Quinn said, kicking her foot high into the air above her head, starting her last exercise, the grand battement.
“Funny,” Constance said with a low, husky voice while maintaining a perfect arm position. “He will be hosting a ball to find a suitable wife on Winter’s Eve.”
“Yes, it’s positively medieval.” Quinn groaned, spinning and shifting onto her left leg.
Constance flashed a dimple with a devilish glint in her chestnut eyes. “I thought you would love that bit.”
Quinn shrugged off the jest, but the idea still unsettled her. The mere thought of a suitor ball gave her the urge to gag. No self-respecting girl wanted to marry a man after only spending a night with him. At least that was Quinn’s view, but according to the obnoxious whispers permeating the room, many did not share her opinion.
“I don’t envy the poor girl who marries him,” Quinn said. “Ibet he stares at himself in a normal mirror for at least two hours every morning.”
“Indeed.” Constance’s tone was low and brooding. She was always moody when she danced.
The ballet director cleared his throat and clapped. “Great warm-up. Let’s begin today at the corps’ first entrance. Remember, this is the Ball of Diamonds. It is a show filled with intrigue and romance. Make me feel the tension and excitement!”
The dancers split apart and moved into position—the girls on one side of the room and the boys on the other. They were to perform the Waltz of Roses.
“Girls, remember to act coy yet excited when your partners enter.” The director walked to the front of the room and motioned to the piano. “From the top, please, Andrews.”
The piano played a three-four tempo—the waltz tempo.
The dance began with bourrée steps to the center. The quick movements created the effect of floating atop the clouds, the magic of it erupting through Quinn’s core and tingling on her skin as she glided across the floor like a fairy hovering above a lily pad, her steps light, delicate, and beautiful.
A fairytale come to life.
“One, two, three, not too fast. Watching your arms . . . Left shoulder back and squeeze,” the ballet director commanded like a drill sergeant. “Two, three into the passé, four lifting the knee, five arrive, six, hold . . .”
Quinn let the music flow, breathe, and live inside her body. Dance was a form of enchantment, and the movement, precision, and skill all filled Quinn’s soul.
But a bead of sweat dripped down Quinn’s temple as her legs moved in quick succession. Exhaustion gripped its claws into her side, and the intense fire radiating from her wound was all-consuming. Dancing on pointe forced her calf into a constantly flexed position that pricked her stitches and possibly loosened them. But she begged her body to continue—to fight. Herbreaths became tight and restricted as they approached the boys’ entrance.
“Gentlemen, find your partner, one; Quinn, feel that passion. You’re stiff . . . You need to seduce your partner . . .”
Quinn’s heart twisted, pounding like an untamable beast. She sucked in a breath and tried to calm down. She also tried to flash a seductive smile at her partner, Arthur. It came out far more like an uncomfortable grimace than anything sensual.
“That’s not passion, Quinn,” the director yelled. “You look repulsed by him.”
Dammit. Quinn didn’t understand passion. She didn’t know how to look at a man with lust. Lust wasn’t quantifiable. It wasn’t science.
A sharp pain jolted through her calf as she spun into a promenade on attitude. A trickle of liquid rolled down her leg.
Shit, shit, shit, dirty mirrors, please only be sweat instead of blood, she begged.
“Alright, your final pirouette and a hold . . . five, six, seven, arrive.”
The director clapped while the dancers stopped, the boys letting go of the girls’ waists. Everyone tried to catch their breath. Exhaustion poured over Quinn as she clutched her stomach, trying to calm her nerves and heart.
“That wasn’t bad. But girls, I want to see that sparkle in your eye when the gents come toward you.”
Constance and Quinn shared a glance. Neither girl would have a sparkle in their eyes upon seeing a boy. But for different reasons. Constance preferred the company of ladies, and Quinn preferred . . . well, not a prince. Or a lord or a duke—but especially not a prince.
Princes were for looking, not touch—
Her thoughts were interrupted as the director said, “Especially you, Quinn. I need you to find your passion if you’re going to make it into the company.”
Her core solidified into unmoving, unyielding stone. Sheneeded to impress the director, so he’d choose her. The last thing she needed was to be singled out as the worst dancer in the room. This wasn’t true because Quinn was a brilliant dancer, but she was adequate compared to the competition.
But not the worst.
