Page 4 of The General's Gift
Verón.
The theater director emerged from the wings with the flourish of a man who believed himself both impresario and masterpiece. His plum coat, far too tight at the chest—gleamed beneath the stage lights like an overripe fruit. Brocade spilled from his cuffs in lacy defiance of fashion, and his mustachios curled at the ends as if each strand had been trained to leer.
His eyes, watery and always too curious, slid over her with calculated indulgence. “Dear Celeste Dubois. Are you ready to be the star of my new ballet?” Verón asked.
Celeste’s throat had gone dry, but her smile, ever reliable, flickered into place.
Verón’s grin was all teeth and artifice. “My ballet will be called Ondine. It will be grand, sweeping, everything our audience craves in these troubled times. Picture this—a nymph with the color of coral in her hair. She lives in the ocean, as carefree andboundless as the water itself. She is unspoiled by mortal desires until one dawn she is discovered by a powerful king.”
A powerful king? That didn’t seem right. In fairy tales, a prince was always gracious, charming, and kind. Kings were reserved for epic battle stories, or tragedies.
Celeste nodded at Verón, but her gaze darted to Louise and Katherina, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Veron narrowed his eyes. “The mortal ruler, captivated by Ondine’s beauty, becomes obsessed and only rests when he forces her to be his queen.”
The word “forces” echoed louder than the rest, and her pulse pounded in her temples. This was the stage. Just a ballet. Celeste was among friends. She was safe. Safe.
“When the king consummates the marriage, Ondine transforms into water foam, her ethereal form dissolving into the very ocean that once gave her life. The king is left cursed, unable to ever fall in love again, condemned to live with the memory of what he destroyed.”
“Oh, what a divine tale, monsieur. Such drama, such poetry.”
She was smiling, but the Papillon stirred—a flutter at the base of her spine, like a shadow of a wing in candlelight.
Verón clapped his hands. “Ah, Saint-Léon! There you are. My King. Come. Let’s rehearse the meeting scene.”
Saint-Léon would be her partner? Celeste watched the company’s virtuoso prowl near, all muscles and explosive talent. The most famous dancer in Europe. She should rejoice, but her palms grew moist and moister still. Oh, dear Verona. What if he took her hand, and she slipped from his grasp? What if he touched her? Why, she was a ballerina, was she not? What if their old choreographer never required her to dance a pas de deux? Eventually, this would happen.
“I want you to lift her, perform a fish dive, and lift again and pirouette. But remember. You are a warrior, and she is as delicate as water,” Verón said.
Saint-Léon came closer. Well, it would be like inA Midsummer Night’s Dream, when Oberon lifted Titania. She tilted her chin, let her lashes flutter, and pretended the world was still a stage and not a trapdoor waiting to swallow her whole.
The Papillon’s wings brushed against her ribs, frantic and rising. Celeste’s smile faltered for half a breath before she stitched it back in place. She told herself she was a dancer. This was a role. A pas de deux was inevitable. But the Papillon didn’t listen. A tremor ran through her thigh, and her knees softened.
Saint-Léon stopped before her. He was going to touch her.
I can’t. I can’t do this.
“If Ondine is a nymph... surely her partner mustn’t touch her. That would break the spell,” Celeste blurted, stepping back.
The silence that followed was thick with disbelief.
Then Verón laughed. It was not kind, cracking across the stage like a whip. “Why, Mademoiselle Dubois? I was under the impression that this was my ballet.”
His smile vanished. “Saint-Léon, lift her.”
Saint-Léon reached for her again. His hand landed at her waist, and suddenly, it wasn’t Saint-Léon before her, but a shadow from the past.
The Papillon burst, its wings battering against her throat, cutting off her air. Celeste’s gaze flew to her friends.
Louise. Katherina. Help me.
“Stop.” Louise’s voice rang out.
Saint-Léon’s hand vanished. Celeste stumbled back—one step, then another, until her spine met the cool edge of the set behind her.
“I can do the pas de deux,” Louise said. “If I wear a red wig, no one will notice. And it gives Celeste a chance to rest before the solo. She jumps so high. It’s impossible to do both.”
Verón didn’t answer. He looked from Celeste to Louise, tapping his fingers against his lips in obvious irritation.
