AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Muscle memory would have to save the day once again.
The curtain lifted, and golden lights filled the entire space. They swallowed up what I might have been able to see from the audience.
Just me and the musicians, I told myself.
Passionate guitarists stroked their expertly tuned strings, and my feet moved in time to the rhythm. The steps at the beginning were swift and precise, barely moving outside of the invisible circle I drew for myself when I danced.
The tone was languorous, and my heart beat fast enough that the sickness swirling in my stomach was quickly forgotten.
We moved through the first part of the dance, and then the music picked up speed. It was a flurry of sound and sensation. I turned faster and faster, those blinding lights blurring as my head whipped around. My feet hit the ground and pounded to the beat as I twisted and fanned my skirts in a flurry of vibrant rays because of the jewels glittering like fire.
The crowd erupted in cheers and shouts.
I launched into the air, and I grinned.
This was the beauty of what I did. Artistas, Trabajadores, and Élites crowded into this theater—sitting in different sections—but the passion took everyone the same, spinning their souls around with reckless abandon while they stomped, clapped, or simply cried out when words felt inadequate. That was the magic of Artistas. We brought everyone together for an hour or two.
The other dancers poured in, and Magda winked at me when we briefly caught each other’s eyes across the stage.
When the song reached its climax, the crowd stood. We called this catching a ‘pellizco’—that moment when something more magical than Blood Magic pinched one’s chest and set off a deep ache. One could spend years trying to replicate that perfect moment, but it was as fleeting as trying to hold water with bare hands.
It was also what most people came to see. A mystical display calling to remembrance fantastical realities in a land that was bland and over-regulated was nothing short of a miracle.
I bowed, and then, only then, when my emotions were soaring through the night sky, did my eyes fall to the special box reserved for the most important viewers.
Antonio Armando Castillas Morales was as handsome as I remembered. His hair was perfectly combed back, and he was leaning his head against his fist while the lights bounced off the curve of his long neck and highlighted the starched collar of his shirt.
He wasn’t looking at me.
He wasn’t looking at anyone, rather his focus was on something peeking over the balcony’s edge.A book.His beauty was written by the tone of his tawny skin and the sharp angles of his cheekbones, but his mouth was pressed into a firm line while he studied the words—effectively ignoring the show.
My cheeks burned.
Reading a book at a Flamenco performance.
All of my raucous nerves evaporated like water droplets in a paella pan.
I blinked. Some part of me had expected him to be enthralled with all of this, and, like Magda had said, make my wildest dreams come true. Though I would never admit it to anyone, the thought of dancing before him had sent a few warm sensations up my spine. It was moronic. He was a mourning widower, after all.
But even a simple smile from him would’ve been… magnificent.
As soon as I caught the thought, I cringed. The truth was staring me in the face, and I hated it.
Why do I do this to myself?
A familiar emotion waded into my heart like a worn old Dreg. The tattered cloth of hope and gaunt face of loneliness loomed before me.
I blinked rapidly, fighting it away with the force of the audience’s applause.
Even the crashing roar of hands colliding couldn’t stop the thoughts from coming, though. Other dancers were lucky, and their dreams, no matter how impossible, just seemed to happen. Artistas belonged to a gifted class, providing them with a world that had more expansive possibilities than Trabajadores.
But not me. I knew the way things would end before they had even begun. I had fought hard to make my life into something, and it was all I needed. Dancing was good. It was fulfilling.
If the man I had secretly spent most of my life admiring didn’t even spare me a second glance, so what? The rest of the audience could enjoy the brilliant artistry and passion which would unfold as the night continued to blossom with dance.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I took the position for the next routine. After flashing my broadest smile, I brought my palms together in one satisfyingly loud clap and called, “¡Palmas!”
The entire audience clapped their hands in time to the music. The exotic beat filled me with the desire to move.
