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A lark’s song invaded the orangery, and Helene rushed to the window. Outside, the garden was alive with the drone of insects. The morning sun made the dew on the grass sparkle. Her gaze swept over the rolling hills as far as the village, her foolish heart conjuring the image of a tall tyrant and his commanding strides.

Would she ever stop waiting for him? Inhaling the citrus perfume, Helene closed the glass.

The girls had flocked inside, their delicate hands placed on the makeshift barre.

Helene nodded at Madam Campan. After arranging her glasses, the schoolmistress shuffled with the sheets and started the Serenade for Pliés , her elegant fingers flying over the piano keys.

Her pupils dipped into their pliés , their arms moving in soft arcs, some too rounded, others stiff and angular, all glowing with the freshness of youth, filled with the hope and determination of dancers beginning their journey. In their crisp pinafores, they fluttered like petals in a gentle breeze.

Helene’s heart squeezed, and she brushed away a stray tear. Would she erase everything if she could? And go back to the barre, as fresh as them, a white canvas, untainted by the living? No. Helene rubbed her chest, and a shuddering sigh escaped her lips. Art was perfect, but the living was sublime.

Helene walked across her makeshift studio, correcting the girls’ positions. A touch on the shoulder, a gentle smile, a warm nod—it was all needed to give them self-confidence.

“When you plié , don’t let your posture slump. Keep the top of your head lifted to the ceiling, even as you are lowering to the floor. Ballet is about grace, but true grace comes when you know yourself. Even when you’re playing a part, remember who you really are. That’s what makes you shine.”

Aglaé brushed her blonde locks out of her face and gazed at Helene from her diminutive height, her expression crestfallen. “I can't be as beautiful as you are, Mademoiselle Helene."

Helene gently took her small arms, extending them gracefully. “The secret of a great ballerina is to find the beauty right here, inside your heart. Then, when you move, the world will see the beauty within.”

For her words, Helene earned a toothless smile and a flawless curtsy.

Madam Campan’s students came every day for her to teach them ballet, but Helene was the one who learned—learned to live through the pain, and learned that dance didn’t have to be showcased on a stage to inspire.

When the class ended, the girls gathered around her. “Can you show us? The turns?”

Helene had not felt like dancing since she arrived in France. But seeing their bright smiles... Perhaps it was time.

“Very well,” Helene said, positioning herself at the center of the orangery.

“When turning, whether it is a single soutenu or a whole diagonal of intricate spins, you must first find a spot.

“What is a spot, Mademoiselle?” Aglaé asked.

“The spot is the place where you fix your eyes on, and you return your look to that spot every time you spin. It is your safety, your balance. What keeps you moving.”

She caught Madam Campan’s eye, and with a swift nod, the invigorating notes of La Chasse burst forth.

Helene prepared a pirouette, choosing a blossoming vase of lilies as her spot. The bright melody pulsed in her, and she grinned, feeling alive for the first time in months. As the music picked up speed, the ground beneath her feet disappeared, her body aligning, ready to snap into action. Bending her knees in plié, she took impulse and turned once, twice, the momentum propelling her into a whirlwind of spins that flowed effortlessly across the floor.

As she launched into her third turn, a sudden fluttering of wings overhead broke her concentration. Her balance faltered, and she tilted dangerously to the side. She was about to stumble, when strong hands gripped her waist.

The world spun to a stop.

She gasped and found herself staring into a pair of eyes as dear and familiar to her as the summer breaking through after a harsh winter.

“William,” she breathed, and her heart flapped its rusty wings.

His warmth seeped into her, grounding her. The world narrowing to this singular, poignant moment. Sunlight filtered through the translucent panels, casting a kaleidoscope of light that danced between them. They stood like this—she, en pointe, her leg in passé, he, holding her, his gaze boring into hers—as if this were the first time their eyes had ever touched, as if they had loved each other all their lives.

Helene devoured his appearance—instead of the rigid London clothing, a white summer coat hugged his powerful shoulders, and the French sun had kissed his skin, now the color of warm honey. His hair was tousled as if he had traveled all the way from England on horseback.

Madame Campan halted the music. The girls dithered and giggled, breaching the blur that had become her vision. Helene pulled away, smoothing her practice clothes with shaky hands. Why was he here? When she was starting to heal? She could not face the hatred in his eyes another time.

Madam Campan stood and, after a knowing smile, glided to the exit. “Girls, mademoiselle has a visitor, and your etiquette teacher must be waiting at the school.”

As the student’s lips brushed against Helene’s cheek, her heart fluttered wildly against her ribs like a bird trapped in a cage. When they filed out of the orangery, her palms were clammy, her thoughts dissolving into a hazy blur.

Unable to lift her gaze from the floor, Helene drifted toward the piano, her steps unsteady. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the music sheets.

The air behind her shifted. Her thin cotton dress offered no protection against the heat radiating from him. Helene froze, the fine hairs on her arms rising and the papers slipping from her fingers.

“Would you look at me?” His tone was husky, and oh so dear to hear that she wanted to weep.

“No,” Helene breathed.

“Can you at least tell me why?”

“The last time I looked at you,” Helene said, her voice breaking. “The hatred in your eyes—It hurt too much.”

Sometimes, she dreamed of it, the pain too brutal to bear.

He placed both hands over her hips. “Would you give me another chance?”

Eyes closed, she allowed him to turn her until she faced him. His breathing ruffled her hair, and she inhaled his scent, wanting to store him inside her lungs forever. He cradled her cheeks and brushed his lips along the seams of her lips.

He kissed her eyelids in invitation, one and then the other.

She blinked.

His expression was soft, open with a lingering sadness.

Reluctantly, she searched his eyes. Where there was once an icy blizzard that threatened to freeze her, she now felt the tranquility of a blanket of snow. Where once she saw a blue flame ready to incinerate her, she now saw glowing embers, inviting in their warmth. Where once there had been the disdainful indifference of a glacier, she now felt the first warm breeze of spring, tender and welcoming.

His ocean-blue eyes held no torment, only the placidness of a summer lake. He looked at her with a tenderness and a love so vast it rivaled the Atlantic.

Her breath caught, and a wave of warmth washed over her. Dare she hope?

“You hated me,” she whispered, cursing how weak her voice sounded.

“Not you. Never you, Helene.” He held both her hands. “I hated myself. I hated this part of me you brought to the fore. A part of me that craved freedom, just like you do. A part of me that chafed against the strains of society. A part of me who dreamed of a sprite and longed for the freedom to fly with her. I thought I had to stifle it to be the man I wanted to be, but I was wrong. To be whole, I need to be William, and I need to be the Duke of Albemarle. They can’t exist apart, and I can’t exist without you.”

Even if it were true, what did this change? They were still from different worlds. A single tear coursed down her cheek, and Helene hugged herself. “Why are you here, William?”

“I came to bring you this.”

He removed something from his pocket.

She caught the paper with trembling fingers and frowned. “You ventured into France to give me a receipt?”

“For Echo. I took him to the Jardin des Plantes , near Paris. It is different from India, but he will have company and be able to fly. Be as free as possible.”

The image of William carrying Echo’s birdcage made her smile. The Silent Sovereign and the Poor Parrot. She wished she could have seen his fingers unlatching the cage door, Echo hesitating—his vibrant plumage shimmering in the dappled light—and then, with a sudden burst of energy, spreading his wings and taking flight, a flash of green and blue against the clear sky

William went to all the trouble to please her. Her chest swelled with love for him.

Helene lifted her hand to brush the hair away from his forehead but then stilled. “Is there a place like this for us?”

He caught her wrist and brought her palm to his cheek. “If this place does not exist, we will build it. If England’s society does not accept us, we will create our society.”

“William, please. Don’t do this. You will regret the scandal and losing—”

“If you don’t trust my words, at least trust this—since you left, I traveled the paths inside my heart, mind, and soul, and none of them led to another place than you.”

Warmth infused her every pore, and Helene leaned closer to him. It was too much.

When she started to cry, he embraced her, rubbing her arms and then caressing her back. Could this be happening?

“What, the girl who escaped the Carmagnole and enchanted England with her talent and grace? Don’t tell me you are afraid. We will do this together.”

She brushed her cheeks against his coat and listened to his heartbeat.

He pulled away, holding her at arm’s length. His expression turned serious, a deep frown marring his tanned face. “I was wrong—about so many things. I wanted to put you in a house to control you, to keep your presence curtailed to a single place and a single schedule on my agenda. Instead, you occupied my every thought, my every moment, my every breath. I won’t put you in a house. I want you in my home because, by God, you already live in my heart. I love you, Helene.”

He pulled in a gulp of breath, searching her eyes. “Won’t you say anything?”

Helene cradled his cheek and smiled into his eyes. “What took you so long?”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Marry me, Little One, marry me today.”

How she adored his laugh! For once, his imperiousness didn’t bother her.

“Yes, my lovable tyrant, I will.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than a delicate, sinuous flute solo drifted through the orangery, unfurling like a soft breeze through ancient trees. Languid, free, the melody evoked the awakening of a drowsy sprite from her midday slumber. Strings joined the tune, shimmering, like sunlight filtering through leaves. A harp plucked crystalline notes, enchanting as a waterfall dripping in a forest.

Helene swayed to the sound, her heart bursting with joy. “Our music is playing again, love. Can you hear it?”

William just smiled, leading her in a slow, delicious turn.

The End