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Understanding just how childish, how absolutely silly it was, Juliette turned around and took a parallel street. The last thing she saw was Madame Broussard’s pursed lips.

And damn Katarina, but she cared about the flower lady’s opinion. Why was that wrong? If Juliette didn’t already feel totally foolish for walking away, she’d return. But it felt even more foolish to do so. And now that she knew that Katarina and Madame Broussard talked about her, she felt all the foolishness of the world suddenly descend on her shoulders.

One thing about this entire mess was that she had figured out how the janitors and the cafeteria ladies and even the indomitable shoe mistress, Madame Rochefort, got their wilted flowers every so often.

Saint Katarina.

Of course it was her. Who else would give away her money to make someone’s day better, especially if that someone was always forgotten and underappreciated? Saint Katarina indeed,who burned her hands, cut them to ribbons, and stood up to bullies, all the while making Juliette so mad!

Juliette huddled into her sweater and walked the rest of her way, desperately trying to put Katarina, the flower lady—or the weight of the world’s expectations—out of her mind.

The latter one proved to be impossible. Today was opening night. And the former had a similar fate. Not that she’d ever be able to forget about her dance partner, but the massive poster hanging off the facade of the Palais Garnier with her own silhouette, flanked by Gabriel’s and Katarina’s, was quite a reminder.

It seemed the entire universe was conspiring to remind her of Katarina. And of Katarina’s patronizing attitude. Of Katarina’s arrogance. Of Katarina’s beautiful face?—

No! Stop it!

A few hours later, in class, Katarina did not take her regular place out of Juliette’s direct line of sight. Oh no, today of all days Katarina was a touch late, which was surely devious of her, because instead of focusing on getting her warm-up reps, all Juliette could do was look around and worry that her wayward roommate got hit by a taxi.

When she did arrive, Katarina was dressed in a splendid navy leotard Juliette had never seen before. It turned her skin translucent.

The hour went abysmally, because Katarina was not even ten feet away. She was right next to Juliette, the goddamn orange blossom driving her to distraction.

So Juliette didn’t manage to get a decent warm-up, and with Francesca actually attending this class, as was her custom on opening night to ensure all her dancers were in good form before the most important performance, Juliette was left to redo most of the sequences and stretches by herself long after everyone else had gone to get on with their days and schedules.

She then went on to join Katarina and Gabriel for their last rehearsal, but being late by almost half an hour due to the extra warm-up time, she walked into a full-blown run-through. Except, it was interspersed with too much cutesy teasing.

Since when was Gabriel this smitten? No, she knew since when. It had started the very first night he’d met Katarina. Traitor. He was supposed to be Juliette’s best friend, not buddy to this… this… this woman.

“Oh, hey Jett!” Clearly not bothering to notice that she was upset, though even under torture she’d never confess to any such thing, Gabriel ran up to her once the music stopped and simply swept her off her feet.

It was a standard greeting for him, but Juliette pushed him away. He stumbled, one foot tangling with the other, catching himself at the last second.

“Hey, Jett, what the he—” He coughed once, twice, and then a few more times, as if he couldn’t catch his breath.

Katarina patted him on the back and he straightened, his chest heaving and his face red and blotchy.

“Jeez, woman, do you want me dead or something?”

“She can’t have you dead, Gabe. She needs you to lift her seventeen times tonight.” Katarina gave Gabriel’s back another pat, way gentler than Juliette thought he deserved, before stepping away to sip from her water bottle.

“Gabe? When the hell did this happen? She still calls me?—”

“Mademoiselle Lucian-Sorel, the flower lady asked about you this morning. She said you were acting very strange. I believe her exact words were ‘like a turkey,’ or whatever the French use to describe such behavior. I told her I’d let you know.”

The twinkle in Katarina’s eyes was too much, and Juliette took a step closer until they were face-to-face.

“Would the two of you save your unresolved sexual tension for tonight? The performance so benefits from all this…estrogen.” Francesca clapped her hands, and Juliette nearly fell over trying not to jump a foot in the air. And her own reaction to the words, to the entire ordeal, just made her even angrier.

She actually growled at Francesca, who sent a smirk her way before there was more clapping.

“Okay, let’s channel all this frustration into some dancing, shall we?”

And channel it they did. Into the last rehearsal. During costume and makeup. And then into the opening night performance.

It’s a rarity when absolutely everything goes right for a production. Such a rarity, in fact, that it almost never happens. TheirSwan Lakehad seemed doomed by the opposition of the Culture Minister Gabriel’s bronchitis in the middle of the mildest autumn in Paris, Juliette’s series of strange sabotage-like events… And yet here they were.

A moment before the conductor’s baton lifted and Lenoir commanded his orchestra into one of the most important battles for saving the Paris Opera Ballet season, Juliette closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she opened them, in the wing opposite her, Katarina was a serene presence, every perfect hair in place, her wounded hand bandaged.