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Chapter1
Red, The Color of Dance
San Volcán, voy a morir,I thought and squeezed my eyes shut.
My legs and arms burned with the intensity of a thousand fires. The muscles in my lower-back ached after six hours of rehearsal, causing strange numb sensations to shoot through my buttocks. I hadn’t been dancing the entire time, but my brain was always alert—watching, mimicking movements, and staring at my body in the mirror while I tried my best to hold poses and correct limb placements.
I was a mannequin, and Maestra Cecelia was a shop owner. To be fair, she was the best at what she did, which is why it had been such an honor when Magda and I had been plucked out of the poverty ridden quarter of Casas Grandes and offered a place in Las Patrias, an all-female dance company.
The languid strumming of guitars played over scratchy speakers.
“Carmen,” the older woman barked. She wore a red scarf that was braided through her curls. Her long, burgundy skirts reached her ankles. Though she no longer danced Flamenco, she was always ready to whip her skirts to the side and demonstrate a move. “Strong arms, mija. You dance first tonight. If the audience mistakes the strength in you for fat, then they will not enjoy the rest of the show.”
Sucking in a deep breath, my arms inched up and angled inward. The sleek lines of my triceps were showcased by the mirror. I burned with pride as sweat dripped off my face. Maestra Cecelia was hard, but she had given me opportunities that would be the envy of any girl.
I would dance first tonight.
It was the opening show of this autumn season, and the air had just started to change. This vast city of dreams, statues of long-dead royalty, and large houses was changing along with it. Already, the trees were turning every shade of flame. It cast a kind of magic over our city that had nothing to do with the Blood Magic the Élitespossessed.
“Oye, are you even paying attention?” Maestra Cecelia shouted. The small wooden room with floor to ceiling mirrors echoed her shrill voice. Even with nine other girls in the room, I know who she was talking to. “I’ve told you a dozen times: we have a special guest coming. This isn’t a road show, you must make a good impression.Again!”
“Perdón, Maestra,” I apologized, and resumed my castanets. They beat in rhythm with the music. The steps reminded me of the routines I made up to dance on the street. Quick, hard steps which made me feel light and graceful. A fast pace for my ever-moving thoughts.
At this point, thinking about the steps actually made it worse. My body had memorized everything—the dip of my head, a sweeping with my arm, but mostly, the way they made me feel strong. I whipped my head from side to side and one of the other dancers let out a whoop.
A chorus of “¡Jalle!” rang through the room as I fanned my skirts out around me.
These exclamations weren’t uncommon with Flamenco—they meant passion. I looked in the mirror, and caught sight of my best friend.
Magda had to practice twice as hard, but was still dancing in the back. The outfits left rashes across her skin, and she often got twisted in her long skirts so she now wore a pair of leggings made of buttery-soft fabric with a comfortable stretch. She liked Flamenco, but she could’ve liked anything after living as a Dreg.
The music continued to rise. My blood flowed hot, but the one time I wasn’t afraid of whatever lurked inside me was when I was dancing. Behind cosmetics and flamenco skirts, I was hiding a deadly secret.
Maybe the mystery gave my movements an extra measure of grace, then I could be grateful for it. Sweat slid across my skin and my body sung with the melody and vibrated with the rhythm of guitar. The music crescendoed and all of the other dancers stopped.
Though there was no audience with fine clothes, nor spotlights with their blasting heat, I got lost in the dance. The clacking slowed, and my heart followed suit.
Then, in a fury of sound and movement, the music restarted. The floor was mine, left to the power of my talent and grace of my feet. I spun, and I stomped, and everything turned into a familiar blur with a coating of red.
It was beautiful enough to steal the breath from my lungs and transport me from this world. I was the wind blowing through the trees; the waves crashing against the beach. Stars shone down on us at night to give light to movements like mine.
The music and the dance ended on a high note. The other dancers followed along, finishing the number with fervent precision as they twisted their bodies into the ending pose.
One final twirl required me to spin around four times. My chest heaved, and I stuck the landing with one of my hands in the air while the other was crossed to my hip.
Singular applause broke through the silence.
“Perfecto,” Maestra Cecelia called. She stood in front of the room, but she quickly crossed to me. My lungs were pumping oxygen through my body when her muscular arm wrapped around me and squeezed.
The Maestra had to be the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her hair was dark like mine, but her curls did not spring around in a puffy mess. She was tall, with lean limbs and a graceful gait. She did not cringe away from heat and sweat. The worldliness about her gave me confidence.
“And that, chicas, is why Carmen dances first. The audience is going to be enchanted.” She grinned at me through the mirror, and I smiled back. In the moments after the dance, I saw my beauty in my flushed cheeks. I saw the little refugee that she had saved from brothels after Magda and I had escaped Puerto Dolores.
Merely four years had passed, but it felt like decades. “Gracias Maestra,” I said with a bowed head.
She leaned over and kissed my sweaty cheek, and then patted my back before pushing me away. “Enough! Go rest before the show,” she demanded, as if she hadn’t been holding me tight like her own child.
The girl beside me started coughing. It was a strangled noise, somewhere between a choke and a cough, as if she didn’t want the sound to come out of her at all.
