Page 52 of Wolfsbane Hall #1
Jane Whitfield-Klein powdered her face, frantically trying to fix the smears in her makeup that her husband had made just moments before.
Only five minutes remained until Jane would debut as the prima ballerina of the Queen’s Royalle Ballet. The show was Lover’s Lost, in which she played the maiden, Isadora, who would eventually fall in love with Death.
Death …
Jane often wished she had married Death. Sure, he was a villain, but he’d do anything for the Maiden: protect her, kill for her, and most importantly, truly love her.
All things Jane’s husband would never do. No, he’d rather slap her across the face, ruining her makeup just moments before the biggest performance of her life. Leaving her to fix his mess.
And that was Jane’s current task: making beauty from brokenness.
It felt impossible. Her eyes were sunken and purpled from extreme exhaustion and stress, her arms were littered with scratches and discoloration, and her face was hollow.
But at the very least—this time—she didn’t have black eyes.
She hated it when she had to cover black eyes.
Because the only thing that could do it successfully was Mirror-Cosmetics—cursed makeup that could erase any blemish—at a cost. The wretched stuff came from mirror deals, and everyone knew even the smallest bargain with a Mirror God—also known as Bargainers—was dangerous.
But if cursed makeup would get her on the stage, then so be it.
Jane would accept the consequences, because her dreams were more important than her rotten husband, cursed objects, or gilded, wicked mirrors.
The dressing room door creaked open, and the stage manager peeked his head in. “Five minutes. ”
“Five minutes,” Jane said, trying to keep her voice steady.
The hardest part of having an abusive husband, besides the physical and emotional toll, was hiding it from everyone.
It was one thing to be a victim. It was another thing entirely for the world to know about it.
No, she was the perfect, beautiful ballerina, for the world to place on a pedestal and admire.
A puppet on a string for the rich and powerful to prop up and maneuver the way they wanted.
Jane rubbed her face, her elbows on the vanity.
Gulping in a large breath of air, she tried to calm herself and salvage the night, which in a matter of moments had gone from a beautiful dream to a decaying nightmare.
worse than any Looking Glass nightmare, the most powerful and dangerous Mirror-God in the city.
This performance was supposed to be the greatest moment of her career, but it was completely soured by her circumstances.
Honestly, Jane shouldn’t have been surprised.
Her life was one tragedy after another and yet, foolishly, she’d believed this night would be different.
It was the night of her dreams. Finally, her life would get better. She’d have the career she’d always wanted, the respect she deserved, the prestige and money that she’d use to file for divorce.
But Jane was a fool.
Her life never went to plan—not a single moment of it. When her parents died, she was forced to move into an orphanage. Then, at sixteen, said orphanage married her off to a ‘ wealthy ’ merchant thirty years her senior.
It was supposed to make her life better.
But shoulds and supposed-tos were dangerous, and they never quite panned out.
Jane sighed, pushing her middle fingers against the pressure points where her nose met her eyes, then rubbing underneath them and finishing her path by circling her temples. She found this helped calm her anxiety, especially before a show.
With another deep breath, Jane stood up, placed a resolved smile on her face, and cracked her neck before leaving her dressing room and walking to the stage.
The lights dimmed, and a chorus of strings poured out from the orchestra pit, painting the room with sweet enchantment.
Jane let the music wash over her as she waited for her cue.
The Maiden didn’t start off the ballet, so she had some time to acclimate; stretch her feet and get ready to do her job.
But more importantly, she had time to restore her love of dance.
Jane closed her eyes. The music swelled, lighting her core with excitement. Her circumstances didn’t matter when the music hit. Nothing mattered. Only dance. Only peace. Only joy. Only the magic of storytelling through movement.
The music crescendoed and, like lightning, Jane opened her eyes and hit the stage with a volley of fast buret steps to the center.
The stage was hers to fill with grace, elegance, and charm.
As a ballerina, she was known for her soft, captivating lines and intense artistry.
No other dancer in the company could match her acting skills—none could compare to the truth she brought in every movement.
When people watched her dance, they lived a little, experiencing every emotion as the character did.
They escaped into the story world and lived lives they could only imagine.
Jane breathed life into the story on the stage. She made the audience’s soul sing unlike any other dancer in the company—in the country… possibly even the world. That’s just how good she was.
A young prodigy.
No mirror enchantment, no spell, and no false facade could compare .
People traveled from all over the world to watch her perform, and little girls dreamed of one day becoming famous like her.
If only they knew what her life was truly like, they’d never trade places. Because, like mirror deals, her talent and fame came with a hefty price.
Not all that glitters is gold…often, it is rancid at its core.
This ballet began with a difficult variation, followed by an even more challenging pas de deux, and concluded with a quick costume change.
Jane had seven costume changes throughout the show, with four people assisting her in changing her headpieces, bodice, and tutu.
Often, one of the four had to cut her out of a costume and then sew her into another because the fit had to be that precise.
But Jane loved her first variation because she danced alone in front of the invisible magic mirror at the Queen’s Royalle Ballet.
There was something so peaceful and calming about it, and every time she danced in front of it, she felt like she was finally home.
It rested at the back of the stage, and—to her knowledge—only she could see it.
Jane would have thought she was going crazy if she hadn’t lived in New Swansea, the country of magic mirrors.
In New Swansea, hundreds of magic mirrors held trapped gods inside, and those gods used their magic through deals, trading information, wealth, prestige, and magic at terrible costs.
People negotiated to improve their lives, but the bigger the ask, the bigger the cost and unintended, unknown consequences.
Jane wasn’t old enough to have made a bargain yet.
Citizens weren’t allowed to trade until the age of twenty-three, and then they were required to make at least one deal, called their mirror-rite.
But people could take advantage of others’ deals, and there was an entire economy built around them, like Jane’s Mirror cosmetics.
But even though she had never made a deal, the mirrors sang to her soul. They called to her, and sometimes they screamed at her to free them—like she would even know how. The Queen’s Royalle mirror was no different.
It sang soft melodies of joy and appeared to her when it wouldn’t for anyone else, and it was this precise reason she liked dancing alone to it on the stage. They shared a beautiful synergy.
The show always ended too soon. If she could, she’d stay dancing forever.
But her happiness never lasted. No, it was always temporary, and now she had to meet up with her husband, smile for reporters at the gala, and most likely endure ‘ celebration ’ sex which involved her husband rutting on top of her as she pretended to enjoy his small, lackluster penis.
At least when he gave her to one of his debtors for a night, they usually had a bigger package.
Jane had to look on the bright side of being a toy for men to use and abuse.
It was the only way she survived it. And his debtors weren’t that cruel to her.
None of them cared about her pleasure, but at least most of them didn’t hit her—some were even gentle.
Her husband was neither kind nor gentle.
He seemed to like painting her body with bruises.
It was his kink.
Jane had no kinks, because she had no pleasure.
The icy midwinter air sliced along her skin as she exited the back of the Ballet and headed first to bathe and then to the gala.
Another bitterly cold night in a string of them.
It didn’t help that the streets of the Gold Quarter were literally made of metal.
Not only were they slippery, they were also freezing.
The sweat-soaked strand of hair dangling from her bun hardened into an icicle within moments of being outside.
Not again. Jane groaned.
But her groan was quickly turned into a muffled scream as a man in a balaclava and gloves jumped out at her and covered her mouth with a slightly sweet-tasting rag.
Jane’s knees buckled first before her eyes fluttered shut, and darkness enveloped her.