Page 115 of The Duke's Dream
“Dear, cheer up." Celeste pressed her arm. "Viola felt abandoned in a foreign land, but what did she do? She used her wit and reinvented herself to succeed.”
Louise groaned. “Celeste, do you hear yourself? It is exactly because Helene created a different version of herself that she is wretched.”
Helene was startled at Louise’s declaration. Though she had once struggled to separate herself from La Sylphide, the role had helped her grow into a real woman—one who embraced life and its desires beyond the perfection of ballet. The pain came from others who saw nothing more than the ethereal Sylph.
Celeste’s chin trembled. “I only wanted to help.”
“I’m fine.” Helene clasped Celeste’s hand. “Lady Thornley’s dismissal was a blow, and the scandal…” She had been reluctant to leave the apartment this afternoon, afraid people might point at her and accuse her of being a fallen woman. Still, the costermongers selling their fruit, the sweepers sweeping the streets, and pedestrians paid no attention to her.
"As Macbeth would say: ‘Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day.’”
Beyond the shame of having her privacy discussed in the papers, her chest felt hollow, and her senses were muted—dull colors and scents insipid. No music. William had taken something vital from her, and she hadn’t yet learned how to live without it.
How was he? Was he still grieving? Would he accept comfort from others around him or entrench himself into the Silent Sovereign persona?
Where was he?
Spiraling into endless questions wouldn’t help. William would return. And when he did, this tremendous gap he had left in her chest would mend. Meanwhile, she decided she would not allow herself to wallow in drama. She would plunge herself into the ballet. The ballet didn’t judge—the ballet welcomed.
When they reached the theater’s box office, the girls halted. Louise blanched, and Celeste clapped a hand over her mouth.
Helene followed their gaze. The plaque for next week’s performances had been changed. Where La Sylphide had once stood in elegant script, a new title glared back in bold letters.
Her vision blurred. She gripped Louise’s arm. It was over.
All her hard work—her dream of becoming La Sylphide—ripped away in an instant.
Louise gasped. “You said your contract was for the entire season.“
“It was.”
Helene exhaled. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of disappointment.
Maybe it was time to let go.
A carriage passed in front of them.
“Look, Mama, the fairy queen!”
The sweet, high-pitched voice rose above the horse’s clattering hooves.
A little girl, perched in a phaeton, beamed at her. The child’s eyes sparkled with wonder, her peachy skin aglow in the afternoon light. She waved, delighted. Warmth kindled in Helene’s chest. Wasn’t this why she had fought so hard to be La Sylphide? She was more than a role on a stage—she was an inspiration.
Helene straightened. She forced a bright smile and returned the wave.
No. It wasn’t over. Not until she said it was. With a sharp breath, she strode forward and tore the playbill from the window. Flanked by her friends, she stormed into the theater.
La Sylphide was hers. And no one would take it from her without a fight.
***
The scent of makeup and cheap cologne hit them the moment they stepped into the warming-up room. Women of the corps de ballet exposed breasts and buttocks as they stripped off costumes, elbowed their way to the mirrors, twisted pins into hair, and nibbled on chocolates. Men loitered like spiders around gas lamps, eyes gleaming with unspoken bargains.
“I thought Verón promised to close the green room to patrons,” Celeste whispered, clutching Helene’s hand. Her gaze darted nervously around the space.
“Since when can we trust that scum?” Louise muttered, her glare sharp enough to slice through silk.
Helene’s anger surged. “I’ll speak with him. Now.”
