Page 37

“H elene, please—you’ll hurt yourself.”

Celeste’s voice barely reached her. One hundred soutenus . Breathless, sweat trickling down her spine and brow, Helene launched into a series of relevés , her calves burning with each rise and fall.

Louise sighed. “Is that Englishman worth this? He didn’t deserve you. You should be glad he went away.”

The words hit like a blow to the gut. Helene stumbled to a stop, clutching her throat.

Celeste brought water. Helene wiped her brow and took a slow sip.

“You don’t eat. And if one of us isn’t here, you don’t even lie down.”

Helene shrugged, avoiding Louise’s stare. Each bite was a battle. Sleep came only in fragments, shattered by memory. In the darkness, she could almost hear the music—but it wasn’t real. Only echoes. William’s commanding voice. His startled laugh. The tender notes he’d coaxed from the piano.

“Juliet is remarkable because Romeo shared her death wish,” Louise said flatly. “Killing yourself over a lover is only Shakespearean if he dies for you, too. Instead of wallowing in pointless sadness, you should decide what to do with your life.”

Perhaps she’d become La Diabla, just to haunt the Duke of Albemarle. The thought gave her a grim flicker of satisfaction. A wicked part of her would gladly whisper in his ear, torment him. But who was she fooling? She only wanted to see him again. Pathetic. Not Juliet—Ophelia. Doomed to love a man who wouldn’t come back.

She gazed out at the city, indifferent as ever, and barely noticed the arrival until Celeste gasped. Katherina stepped into the room. Celeste straightened; Louise jumped to her feet. Their ballet teacher entered stiffly, bearing a decorated box that strained her spindly arms.

“I’ll have a word with her. Alone.”

Celeste and Louise didn’t linger. Before Katherina had even placed the strange crate atop the piano, they were gone.

“Helene, don’t slump like that.”

Helene arched a brow. “A bit late to correct my posture.”

“I came to talk.”

“Why?”

“You’ve missed rehearsals—”

“So Verón sent you?”

“Can’t I be worried about you?”

“That would be a first,” Helene muttered.

“Bitterness doesn’t become you. Langley’s finished choreographing La Diabla. The steps are intricate—”

“I’ve never faced a choreography I couldn’t master.”

“Indeed. You were always my best student...” Katherina’s gaze drifted toward the box. Her fingers brushed it, then lingered.

“But for this role, you’ll need more than technique and stage presence.”

Helene braced herself. Please don’t say heart. Her heart was in pieces.

“You’ll need to acquire an amant en titre .”

A lead lover?

“I beg your pardon?”

“These began arriving the day your duke left town.” Katherina lifted the box’s lid and revealed a jewelry case. Then a shawl. Then a fur pelisse.

Helene leapt to her feet, fists clenched. “Stop. I won’t have you sully my home. How many times must I say it? I don’t accept gifts from suitors.”

“You opened that position for the duke. Now that he’s gone, there’s a vacancy. And until it’s filled, you’re not safe. His departure left you exposed.”

“I can protect myself.”

“Bravado won’t shield you from the theater’s dark corridors, from alleys, from drunken shadows, from Verón’s greed. We’ve sheltered you, all of us—but now…” Katherina shook her head. “The world is harsh to women. Harsher still to artists.”

Helene shivered. She crossed to the window and looked out at the towers piercing the sooty sky. The city that once brimmed with possibilities now seemed to leer at her.

“If you want to keep dancing,” Katherina said, “you’ll need another protector. A man with a name. A foreign prince, perhaps. A diplomat.”

Sell herself to the higher bidder? Raffle her morals? Do something she hated so she could keep doing what she loved?

Her shoulders slumped, and she leaned her back over the windowsill. “What if I don’t want to keep dancing?”

“But what else will you do?”

The pity in Katherina’s voice slashed at Helene’s chest. What else did she have, apart from ballet? Her eyes swept over her mementos—the barre, the old costumes, the worn slippers—like a butterfly searching for a place to land. She averted her gaze from the offending gifts, letting her eyes fall instead on the wings. She picked up the gossamer costume and traced the silver thread with trembling fingers. At the theater, the flimsy trappings had lifted her to the heights of the audience ovation and, in this bed, the heights of earthly pleasure.

What would be the symbols of La Diabla? Horns? A forked tail? Did it even matter? If ethereal beauty brought her only emptiness, she doubted that hellish fire would bring aught else. All everyone would see was the costume, not the woman beneath. Helene threw the wings away. She had believed William had seen beyond the dancer. But he either hadn’t—or hadn’t liked what he saw.

Still, there could be another person who might.

Helene closed her eyes and allowed the memories to come, engulfing her in sunshine and bluebells. “You said you knew how to contact my brother.”