Page 1 of The Duke's Dream
London,January15,1812
“Darling, you’re crowding the mirror,” Helene said as she gripped the barre, fixing Celeste with a pointed look.
Celeste, one of her dearest friends, could command all her possessions—Helene’s entire wardrobe, a prime spot on her creaky bed during nightmares, even the eau de cologne she’d gifted herself last season. But the barre and mirror in her garret? Helene guarded those like a she-wolf protecting her den.
Flashing an innocent smile, Celeste leaned closer to primp her strawberry-blonde hair.
“I’ll leave if you promise to come with me to Vauxhall Gardens. The night holds so much promise…” Celeste said. “Don’t you want to live outside the Theater, just this once?”
Helene glared at the tulle flowers whimsically pinned in Celeste’s coiffure. At nineteen, Celeste was the youngest of their band of French émigrés in Covent Garden. And the most persistent. At twenty-two, Helene liked to think she had grown immune to Celeste’s whims.
Well, mostly.
Those pleading hazel eyes made resistance as easy as holding back the tide with a teacup.
“Outside the theater? Why? Was it not the Bard who said all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women are players?” Helene asked.
She knew Celeste couldn’t challenge Shakespeare’s wisdom. In their case, it was not only true, but a ballerina’s first secret. They had no time for theliving—that messy, bland existence of common people. Helene reminded herself of this as she extended her leg behind her in arabesque, muscles taut with focus.
Celeste pouted. “You don’t get to use the Bard to justify your stubbornness. Would you go? Please? Think of the lovely music and the fireworks. It’s the beginning of the season at the pleasure gardens.”
“It is the beginning of our season in the theater as well,” Helene said.
And what a debut it would be, with her leg feeling as heavy as a dead rhinoceros. Helene commanded the rebellious limb to go higher. Her toes quivered, her thigh trembling, but she held the pose. And smiled. A ballerina’s second secret was knowing how to smile through pain.
Celeste's gaze followed Helene's leg from knee to foot. "Your lines are wondrous. I wish I had your extensions."
Their eyes met in the mirror for the first time.
Next to her friend, Helene was colorless. While Celeste's beauty dazzled like the fireworks she so delighted in—full of flair and spark—Helene's drifted closer to the earth, a sleek broom perhaps, or a freshly minted alley cat.
All brown hair and bright eyes.
But she had long mastered the art of not truly seeing herself… A ballerina needed the mirror's corrections, but the key was looking through it rather than at it. By focusing just past her reflection, on the flickering candle behind her, the seam of the tulle curtain, the garret's milky glass panes, she could avoid the girl staring back.
The mirror's judging eyes were a necessity of their art, but it didn't mean she had to meet them.
“Compliments will earn you… a chocolate croissant. But only one,” Helene said.
She stretched her leg an inch higher. There. The floor could become a tipsy server’s tray, and she the champagne glass perched atop it, but she would not fall. If she could hold for one hundred counts, she’d be ready for their demanding choreographer.
One, two, three…
While balancing on one leg, her mind latched onto images of stability—an ancient oak rooted for centuries, the North Star fixed in the sky—until Celeste glided forward, eclipsing Helene’s reflection.
“Is this who you want to be? The strict Malvolio fromTwelfth Night, scolding everyone’s fun? Or will you unleash the Viola I know you have inside yourself? Free, witty, and full of surprises?” Celeste asked.
Of course, Celeste would invoke Helene’s favorite Shakespearean heroine to strengthen her plea.
“Can’t I be all that tomorrow on stage?” Helene replied.
“What’s the fun in that?” Celeste’s eyes fairly lit the room. “We deserve a night to play. The Swans of Paris, taking London by storm!”
Were they still The Swans of Paris? As children, the name had seemed the height of cleverness. Back then, Shakespeare—The Swan of Avon—had been their closest friend in a city that shivered. His plays had taught them to speak English and so much more… How to make sense of puzzling situations and make light of heavy ones. That laughter could be armor, and wit, a sharper blade than any sword. That in the darkest tragedies, a flicker of light waited to be found… even if it took an eagle’s eye to see it.
And he had taught them to dream about love. Helene’s gaze flicked to Celeste. Some of them, more than others.
They had vowed never to let life or hardship pull them apart. But they had grown up. Yes, they were still Covent Garden ballerinas, but the four refugees from France had drifted. The oldest of them, Sophie de Valois, had abandoned The Swans, caring more for befriending society than socializing with her old friends. Louise Bonchoix was more interested in politics than art nowadays. And Helene? Well, words were no longer enough. She wanted tobe. Only Celeste Dubois lingered in the delicate limbo between Shakespeare’s comforting comedies and harsh reality.
