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I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But if you leave me to go kiss in the back room, I am leaving you there.” It was dangerous to take a lover because of the Withering. Magda knew that, but had always been like this. I’d grown tired of trying to change her mind.
She grinned. “One day, I will find you someone to love.”
Instantly, the bubbling lightness that came with the stable familiarity I had with Magda dissipated. I absolutely did not want to be in love with anyone. Romantic love was fleeting at best and lethal at worst.
Of course, I didn’t say this as she tugged me out the door and into the cool afternoon air.
I pulled the leather strap of my bag over my head and felt for my Artista card before following closely behind my friend. I wanted her to be happy with her Ronaldo.
One of us should be allowed to get butterflies.
Chapter2
Late
At ten past six, we were rushing through the side door of Maestra Cecelia’s Theater. It was a tall building with a gleaming, dome shaped exterior, next to one of the most famous statues of Reina Lucia, the late queen who had been massacred along with her husband and two sons half a decade ago.
Our chests were heaving. The nighttime air had blown so many pieces of hair out of our braids that we looked like we had been electrocuted. Magda was grinning with her puffy lips, and my heart was beating so fast it was sheer luck I hadn’t passed out.
Maestra Cecelia was waiting by the door at the entrance to the practice hall. Her arms were crossed, and she wore a scowl on her face.
“You are late,” she said with a bored tone completely at odds with her expression. That was the thing about her. She didn’t yell when she was really mad—she treated you like you were nothing. My insides knotted themselves together.
I ran a hand through my hair, still gulping down air. “They closed another performer restaurant.” I left out the twenty minutes spent near Ronaldo’s house.
One glance from Cecelia to Magda told me she was still suspicious, even though my reason had been good.
There were four classes of people in the commonwealth—the Dregs (which is the vastly more popular nickname for the unhoused), working class, the performing class, and the Élite class.
To help keep our islands working properly, the Canciller kept them apart. However, the performing class was struggling. On other islands, we could eat with the Trabajadores and own property instead of living in communal groups devoted to specific art forms. They had privacy, comfort. This was not the case for either the Quinta Isla or Casas Grandes.
Maestra Cecelia’s eyebrow arched. “You didn’t visit your boyfriend, Magdalena?”
Magda blushed. “H-he wasn’t working tonight, and his father’s restaurant was full.”
That was half-way true.
The woman who had once saved our lives looked up at the ceiling and offered supplication for patience.
“Go check your dresses and pray there are no more alterations to be made. Then get in line to get checked by the Médica before the show.” Maestra Cecelia’s gaze was harsh, but my insides relaxed. She was already calming down. She followed us into the dressing room and spoke to all the dancers at once.
“Remember our guest, chicas! He will visit us after the show.” Maestra Cecelia smiled deviously. “Make yourselves extra beautiful.” She flipped her hand with a dramatic swish to tell us to leave before she got more angry.
It didn’t occur to me to ask who. There were always more Élites visiting around this time. The Winter Solstice was coming up in a few months, and Flamenco was a national art.
We dashed down the carpeted floors to the dressing room. Clothes were strewn about like leaves falling from the trees outside. There was an entire rack of fans painted with elaborate scenes. They collected dust, largely ignored, because the use of fans by flamenco dancers had been outlawed because of similarities with the fans that Élite Ladies used.
Everywhere in the city, both indoors and outdoors, you could see posters detailing what kind of clothing was appropriate for your profession as a Trabajador or Artista. The Dregs, the literal left-over bits of society, were often made to travel between cities, even isles, to look for food and a decent shelter house or orphanage. Since most Dregs were children or elderly persons without a family to support them, the most the Guardias could expect was that they remained mostly clothed.
We were very careful to comply.
Magda and I walked to the very end of the hall, greeting Gloria, Maria, and Leticia. Sure enough, there were dresses hung over the backs of our chairs. The nine other girls were in various states of undress as they changed out of street clothes and into performance attire.
As the principal dancer, mine was red—so red that my insides hurt. My hand reached out and stroked the silky material. My skin slipped across it as if it were made of water. Holding it up, I inspected the heart-shaped neckline which slid elegantly off my shoulders, and the bejeweled sleeves that reached my forearms and glittered in the mirror light. My gaze dropped to the ruffled hem of the skirt that was parted in a non-traditional, though dramatic, slit.
My blood ran cold. The slit was on the wrong side. My head snapped up, and I searched for the seamstress. She was helping another girl. Magda was holding her black gown but eyeing mine.
“Carmen, that is gorgeous,” she breathed. There was a hint of rare jealousy in her voice.
