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Then I couldn’t talk. I wanted to, to thank him, to tell him what this meant to me, to tell him . . . what? What else did I want to say but couldn’t?
“Now get backstage and get ready. These people are charging me by the hour.”
He gave me a little push toward the staircase on the side of the stage, where the woman I assumed was the stage manager waited for me. She spoke rapid French, and I had no idea what she said. I’d taken French in high school, but not enough to make heads or tails of what I could only guess were directions.
She opened a door for me into a little dressing room, where there was a bench covered in makeup with a large mirror and bright lights. Four vases of lemon lilies waited for me. She shut the door and I looked around, touching the table and smelling the lilies. I saw a small white card in one of the vases and opened it.
Break a leg. —D
That made me smile. I opened the dress bag and touched my Clara costume. I didn’t have to try anything on to know that it would fit me perfectly. Giacomo had my measurements somewhere, and he’d probably used them for this costume, which had an empire waist and was pale pink with ribbons and lace at the sleeves and hem. It was supposed to have a nightgown feel to it, but still be suitable for dance.
A matching pair of pointe shoes waited, but they weren’t broken in and I hadn’t been en pointe in years. I would have to dance this on my tippy toes and balls of my feet, the same way that I had as a little girl. I put on some stage makeup and ran a brush through my hair. It was too short for a bun or ribbons, and I would just have to make do.
I finished lacing up my slippers and walked out of the door. The stage manager had been waiting for me, and she took me to the wings where I could hear the orchestra playing the opening bars of my piece. The stage lights prevented me from seeing out into the audience, and I couldn’t tell where Dante sat.
The stage manager said something to me that I assumed was “go” or “start.” I went downstage center and took my first pose. Nervous energy racked my whole body, making me shake just a tiny bit. I was already glistening like crazy.
The music began, and I felt like I was a teenager again. I couldn’t extend the way I used to or hit every position correctly, but I didn’t worry so much about the technical part of it. I just wanted to move to the music.
I had forgotten the joy, the exhilaration of this. Even if the theater was empty, it was enough just to be on stage again. I made mistakes and did jumps and turns that would have made my ballet teacher pull her hair out in frustration. It couldn’t have looked all that great.
But that was okay. Because this was just for me, and I loved every second of finally dancing my last solo.
The music ended, and I bowed. Once the music was gone, I heard voices yelling, “Brava! Brava!”
I held my hand up to shade my eyes, and I saw Dante cheering for me, and his youngest sister, Serafina. She came rushing up to the stage carrying a bouquet of flowers for me. She jumped into my arms, and I hugged her tightly. “Serafina, darlin’! What are you doing here? I’m so happy to see you!”
“I wanted to surprise you. Are you surprised?”
“I’m very surprised,” I told her. “What did you think?”
“You were so pretty! I’m going to ask Mamma and Papa if I can take ballet when we get home.” I put her down as Dante walked onto the stage. The orchestra members had started to disassemble, putting away their instruments and sheet music. The stage manager said something to Dante, and he replied in French.
Serafina ran into the middle of the stage and started doing her own version of my dance.
“Do you think this would qualify as completing my final quest? Have I proven myself?” His light brown eyes sparkled in these lights, and he looked so happy.
“That’s between you and your liege lord,” I said, holding the giant bouquet of flowers between us like a shield so I wouldn’t do something I shouldn’t. “Did I do okay?”
It was sad how much his answer mattered to me. I told myself that it was because of all the expense and effort he had gone to, but his opinion mattered. Probably even more than I was willing to admit.
