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H elene stared at William’s house. Black crepe covered the windows. His mother was dead. Her heart ached at the thought of him suffering alone. But what could she do? All her letters went unanswered. A fortnight had passed with no news. Doubt clawed at her heart, but she refused to let it in. Baines said he would return to London next week.

Helene pulled her cloak closer and crossed the square to Maggy’s house. Since William left, she felt disconnected from the stage, unable to summon the lightness of La Sylphide. The hours on pointe that once exhilarated her now drained her, a sputtering fountain trying to nourish a dry garden. The only bright spot in her routine had been her encounters with her shy pupil.

The butler received her with more coolness than usual. Instead of admitting her into the conservatory to start Maggy’s lesson, he showed her to the morning room.

Alone, Helene perched on the chaise. The seconds ticked by. Lady Thornley must be worried about Maggy’s presentation, otherwise, she wouldn’t interrupt their schedule. Two weeks was too soon. Would she agree if Helene suggested coming every day after rehearsals?

Sunlight streamed through lace curtains, casting a soft glow on the elegant furnishings. A family portrait by Lawrence hung on one wall. Nearby, atop a writing desk, a newspaper lay torn to shreds. What sort of news had affected the genteel lady so deeply?

The double doors swung open. Lady Thornley swept inside, her black attire as severe as her expression. An uneasy flutter settled in Helene’s stomach. She hadn’t realized Lady Thornley had been close to William’s mother.

“Good morning, Lady Thornley. I know these are stressful times. But I guarantee that Lady Margaret will do splendidly—”

“Miss Beaumont, I’m afraid I will have to dismiss your services.” Lady Thornley’s gaze was unyielding.

“But Lady Margaret’s court presentation is next week.”

Lady Thornley lifted her chin, her nostrils flaring as if she had caught a whiff of something distasteful. “We believe Lady Margaret is ready for Saint James, and therefore, your classes are no longer necessary.”

“Maggy is making marvelous progress, but if we stop now, it will affect her self-confidence. Please reconsider. If the issue is monetary, I can forgo my wages—”

“How dare you?” She spun to her writing desk and rummaged through the disordered papers. Finding what she sought, she snatched it up. “I was trying to spare the unpleasantness of the situation, but since you won’t let go, you force me to speak in plain words. I must protect my daughter from association with a ruined woman. Your sordid affair with the Duke of Albemarle was made public.”

Helene’s hand gripped the couch for support. “Oh, I did not know—”

“What, no pretty denials?” Lady Thornley’s voice dripped with mockery, her lips twisting into a sneer that deepened the lines on her face.

Helene read the “on dit” about her and William, and her cheeks burned. “I won’t deny what is true. But the newspaper is wrong. I never tried to convince him of politics, and I—”

“How could you do this to me?” Lady Thornley’s voice cracked. “I opened my house to you. I made a fool of myself before my friends, exclaiming about your talent and virtue.”

Helene had hurt this woman who had shown her nothing but kindness. Her chest ached, and she took a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“When you danced on that stage, you lifted me above war, politics, and the humbug of daily life. For a few moments, I was, I was—” a hiccup escaped her chest. “You had an immense beauty and talent, and what have you done? You killed La Sylphide.”

Helene hugged herself, the crumpled paper falling from her hand.

“La Sylphide lives contentedly in a world of art, but Helene—Helene is human.” She pressed her fist to her breast, her chin trembling. “Helene has feelings she barely understands. She craves and urges, she has pains in her toes, and sometimes, her back hurts so much she cannot stand. For La Sylphide, looking at James and sprinting away was enough, but not for Helene.”

Her throat ached, her eyes burning with unshed tears. Was it so hard to understand she was human?

“Helene fell in love—”

“Love does not exist,” Lady Thornley spat, her voice steeped in bitterness. “There is only society, drudgery, and duties. The mere glimpses of heaven in life are meager and far between, and none of them are found in marital bliss—you killed them with one indiscretion. Get out.”

She turned her back to Helene, her shoulders heaving.

Helene’s chin dropped to her chest. Not only had she lost Lady Thornley’s friendship, but because of her, Maggy would suffer. She had failed her pupil more than anyone.

“Please—just let me see Lady Margaret. I need to say goodbye,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Lady Thornley did not turn to meet Helene’s gaze. “That is impossible.”

Helene dragged her feet to the exit, her chest heavy. The poor lady shouldn’t have to be so agitated while in mourning. “I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t realize you were close to the Dowager Duchess of Albemarle.”

"I haven't spoken to that woman in years."

“Oh. Since she passed away last week and you are dressed in—I thought you were in mourning.”

Lady Thornley pressed a handkerchief to her nose. “It is not for her that I grieve.”

***

Helene matched her steps to Celeste’s and Louise’s as they went from Soho to the theater.

“Dear, cheer up." Celeste pressed her arm. "Viola felt abandoned in a foreign land, but what did she do? She used her wit and reinvented herself to succeed.”

Louise groaned. “Celeste, do you hear yourself? It is exactly because Helene created a different version of herself that she is wretched.”

Helene was startled at Louise’s declaration. Though she had once struggled to separate herself from La Sylphide, the role had helped her grow into a real woman—one who embraced life and its desires beyond the perfection of ballet. The pain came from others who saw nothing more than the ethereal Sylph.

Celeste’s chin trembled. “I only wanted to help.”

“I’m fine.” Helene clasped Celeste’s hand. “Lady Thornley’s dismissal was a blow, and the scandal…” She had been reluctant to leave the apartment this afternoon, afraid people might point at her and accuse her of being a fallen woman. Still, the costermongers selling their fruit, the sweepers sweeping the streets, and pedestrians paid no attention to her.

"As Macbeth would say: ‘Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day.’”

Beyond the shame of having her privacy discussed in the papers, her chest felt hollow, and her senses were muted—dull colors and scents insipid. No music. William had taken something vital from her, and she hadn’t yet learned how to live without it.

How was he? Was he still grieving? Would he accept comfort from others around him or entrench himself into the Silent Sovereign persona?

Where was he?

Spiraling into endless questions wouldn’t help. William would return. And when he did, this tremendous gap he had left in her chest would mend. Meanwhile, she decided she would not allow herself to wallow in drama. She would plunge herself into the ballet. The ballet didn’t judge—the ballet welcomed.

When they reached the theater’s box office, the girls halted. Louise blanched, and Celeste clapped a hand over her mouth.

Helene followed their gaze. The plaque for next week’s performances had been changed. Where La Sylphide had once stood in elegant script, a new title glared back in bold letters.

Her vision blurred. She gripped Louise’s arm. It was over.

All her hard work—her dream of becoming La Sylphide—ripped away in an instant.

Louise gasped. “You said your contract was for the entire season.“

“It was.”

Helene exhaled. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of disappointment.

Maybe it was time to let go.

A carriage passed in front of them.

“Look, Mama, the fairy queen!”

The sweet, high-pitched voice rose above the horse’s clattering hooves.

A little girl, perched in a phaeton, beamed at her. The child’s eyes sparkled with wonder, her peachy skin aglow in the afternoon light. She waved, delighted. Warmth kindled in Helene’s chest. Wasn’t this why she had fought so hard to be La Sylphide? She was more than a role on a stage—she was an inspiration.

Helene straightened. She forced a bright smile and returned the wave.

No. It wasn’t over. Not until she said it was. With a sharp breath, she strode forward and tore the playbill from the window. Flanked by her friends, she stormed into the theater.

La Sylphide was hers. And no one would take it from her without a fight.

***

The scent of makeup and cheap cologne hit them the moment they stepped into the warming-up room. Women of the corps de ballet exposed breasts and buttocks as they stripped off costumes, elbowed their way to the mirrors, twisted pins into hair, and nibbled on chocolates. Men loitered like spiders around gas lamps, eyes gleaming with unspoken bargains.

“I thought Verón promised to close the green room to patrons,” Celeste whispered, clutching Helene’s hand. Her gaze darted nervously around the space.

“Since when can we trust that scum?” Louise muttered, her glare sharp enough to slice through silk.

Helene’s anger surged. “I’ll speak with him. Now.”

He might dismiss her from the role, but she had a contract. He’d have to pay the fine. Still, doubt tugged at her. William would’ve known what to say, how to turn this confrontation into a negotiation. Without him, she risked discarding every tactic he'd taught her.

Without knocking, she burst into Verón’s office.

The director jolted, fingers tightening around the coins he was counting.

“Ah, Mademoiselle de Beaumont.” He smiled without warmth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Helene flung the advertisement sheet onto his desk. Coins scattered, spinning and clinking across the wood. “According to my contract, I’m starring in La Sylphide through the end of the season.”

He showed his sharp teeth. “But chérie, how can La Sylphide be on stage if she is dead?”

“I won’t allow you to kill my character—”

He laughed, a low rasp of derision. “Me? I had no intention of killing my creation. You did. And for that, I should rescind your contract altogether.”

She stared at him, stunned. “No, I—”

“You shot her in the head the moment your affair with the duke became public. The allure of La Sylphide was her chasteness, her otherworldliness. Women came in droves to glimpse something they could never be—pure, unreachable. A perfect ideal in white, floating above earthly desires. Platonic love made flesh.”

Her passion for William had killed La Sylphide, just as it had helped create Helene. How ironic, how perfectly Shakespearean. Exhausted, she dropped into a chair. All the publicity, the clothes, the pictures… Verón had spent a fortune turning her into an angel as if she alone could cleanse the excesses of an entire city. How unfortunate for them to realize the ethereal soap had smudges of her own.

“Don’t despair. Your career shouldn’t have to end because of a weakness of the heart.” His voice turned tender as he leaned forward, clucking like a benevolent mother hen. “I came up with the perfect solution.”

“Oh, because you are always so selfless, Verón?”

“My little Helene, don’t tell me you’ve become cynical! What hope is there, if even you have lost your innocence?”

“I’ve grown tired of being the antidote for everyone else’s poison.”

He laughed. “That is exactly the spirit of this new persona we will create for you.”

Helene raised her head. Verón’s face lit with a wild energy that unsettled her.

“From now on, you are the fallen angel—La Diabla.”

The devil? Helene opened her mouth to object, but Verón silenced her with a raised hand.

“Langley will choreograph something entirely new. Your figurine will be black, not white, and you’ll seduce the hero. While you scandalize the audience, I’ll flood the town with publicity. Can you imagine? Parties, Vauxhall Gardens, masquerades… Helene de Beaumont—Queen of the Underworld. Together, we’ll make the Demimonde more fashionable than the Beau Monde. We are French, chérie. We’ll rule them. Before long, even the grand dames of aristocracy will swap their lace caps for lace lingerie.”

He was insane. The Covent Garden Theater director should be in Bedlam.

Helene drew a steadying breath. “Verón, you've reopened the warming room to patrons after promising you wouldn’t, and now you want to turn Covent Garden into a house of ill repute.” She kept her tone calm, each word deliberate, hoping reason might pierce the fog of his ambition. “William—the Duke of Albemarle—won’t allow this. When he returns next week—”

“What does he have to do with my theater and my dancers?”

“As an important investor, he will object—”

“Helene, innocent Helene,” Verón interrupted, his tone dripping with condescension. “Are you always the last to hear about things in this town? The duke won’t return.”

Her hand flew to her throat. “What do you mean, he won’t return?”

Verón didn’t know this—he must not know this.

Verón’s eyes gleamed. “He sold his interests in the theater. The solicitor just left. Albemarle has retired to his estate up north. His Grace won’t be returning to town this season.”