A jolt ran through Helene, and her fingers knotted into the fabric of her practice tunic.
“La Sylphide will be Sara Parker.”
Helene clamped a hand over her mouth to conceal her gasp. Her eyes stung, and she bit her palm not to cry out. Why had she even believed she could win the part?
“Miss Parker? That won’t do for sales at all. Londoners are tired of old Sara after eight seasons.”
Helene held so still she feared her spine might crack.
“I see… Do you have a dancer in mind?”
She could hear Verón pacing, his steps drawing near to the wall dividing them. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe we have a brand new, promising ballerina in our ranks. Don’t you think our audience would be thrilled with Miss Beaumont?”
Helene’s heart raced, and she held her breath, her body leaning closer to the vent. Please, let it be real.
“She’s the best soloist in the company. Her technique is flawless, but she is not ready.”
Helene gasped. Not ready? Any more ready and she would have La Sylphide's wings.
“Can she do your ballet’s pointe steps?” Verón’s tone was commanding and cold.
“Yes, she’s been studying it for some months now.” Langley’s words trailed off.
“Voilà.”
“She is not ready for the fame.” Langley’s voice carried a paternal worry.
Heart aching, she closed her eyes. She had been born to be La Sylphide. For La Sylphide, she could handle anything—fame, sore toes, even heartbreak.
“You shelter these girls as if they were delicate hothouse roses. But Miss Beaumont is a wildflower—she will thrive under the open sky, where she can flourish, don’t you think?”
“I think you should allow me to plant my flowers as I see fit. Am I not Covent Garden’s choreographer?”
“You know what? I tried to keep you in blissful ignorance of the matter. But today, I will intrude upon your fantasy to bring you some real-world truths. I appreciate what you do here, Langley. You take care of tulle and wings and ballet steps, and I take care of well... everything else. The theater has a new investor.” Verón’s voice dropped. “When the Duke of Albemarle makes a request, we obey. Right now, he has two demands—the ballet’s music score delivered to his house and Helene de Beaumont as La Sylphide.”
***
Helene trudged up the stairs of her building. The mournful strains of the opera singer on the second floor blended with the melancholy notes of the violinist on the fourth, forming a sorrowful symphony. A layer of soot coated everything—from the small windows to the old railing to London’s air. Outside, the city slumbered under a heavy sky, chimneys staining the horizon with their relentless smoke. The theater was there too, with its grand portico. A place she went to create beauty and feel beautiful too… When had it become a chessboard filled with power plays and hidden motives?
Her reflection was trapped inside the windowpane, her silhouette blending with the gray smudges. Helene touched her hair and rubbed the rouge from her cheeks. Plain eyes, plain hair, plain lips.
Only when she was a character on the stage was she beautiful, and now she could not even trust that beauty. How could she? After she had denied his advances last night, she thought—a wave of heat climbed to her cheeks. How long until the duke saw this, too? And when he did, how would she keep her part?
Light spilled beneath her garret door.
She stopped, hand hovering over the handle. Laughter drifted from within—Celeste and Louise. She drew a deep breath, steeling herself to maintain the facade of the triumphant ballerina her friends expected to greet.
Helene opened the door gingerly.
“You did it!” Louise beamed. “Our Helene is La Sylphide. It was so well deserved. Now you'll show them that the French make better ballerinas.”
Celeste kissed her cheek. “You’ll be the most beautiful sylph the stage has ever seen. They’ll all fall in love with you.”
Helene managed a smile, tight at the corners. She dropped her handbag to the floor, her shoulders taut. They were celebrating a lie.
“This is for you.” Celeste stepped forward, cradling something in both hands like an offering. “It’s not much, but I darned the toes with leather string. It’ll hold you steady when you rise en pointe.”
Helene took the slipper, the satin cool and soft against her fingers.
