14

The Great Fournier’s cigar came out with a trail of smoke. “You. And you.” Two dancers, one who’d had an extended illness and another afraid of her own shadow, released their stance and left the line.

The rest of us held our breath. He consulted his papers, frowned, and took three more steps. “You.” Another dancer peeled away. I held my breath as he paused at Tovah, looking her up and down, gaze landing on her wild curls. “Do something with that hair.”

“Yes, monsieur.” She melted back with a curtsy but remained in the line.

Two more strides and his gaze was roving over me from above, inspecting me for flaws. A chill overtook me as I stood waiting, breathing in the odor of his sticky-sweet cigar. I was positive his gaze deepened upon my face and I heard a low, guttural growl. Part bear?

“Put a little romance into your dance—a little warmth, yes? Ballet is not stiff, Miss Blythe.” His voice was surprisingly elegant and controlled, all growling aside.

I drew in a breath and closed my eyes, then he was gone with a whoosh of cool air, gliding down the line. I opened my eyes and looked about the greenroom where I still belonged. For now.

Romance, though. How did one dance alone . . . romantically?

Bellini stood in front of the room, raising his arms to draw a close to the chittering conversations. When the room went silent, he bestowed his news upon us. “The next production will be the fairy tale Cannatella. A king and his highly selective daughter, a magician who schemes to gain her hand, and the disastrous consequences.”

He paced along the stage, gaze lifted to the ceiling. “Revenge never ends well, a truth this world sorely needs to hear just now. And it’s up to you to convey it powerfully.” At the hush in the room, we all felt the weight of his words. Apparently he had his way over Fournier this time, and the ballet was to be a political statement rather than an escape.

“The magician, who is in fact the mortal enemy of the king, has married his daughter only to lock her up and taunt her with all the things she cannot have. The princess role will need to portray the depth of longing she feels when she is in want for the first time. Then as the captor begins to fall in love with her, I want every heart swelling with the pain of his unrequited affection.

“Of course the princess escapes, and when the magician comes to get her, I want the audience gasping as the king strikes him down for his crimes. Revenge turned back on the avenger.” He stalked harder across the stage. “Our audience must see France’s Louis Philippe in the fairy-tale king, and with the magician, feel every inch of the righteous anger that flooded Paris. The absolute need to stand up and revolt. Tension is on the rise again in Paris, and so we in theater will do what all art does—deliver truth dressed in beautiful movement and magnificent storytelling.”

Murmurs resumed. Philippe, across the stage from me, stood straight and unreadable near the open curtain. France was his ancestors’ birthplace, the Parisians his people. What must he think of this project?

“I’ll have partial choreography to give you all by Wednesday. Audition and placements begin next week. Including for the lead female role.” That news brought total silence. “Regretfully, we’ve had to release our beloved principal due to a . . . well, a sore knee.”

We all looked at each other. Of all things, a “sore knee”—Annika, with child? She’d never spoken of any romance, any man who might be the baby’s father.

“We’ll host an audition, as usual.”

But this time the stakes were higher, the opportunities more significant.

“Come fully prepared to amaze us. It’ll be the finest ballet this side of Covent Garden, and we expect to make headlines. I need it to be sensational, dramatic, and despite the tragic ending, exceedingly romantic.” He raised pinched fingers to emphasize the last point.

Romantic, of course. The one thing I, apparently, was not.

“It’s a retelling adapted, as usual, by our very own Jack Dorian.”

Jack, standing just behind the man, pinched the seams of his trousers and dipped in a mock curtsy, drawing feminine giggles. I steeled my jaw.

Perhaps I should study romance from Jack Dorian. He had it in spades.

No, there was one other option I’d try first.

“So about that little romance of yours.” I looked my sister over carefully, noting the healthy glow in her eyes. “I suppose I should hear the rest. As your sister, of course.”

Lily cut her haddock at a little table in the Blackgate Inn, a place that kept late hours to serve those from the theater. If anyone had insight on being romantic and falling in love, it was Lily. She did it once or twice a week.

Her smile pinked her cheeks, heightening her loveliness. It was easy to see how men had such trouble turning a blind eye to her. One glance and any man would be pudding at her feet. She leveled her playful gaze at me, leaning close. “There’s a man who takes walks through the square at luncheon to watch the construction. He’s bought me strawberry tartlets from the vendors and hot chocolate sometimes too.”

Summer and winter treats? “This has been going on for quite some time.”

“It’s been most unusual, and I have not managed to look at another man since.”

“He must be a prince.”

“Captain. Of something. Gold tassels, medals, a sash across his chest . . .” She settled in with a crooked little smile.

I raised my eyebrows. She was like a magnet, drawing them to her. I could never be that. I stiffened as Philippe Rousseau’s recognizable form entered the café, brushing light snow from his greatcoat. I’d spent so long chasing men away that I hadn’t any idea how to invite a good one near. Not even for pretend, onstage.

I blew the hair off my face. “So you just . . . happened to bump into a man at the park and what, you started talking?” I couldn’t wrap my head around the way these romances of hers occurred. I attempted to start one, and five years later it was finally showing signs of beginning.

“It’s never mere chance, you know. Men only talk to you if they’re offered a little . . . warmth.”

Philippe spoke to the man at the counter and shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the lingering cold.

“How does one go about showing . . . warmth?”

Lily blotted her mouth and watched me with mirthful eyes. “My dear sister, are you asking for my advice on men?”

“You seem shocked.” I heated through to my scalp. “It isn’t rare to exchange advice on love between sisters.”

“It’s never been a two-way exchange.”

I pressed my lips together.

“Right, then.” She straightened in her chair and leaned forward, voice low. “It’s quite easy, and you needn’t even open your mouth. Not at first. All you need to do is glance at the man as if you know some secret you can barely hold in, then look down and smile because you’re not going to give it away.”

“What’s the secret I know?”

“Just pretend there’s one. And I always imagine the man in his knickers.”

My lungs inflated. “Lily!”

“Do you want advice or spinsterhood?”

“Well, I’d blush if I thought of that.”

“All the better.” Her smile was playful. “Only, don’t try this with simply any man. Merely a few choice ones, or you’ll be known as a flirt. You can always tell if he’s worth your while by looking at his socks.”

I blinked. “His socks?”

“Men never fuss over their socks, so if he’s poor, that’s the first thing he’ll be cheap about. Nice socks mark a well-appointed gentleman fit to offer a fine living.”

I spooned stew into my mouth, letting the ample meat dish settle my belly, and looked out the paned window just past my right shoulder. Shops were closed up tight all along the street, and people hurried home to get out of the cold. “How does the conversation work?”

“Work?” She smiled around a bite of carrots. “Well, men never like a woman who talks back, so don’t do it. You mustn’t ever seem smarter than him.”

“What if I am?”

Her wide eyes sparkled. “That’s the art of the thing, sister. You must paint yourself as he wishes you to be, not as you are.”

I frowned. Philippe had moved to a small table near the back, draped in shadows. What did he wish me to be? Should I even attempt to be that?

Perhaps romance and love were simply not for me.

The next morning, with Lily’s advice still ringing in my mind, I openly stared at Jack Dorian. He moved toward a quadrille dancer with such simple movements, but his every gesture held fluid strength and ease. I watched him for more than a quarter of an hour as he glided about the room with the poise of a lion, yet his easy manner warmed people whenever he drew near. Yes, that’s it. I couldn’t lay my finger on what it was, this combination of confidence and charm, but I knew I needed it in my dancing.

I didn’t have the courage to approach him until everyone had gone for the night. Then I found him in the auditorium at the end of the empty aisle, speaking in earnest with the Great Fournier. When he caught sight of me up on the stage, Fournier nodded good night to his companion, and Jack stood there watching me, arms folded.

Why did this have to be so awkward? If only Lily could lend me a touch of her charm as easily as I lent her some of my coin. I fidgeted with my skirt, looked down at the steps. “I suppose you may walk me home. Just this once.”

“How kind of me.” His voice echoed across the empty auditorium as he strode up the aisle. “I didn’t know I’d offered.”

I turned hot. “No one’s forcing you.”

He bounded up the steps and extended his arm. “I have a feeling this is something I shouldn’t miss.”

I laid my fingertips on the crook of his arm, not giving him an inch of room to misunderstand. He allowed me exactly three and a half minutes of silence through the streets of London, up Craven and along the Strand, before he poked at me again. “You might as well come out with it. Something about de Silva, is it?”

The name hit me anew in the chest. “Not at all.”

“Then please, do tell what led you to allow me to escort you home after so many sound rejections.”

“That.” I waved a finger at his chest. “How do you do . . . that?”

A pause. “I must admit, now I’m even more curious. I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

I tucked my chin into my cloak and felt the heat through my layers. What a rotten idea this was. “All the . . . grace. Confidence.” I waved my hand around vaguely. “All I can manage is stiffness and—”

“Ah, your dancing. You want advice on your performances.”

“Fournier says I need a spark of romance.”

“So you’ve come to me.” There was amusement in his voice.

“Well, you are the expert.” Heavens, this was unsettling.

His eyebrows shot up. “Am I, now?”

“I’ve yet to see you without an utterly charmed woman by your side and a smile on that silly face of yours. I suppose that’s what I need to do to audiences—charm them the way you charm women.”

He fell silent and paced on for two and a half blocks, during which time I worried through more than a hundred different ways he could have taken my words.

Finally his voice, soft but firm, came out with puffs of steam in the cold. “You care too much.”

My gaze shot to his.

“Drop the extra practices. You’re not perfect, so why waste time trying to be?”

This was headed in the wrong direction. “You’ve never been a ballet dancer. You couldn’t understand.” I’d heard it too many times—the relax your standards speech, and it only rankled. Everything rested on the precision of each dancer onstage. “Ballet is a show of collective perfection.”

“No, listen.” He crossed his arms, pausing on the walk. “Perfection is an illusion, and you’ll never reach it. It’s an utter waste of time to attempt it.”

I rolled my eyes with a sigh.

“Scoff if you want, but you’ll only send yourself into an early grave trying to impress a roomful of people who don’t care about you.”

I lifted one brow. “What are you suggesting I do instead?”

His smile widened. “Relax. Enjoy life a little. Don’t take things so seriously. Go about and have a little fun now and again. I can assist with that too.” He punctuated this with a wink.

I spun and kept walking. “This was a terrible idea.”

He touched my arm and I pivoted back. The soft streetlight overhead accentuated his fresh, clear-cut features. His face was nearly boyish. Hopeful. “Come. Let me show you something. Won’t take but a moment.”

His delight was infectious. Magnetic. Those eyes, so vivid . . . Alarms sounded again in my head and I pulled back. “I should go home.”

The light in his face dimmed. “Right, then. I’ll take you.” He bowed and extended his arm, and everything inside me churned. We paused before the door of the rooming house, and he leaned on the frame, hands in his pockets. “Offer remains, if you change your mind.”

I forced a smile. “Thank you, I won’t.”

As I closed the door between us, looking out the window at the retreating triangle of his back, I recalled another thing Mama always taught me—never speak in absolutes.