Page 59 of The Duke's Dream
“Only the best for our prima ballerina,” Katherina said, her voice filled with pride as she adjusted the straps over Helene’s shoulders.
Helene sought her reflection. The person who looked back at her wore a tight-fitted, white satin bodice, and a cloud of tulle as a skirt. The little wings sparkled on her back. Pearl dust shimmered across her arms and décolletage. Helene lifted her arm and tilted her head to see if the woman in the glass would do the same. And though the image followed her, the sensation would not go away—as if Helene was not there, only La Sylphide.
The third bell sounded. “Principal dancers to the stage. Last call.”
Helene’s heart sped, and she caught Katherina’s hand. Her throat was so dry she couldn’t swallow her own saliva.
Katherina sustained her gaze, her expression serene. “Breathe, child. Come, the box Anglaise is filled to the brim. Two thousand five hundred tickets sold. Everyone is here—the Regent, Wordsworth, Coleridge… even the rabble. They all came to see you, and you will make us all proud.”
Katherina interlaced their arms, and together, they left the backstage.
With the curtains closed, the stage felt hushed, a realm apart from chaotic London. She loved everything about it—the scent, the lights, even the raked floor. It was challenging to move uphill, away from the audience, but coming down, she was a goddess.
Vestris adjusted his navy-blue coat and smoothed his plaited kilt. The perfect highlander, he would make Sir Walter Scott proud. Still, she couldn’t get used to seeing him in skirts, his knobby knees bare.
He stretched on the chair and winked. “I’ve been awake for the past two nights, and now I’m ready for you to haunt my dreams.”
Helene scrunched her nose. “You have some nerve to sleep on stage with your garters on display.”
Katherina pressed her hand affectionately. “Break a leg, Helene.”
“Better break a leg than my heart, non?”
Helene knelt by the chair, hands poised. If it were the duke sprawling before her, she would relish haunting him.
The music turned loud and louder still. The gas lamps were dimmed, plunging her into darkness. A thrill edged with nausea raced through her, and for a second, she thought she would faint.
The curtain opened. Once a mere wooden platform, the stage became a fairyland under focused lights. The orchestra swelled, each note a cue, a breath, a pulse.
Before her, the auditorium stretched out, a vast expanse dotted with flesh-colored, nameless faces. Helene sought the duke among the audience, finding only an ocean of shadows and light.
Relentless, the orchestra prodded her on, and Helene embarked on the music. The notes carried her performance, helping her lift her leg in the adagio and giving her energy through the allegro.
When it was time to travel backstage for her long diagonal of turns, her chest heaved, and her feet burned. Even before she started spinning, the darkness, the mass of nondescript faces, made her dizzy. She would do as Langley had said—a single pirouette—and pray it was enough.
A flicker of motion drew her gaze upward.
Movement in the ducal box.
Her stomach dropped, then coiled with heat. He was there.
She couldn't see him through the glare of footlights and the blur of distance—but she felt him. His presence hummed beneath her ribs, steady and electric, echoing in the same space as the music. That impossible thing between them—this heat, this yearning—it surged across the theater like a current, vaulted the orchestra pit, and struck her square in the chest.
After a short preparation, she spun.
Turning once, twice, she flapped her wings, a creature of air and art. When she completed the triple pirouette, the audience erupted.
The rest of the performance passed in a daze. After the Sylph finally died on stage, she smiled through tears of joy.
Flowers fell at her feet, and the public clapped wildly. Vestris took her hand and lifted her. Together, they bowed once, twice, thrice. Her cheeks ached from smiling, and her breaths came in bursting gasps.
Then the curtain closed.
Helene blinked as the light changed. Too soon. The curtain had closed too soon. Disoriented, she took a step forward and then another. Her friends hugged her, Langley shook her hand, and Verón kissed it. Katherina gave her a knowing look, and Sophie gave her a sullen one.
She paid attention to neither, trying to see through the slit of light between both halves of the curtain.
Celeste embraced her. “Helene, where are you floating now? Has all this fame gone to your head??”
