Page 125 of Dance of Devils

She grins impishly. “Did you hearanythingI just said?”

“I lost the plot when you walked into the room.”

Heat spreads across her face, her eyes twinkling.

“I need your help,” she says. “My callback withImperiya Koronais in a few weeks, and…” She shrugs eloquently. “Nobody else pushes me like you do.”

“I should hope not.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. You make me work for it in ways even Madame Kuzmina doesn’t.” She exhales. “Look, I know Ivan Yelchin is a friend of yours—” She shakes her head when she sees me start to open my mouth. “No, I’m not asking that, I neverwould. I don’t want favors. I want to get the apprenticeship because I’mthe best. Not for any other reason.”

Something stabs in my chest as I smile at her.

This is quickly coming to a head. Sooner rather than later I need to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with my deal to push Inessa through to Ivan.

Brooklyn takes a breath. “I need you to coach me again. Like before.”

I slowly nod. “When did you have in mind?”

“I’m ready right now?”

I smile. “That’s my girl.”

Brooklyn blushes deeply.

Twenty minutes later,we’re in the ballroom of my house: Brooklyn in a leotard and practice tutu, me in gym pants and t-shirt.

I stand to one side, connecting my phone to the in-ceiling speaker system as I watch her finish stretching before she moves to the middle of the ballroom.

“Do you know yet what you're going to do?”

“We have a list we can choose from. I've picked the girl's variation from Victor Gsovsky'sGrand Pas Classique.”

Holy shit. That variation is a nightmare of turnsen attitudethat quickly turn into balances. Slowdéveloppésheld for extremely long periods of time, which end in fifth positionen pointe.The final diagonal is all on the right leg, followed by turnsen manège,alsoon the right leg. And that’s all aside from the fact that even during a performance, never mind an audition, there’s no eye-catching set to distract from a mistake. The music's not even particularly dramatic.

It’s just the dancer, alone on stage, every single flaw glaringly obvious.

“Brooklyn—”

“I know,” she says flatly, as if reading my thoughts. “Like I said: I want to get in because I’mgood.”

“You can still show them how good you are with something el?—”

“This is what I’m doing for the callback, Kir.”

Goddammit. That sharp defiance in her is unreasonably attractive, and I’m a fuckingsuckerfor it. I find the music on my phone before I lean back against the wall and nod to her.

“I hope I don’t have to ask if you know the choreography already.”

She rolls her eyes. “What is this, amateur hour? Yeah,” she smiles. “I know it.”

I dip my chin and hit the play button on my phone. “Dance for me, then.”

The music begins, and then?

She does.

I resist the urge to drop my jaw as I watch herattackthe difficult piece. She’s a blur of arabesques and balances and pure grace when she holds thedéveloppés.I stand there fuckingmesmerized.