bonus: weird, usa.
Don't mind me; just writing backstory for an ill-fated background couple full of tragedy and self-indulgent sentimentalism. JUST LEAVE ME HERE TO DIE, OKAY? But here it is: Part of Harry and Gloria's love story. Forgive me any mistakes or awkward anything, as I'm writing at a fever pace and trying to crank out another 3,000 words before bed tonight. UGHHHH.
She dreamed of him, and in waking could not hold onto his face. But she kept his smile, and she remembered the shape of his hands-hands that had yet to touch her outside of the dreams. And every morning she woke with the taste of cinnamon and apples on her tongue, the scents of fall in her nose.
It was March when she first dreamed of him, and when she found herself glaring at the calendar as if it were the pages hanging from her wall that were keeping them apart. She threw herself into the daily practices and rehearsals, anything to make the time pass, and every night fell into her bed too exhausted to undress properly-and he would come to her with words of encouragement and soft smiles. He was her ambrosia, a nightly visitor who helped her face the stress and trails of the next day. They would sit beneath short trees blooming white and speak of simple things, his hands around hers, but there was more than mere words passing between them. She knew his heart and mind in those moments, as he knew hers. In the world of dreams and spirits, everything was laid bare and beautiful…
In May she was named the prima donna-her first performance as such would be as Odette in Swan Lake. The ballet was to open the last week of October, with performances every Friday and Saturday until the first week of January. It would be a trial by fire for her. By the end of the run, she would either have proved herself worthy of her new title, or would have failed the entire troupe. With the Cold War far from over, this was a delicate time to be Russian in New York City. They had each faced small hostilities already; Anya and Marie had both been detained by government officials and questioned strenuously because of their families’ old connections to the Bolsheviks and Lenin.
Monsieur Daupin had tried to brush this and the other, more subtle forms of prejudice aside. “These Americans have watched far too many James Bond films,” he had said with a dismissive sniff. “They allow their imaginations to run rampant. How preposterous, to think Russia turns its ballerinas into spies or assassins. You pay them no heed, mes petites. Keep your minds on your footwork and the stage itself. Think nothing of the audience.”
But those were easy words to say, not follow. And the other women looked often at Gloria as she stretched and pirouetted. Few spoke to her of their fears, but it was unnecessary for them to give voice to the thoughts when she heard them regardless. At first, she thought it was just the tension and stress breaking through her defenses; she would only catch fragments of phrases, flashes of images. But the noise only grew louder, the voices shriller in her head, and often Monsieur Daupin would chastise her sloppy footwork, unaware that her attention had been more on the shutting out of the intrusive thoughts of others rather than the choreography.
As the day of the opening crept closer, she was finding it near impossible to block out the chattering voices around her. All of the petty squabbles, minor grudges, back-biting and gossip that seemed to gather around a group of ambitious and beautiful women as if flies to honey; the worries both real and shallow, the sincere prayers for families thousands of miles away, the internal struggles with depression and anorexia and exhaustion, the lustful thoughts towards one another-Gloria could not shut any of it out. She felt herself going mad, her grip on sanity growing more and more tenuous, and she desperately wished that her father were still alive, still with her, to help her rebuild the mental blocks.
_______________________
She was eight years old, and her mother often laughed and called her chipmunk because of her need to chatter incessantly. But it was near impossible for Gloria to keep her mouth closed when there was so much in the world she loved, or feared, or was curious about. How else was she to find answers, if she did not question constantly?
Mother shook her head and smiled, and Nana warned her that boys did not care for girls who talked as she did, so loud and quick and bold. But Papa laughed, and would scoop her up into his big lap and talk with her for hours, until they were both tired. She loved her mother, but she understood her father. They had been cut of the same cloth, and sometimes she thought they could speak without voices.
And the stories he would tell her! The myths and fairy tales, the histories of their home and family, his remembrances of war and hardship. He was always honest with her, and refused to spare any softer sensibilities as her mother or Nana would have. She learned much of love, and hate, and loss, and happiness from him. He was the teacher she would hold all others up to; and the others were always found wanting.
He gave her songs she would never forget, and a deep love for dance and art. He would often pull out the faded and creased world atlas, and they would spend entire evenings pouring over its pages, learning the routes of rivers older than Moscow itself and the way the countries of Arabia fitted together like puzzle pieces. He taught her riddles and trick phrases for easy memorization, how to tie dozens of knots, the names of the birds they would see wheeling high overhead at the park.
But perhaps the most important things he taught her were the ways through the dream paths, the trick of hearing another’s thoughts and hiding your own, the curves and twists of her gift. She was eight years old, and he explained that she was different from the other girls at school; not better, only different. She was a walker between the worlds, and must be respectful of the power she had. She was never to abuse her gifts, never to use them to harm others or better herself in selfish ways. He took her by the hand then and led her, and she learned that the world she went to in her sleep was a real place.
She was twelve years old, and her father was dying. He sent away Mother and Nana and called her to his bedside, and he explained everything. He had to leave this world forever, but he would wait for her in the next. Someday they would be reunited, and would dance and sing together again, and she was to tell him everything she had learned in their time apart. He told her to be a good girl, to work hard at her dancing, and to guard her gift well. And he told her to love and laugh and live.
“Be careful with your dreams, little flower,” he said with a smile that was bright with tears. “They are more beautiful than pearls or gold necklaces, and far more precious. Perhaps someday you will find a boy who understands this, too. And if you do, my glory, I wish you every happiness with him.”
“I will never love anyone more than I love you, Papa,” Gloria wept.
“Do not say never, Gloria. Our love is different than the other sort. Finding another does not mean that you will love me any less. And love of every kind is a worthy thing to have. Remember that.” He took her hand then, kissed it as a knight would kiss his princess’, and lay back against his downy pillows. The dark eyes above his crooked nose and bushy black beard closed, and she felt him leave with a soft whisper.
He had taught her everything worth knowing. Now he was gone. And, despite his final words, she despaired. How could there ever be another who would compare to Andreievich Van der Root?
_____________________________
It was two weeks before the opening of Swan Lake. Gloria lay in her narrow bed and tossed fitfully. Just beyond the thin wall there was an argument screaming out, both audible and mental. She would catch the uttered words, and they would be vague and half-formed, muffled just enough by the wall. But then would come the sharper, biting thoughts behind the words, the vivid imagery and bursts of emotion. They stabbed at her like knives-no, they were something thinner and more wicked: like ice picks. It took all of her resolve to stop herself from screaming out, from begging them to just STOP, from blasting at their selfish and hurtful minds with her own. She bit through her lip, and the pain helped to steady her and push the intruders away, and she finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep.
When she opened her eyes-her mind’s eyes, that is, the eyes that see brighter and sharper because they are used only in the world of dreams and spirits-he was waiting for her. She ran to him with feet suddenly light and joyful, her hair streaming like a crimson banner behind her, and he stood with a smile. A smile for her, and only her. She knew he had many at his disposal, but this one was meant for her alone.
She wrapped herself in his steady arms and laid her cheek against his chest. He was warm and felt of home; there was always a smell of apples and leaves around him, the heady scents of autumn and distant woods. He made her think of long walks through sunlit woods, of birdsong in trees.
“You’re trembling,” he said. He had a husky, quiet voice. It was impossible to imagine that such a voice could ever shout or ring with anger; it had been made for soothing murmurs and warm conversation.
“I am losing myself,” she said, and she filled her hands with the fabric of his shirt. She wanted to touch something that felt right, and with him the world was always kinder to the touch. “Each day, a little more slips away. Carried off in storm of other hearts and minds. I am very afraid.”
He held her tighter, as if to shield her from everything, as if passing something to her through the strength of his embrace.
“I want to give you something, for the safe-keeping,” she said. With a sigh that was more felt than heard, she lifted a hand in the small hollow between them. When she uncurled her fingers, an eddy of colored mist began to solidify in her palm. In the span of a blink, the object became solid and real. It was a gold locket, studded with miniscule seed pearls. “It is dearest to me,” she said in little more than a whisper. Where they met it was always quiet and serene, a glade that had never heard the shriek of wind, and it felt wrong to speak in normal tones. “And inside I have placed the heart of me. Keep it, I ask of you. I would not lose this, even if I were to lose all else.”
She could never decide what color his eyes were; sometimes they were a deep chestnut brown, and sometimes-like now-they were a dark amber, a golden hue that had both honey and russet sheens. He studied her face for a long moment, and there was as much pain in the planes of his mouth and eyes as there was sweetness. “You trust me with this?”
“I trust you with all,” she said, feeling the truth in her words, and there were tears in her eyes. Perhaps there had always been tears in her eyes. “With every inch of me.” For a heartbeat, she thought of her father and his words so many years ago. Oh, Papa. You were always so honest with me.
“Then I swear to you-I will do everything to stay worthy of that trust. I will not let you slip away, not even if I must fight for every inch. I will find you in our world. I am coming, as quickly as I dare. Hold on.”
“I will,” she cried, the tears spilling down her cheeks. They were diamonds when they fell to the grass, perfectly formed and glittering. “I will hold on by my fingertips. For you.”
“I will see you dance. And I will see you smile and laugh.” He cupped her face with his large, callused hands, his skin weathered and tan against her porcelain pale cheeks. He was so young, just as she was young, but she could see heartache and knowledge and love beyond anything she expected or understood. There was a much older man looking out through those eyes; a man who had lived many lives, perhaps. The strangeness of it should have frightened her, but how could he ever frighten her? She had seen into his heart and it was a beautiful thing, full of light and color and the iridescence of many wings. There was no malice or darkness in him.
His fingertips brushed the last of her tears away. Jewels fell from his hands and lay unnoticed and unimportant in the lush grass. Then he kissed her, his lips ghosting against hers until she pressed closer, sealing the gesture. There was a sudden rustling in the leaves overhead, but she paid it no heed. Because he tasted of apples and cinnamon, and she had never felt so safe or wanted.
And when she did look up, it was only to gasp and smile with awe. Because falling from the trees were flower petals, and darting through the clouds of white were immense dragonflies and butterflies as tiny as her thumbnail. The wings flashed and whirred around them, darting in circles and figure eights-and there they stood in the center, in the eye of the storm, while their eyes filled with wonder.
“I think we should take this for a very good sign,” he murmured with a smile, reaching out one hand. A dragonfly alit on his fingertips, balancing precariously for a moment before buzzing back up into the cloud with a blur of its rainbow-prismed wings.
She was smiling with breathless delight, the terror of the days momentarily forgotten. When she turned back to him, he was almost glowing.
“Oh, glory be and my hallelujah,” he said, taking her hand. “You will pass through this current darkness; I have no doubt of that. This fire you face will not last, and you will come to the other side stronger. And I am coming, and I will do everything in my power to help you.”
“I know it,” she said. “I will hold onto your voice-it will keep me steady when all else shakes.”
She woke to pale sunlight, and half-fancied that there was the sound of wings outside her window. The next thirteen days passed in a blur best left unremembered. The days were spent in determined practice-not just of plies but in shuttering her mind-and he shared her nights. And finally the day came she had long dreaded and desired: the opening of Swan Lake.
She stood beside the curtain, at the barest edge of the stage. Every step, every movement had become a part of her. Were she asked to perform this dance again in twenty years, she would remember it all. She had breathed this ballet for months, and would now prove to all that she was a worthy prima donna. This was a defining moment, a turning point in not only her career but also her life, and she felt the importance of it the way the orchestra in the pit felt the unplayed music, resonating already in their bones before they ever pressed fingers to strings or valves.
Then came the gentle hum, the soft cacophony of the orchestra warming up their instruments. The murmur of excited voices faded swiftly with anticipation. The director tapped the podium before him. The lights dimmed. And then came the first quavering notes of violin and flute, and she stepped into history.
The spotlight caught her, held her in its sway. The backlights grew into brilliance, illuminating the finely painted backdrop and detailed set pieces. Her skirt shimmered pearlescent, the lights glittering off the miniscule sequins and gems sewn into the fabric. She lifted one white, smooth arm in a graceful sweep, and let the music carry her away into a world of magic curses and tragic love, of enchanted princesses and masquerade balls. The other dancers swirled around her, the Prince lifted her as easily as a downy feather, but she barely saw them. She was a part of the music, a creature of dance and emotion and light, and in the elegant steps she took she could feel the boundaries between the worlds wavering. In moments like this the realm of dreams and spirits was called out to, summoned to the very edge of the border; the World of Man still held some of the old beauty and wonder of that other land.
She lost herself in it all. The old ballet, performed hundreds of times before by great dancers and mediocre-not even a true masterwork according to most-became something new and breathtaking. A rainbow seemed to glow behind the luminous Odette, and every move of her hands or feet left a trail of color the audience swore they could see. She danced with a grace that seemed impossible, and in the transformation scene there was a suggestion of sweeping, feathered wings. The wailing flute became a swan’s cry of pure sorrow.
The other dancers felt it, too, and found they were dancing with more skill than they ever had before. They were seized by an overwhelming sense of joy when the Prince and Odette first met; then the choking dread of betrayal at the ball; and as the Prince and his Swan Princess cast themselves asunder, hearts broken and crying out to be together, there was not a single person in the hall who was not sobbing.
Gloria lay still against the cold stage for a long moment, shoulders trembling with effort, and felt the otherworldly power leave her. The ballet had finished, and the realm of magic receded once again. She had given the performance of a lifetime, and half-wondered if she would ever again dance with such joy and skill. But then she was climbing to her feet, the Prince taking her hand to lead her forward into the rapturous applause, and she saw him.
He stood in the front row, at the very center, and clapped louder than any other. In his arms was a bouquet of roses and he was smiling her smile. She was so overcome she nearly forgot to bow, and could barely keep herself from dashing off the stage then and there. But then he winked, and she nodded gravely, and made the extra bow the applause demanded before stepping off lightly behind the immense velvet curtains.
She ran to her dressing room, desperate to wash the white makeup from her face and pull the feathers from her hair as quickly as possible. The hall was full of noise as the other dancers dashed back and forth, laughing and talking and shouting to one another. Sasha Pietyr, the Prince, caught her just before her room and gave her a warm kiss on the cheek.
“You were the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he told her in their own tongue. “Never has there been or will there be a more graceful Odette.”
“Thank you, Sasha,” she said quickly, cheeks flushing through the makeup. “You were a wonderful partner-if I was as good as you say, it was because you and the others made me so.”
“Such modesty!” he laughed good-naturedly. “A prima donna who gives compliments as well as she receives them; you are a rare jewel indeed, Gloria. Have a good night. I look forward to dancing with you again tomorrow.”
“Good night, Sasha.” She closed the door firmly behind her and hurried to the bathroom. She had just turned on the hot water and plugged up the sink, and was turning to grab a towel from the rack when she heard the knock.
It could have been Monsieur Daupin, or any one of the dancers. It could have been a dramatic critic hoping for a quote for tomorrow’s review, or any number of admirers. But she knew who was standing outside her door, and she practically flew to open it.
“The most beautiful ballet I have ever seen,” he said. “And the most beautiful dancer. Hello, Gloria. I think I know you from somewhere.”
“From a dream, perhaps?” she said, heart fluttering wildly beneath her ribs. “…Am I dreaming now?”
“Well, does this feel solid enough?” He took her hand in his, half-bowed with due dignity, and pressed his lips to her fingers.
“Yes, quite solid,” she managed to say rather breathlessly when he had straightened. “And I thank you for the praise, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Please, call me Harry.”
“There are many things I wish to call you,” she replied, eyes flashing. “You took much time in coming to see me, Harry.”
“The traffic is terrible in the city,” he said, grinning.
“I am sure. You brought roses, hmm?”
“I’m a traditionalist. I brought something else, too, though.” He reached into a pocket and pulled a small box from it. “Something that already belongs to you, I think.”
She opened it and smiled. There was her gold locket ringed in seed pearls, a gift from her father when she was accepted at the Academy. The corners of her eyes burned, and she blinked furiously. “Thank you. But there was something inside that I gave to you.”
“For safe-keeping, you said.”
“Yes. But perhaps the best, safest place would be with you,” she said slowly. They both knew what she meant, and the air wavered and crackled between them.
“Something like that is quite the burden to bear,” he said quietly. “It’s a responsibility, and it demands unwavering trust.”
“I think you will always have that,” Gloria said somberly, meeting his eyes steadily. They stood like that in her doorway, gazes locked, studying the contours of faces already well known but somehow altered in this heavier light.
“…My God, but you’re beautiful,” Harry whispered, as if to himself.
“And you are most handsome man I have ever seen,” she said fervently, biting the edge of her lip.
They both stepped forward as if on cue, the roses sliding from his hand and tumbling carelessly to the floor as her arms encircled his neck. And yes, he tasted of apples, and she smeared lipstick and white foundation across his cheek, and a passing dancer giggled and catcalled at them. And it was a perfect moment.
“Would you like to get some coffee?” he asked when they had parted. Her hands were still warm against the back of his neck.
“I would.”
“Right now?”
“Every night.”
She dreamed of him, and in waking could not hold onto his face. But she kept his smile, and she remembered the shape of his hands-hands that had yet to touch her outside of the dreams. And every morning she woke with the taste of cinnamon and apples on her tongue, the scents of fall in her nose.
It was March when she first dreamed of him, and when she found herself glaring at the calendar as if it were the pages hanging from her wall that were keeping them apart. She threw herself into the daily practices and rehearsals, anything to make the time pass, and every night fell into her bed too exhausted to undress properly-and he would come to her with words of encouragement and soft smiles. He was her ambrosia, a nightly visitor who helped her face the stress and trails of the next day. They would sit beneath short trees blooming white and speak of simple things, his hands around hers, but there was more than mere words passing between them. She knew his heart and mind in those moments, as he knew hers. In the world of dreams and spirits, everything was laid bare and beautiful…
In May she was named the prima donna-her first performance as such would be as Odette in Swan Lake. The ballet was to open the last week of October, with performances every Friday and Saturday until the first week of January. It would be a trial by fire for her. By the end of the run, she would either have proved herself worthy of her new title, or would have failed the entire troupe. With the Cold War far from over, this was a delicate time to be Russian in New York City. They had each faced small hostilities already; Anya and Marie had both been detained by government officials and questioned strenuously because of their families’ old connections to the Bolsheviks and Lenin.
Monsieur Daupin had tried to brush this and the other, more subtle forms of prejudice aside. “These Americans have watched far too many James Bond films,” he had said with a dismissive sniff. “They allow their imaginations to run rampant. How preposterous, to think Russia turns its ballerinas into spies or assassins. You pay them no heed, mes petites. Keep your minds on your footwork and the stage itself. Think nothing of the audience.”
But those were easy words to say, not follow. And the other women looked often at Gloria as she stretched and pirouetted. Few spoke to her of their fears, but it was unnecessary for them to give voice to the thoughts when she heard them regardless. At first, she thought it was just the tension and stress breaking through her defenses; she would only catch fragments of phrases, flashes of images. But the noise only grew louder, the voices shriller in her head, and often Monsieur Daupin would chastise her sloppy footwork, unaware that her attention had been more on the shutting out of the intrusive thoughts of others rather than the choreography.
As the day of the opening crept closer, she was finding it near impossible to block out the chattering voices around her. All of the petty squabbles, minor grudges, back-biting and gossip that seemed to gather around a group of ambitious and beautiful women as if flies to honey; the worries both real and shallow, the sincere prayers for families thousands of miles away, the internal struggles with depression and anorexia and exhaustion, the lustful thoughts towards one another-Gloria could not shut any of it out. She felt herself going mad, her grip on sanity growing more and more tenuous, and she desperately wished that her father were still alive, still with her, to help her rebuild the mental blocks.
_______________________
She was eight years old, and her mother often laughed and called her chipmunk because of her need to chatter incessantly. But it was near impossible for Gloria to keep her mouth closed when there was so much in the world she loved, or feared, or was curious about. How else was she to find answers, if she did not question constantly?
Mother shook her head and smiled, and Nana warned her that boys did not care for girls who talked as she did, so loud and quick and bold. But Papa laughed, and would scoop her up into his big lap and talk with her for hours, until they were both tired. She loved her mother, but she understood her father. They had been cut of the same cloth, and sometimes she thought they could speak without voices.
And the stories he would tell her! The myths and fairy tales, the histories of their home and family, his remembrances of war and hardship. He was always honest with her, and refused to spare any softer sensibilities as her mother or Nana would have. She learned much of love, and hate, and loss, and happiness from him. He was the teacher she would hold all others up to; and the others were always found wanting.
He gave her songs she would never forget, and a deep love for dance and art. He would often pull out the faded and creased world atlas, and they would spend entire evenings pouring over its pages, learning the routes of rivers older than Moscow itself and the way the countries of Arabia fitted together like puzzle pieces. He taught her riddles and trick phrases for easy memorization, how to tie dozens of knots, the names of the birds they would see wheeling high overhead at the park.
But perhaps the most important things he taught her were the ways through the dream paths, the trick of hearing another’s thoughts and hiding your own, the curves and twists of her gift. She was eight years old, and he explained that she was different from the other girls at school; not better, only different. She was a walker between the worlds, and must be respectful of the power she had. She was never to abuse her gifts, never to use them to harm others or better herself in selfish ways. He took her by the hand then and led her, and she learned that the world she went to in her sleep was a real place.
She was twelve years old, and her father was dying. He sent away Mother and Nana and called her to his bedside, and he explained everything. He had to leave this world forever, but he would wait for her in the next. Someday they would be reunited, and would dance and sing together again, and she was to tell him everything she had learned in their time apart. He told her to be a good girl, to work hard at her dancing, and to guard her gift well. And he told her to love and laugh and live.
“Be careful with your dreams, little flower,” he said with a smile that was bright with tears. “They are more beautiful than pearls or gold necklaces, and far more precious. Perhaps someday you will find a boy who understands this, too. And if you do, my glory, I wish you every happiness with him.”
“I will never love anyone more than I love you, Papa,” Gloria wept.
“Do not say never, Gloria. Our love is different than the other sort. Finding another does not mean that you will love me any less. And love of every kind is a worthy thing to have. Remember that.” He took her hand then, kissed it as a knight would kiss his princess’, and lay back against his downy pillows. The dark eyes above his crooked nose and bushy black beard closed, and she felt him leave with a soft whisper.
He had taught her everything worth knowing. Now he was gone. And, despite his final words, she despaired. How could there ever be another who would compare to Andreievich Van der Root?
_____________________________
It was two weeks before the opening of Swan Lake. Gloria lay in her narrow bed and tossed fitfully. Just beyond the thin wall there was an argument screaming out, both audible and mental. She would catch the uttered words, and they would be vague and half-formed, muffled just enough by the wall. But then would come the sharper, biting thoughts behind the words, the vivid imagery and bursts of emotion. They stabbed at her like knives-no, they were something thinner and more wicked: like ice picks. It took all of her resolve to stop herself from screaming out, from begging them to just STOP, from blasting at their selfish and hurtful minds with her own. She bit through her lip, and the pain helped to steady her and push the intruders away, and she finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep.
When she opened her eyes-her mind’s eyes, that is, the eyes that see brighter and sharper because they are used only in the world of dreams and spirits-he was waiting for her. She ran to him with feet suddenly light and joyful, her hair streaming like a crimson banner behind her, and he stood with a smile. A smile for her, and only her. She knew he had many at his disposal, but this one was meant for her alone.
She wrapped herself in his steady arms and laid her cheek against his chest. He was warm and felt of home; there was always a smell of apples and leaves around him, the heady scents of autumn and distant woods. He made her think of long walks through sunlit woods, of birdsong in trees.
“You’re trembling,” he said. He had a husky, quiet voice. It was impossible to imagine that such a voice could ever shout or ring with anger; it had been made for soothing murmurs and warm conversation.
“I am losing myself,” she said, and she filled her hands with the fabric of his shirt. She wanted to touch something that felt right, and with him the world was always kinder to the touch. “Each day, a little more slips away. Carried off in storm of other hearts and minds. I am very afraid.”
He held her tighter, as if to shield her from everything, as if passing something to her through the strength of his embrace.
“I want to give you something, for the safe-keeping,” she said. With a sigh that was more felt than heard, she lifted a hand in the small hollow between them. When she uncurled her fingers, an eddy of colored mist began to solidify in her palm. In the span of a blink, the object became solid and real. It was a gold locket, studded with miniscule seed pearls. “It is dearest to me,” she said in little more than a whisper. Where they met it was always quiet and serene, a glade that had never heard the shriek of wind, and it felt wrong to speak in normal tones. “And inside I have placed the heart of me. Keep it, I ask of you. I would not lose this, even if I were to lose all else.”
She could never decide what color his eyes were; sometimes they were a deep chestnut brown, and sometimes-like now-they were a dark amber, a golden hue that had both honey and russet sheens. He studied her face for a long moment, and there was as much pain in the planes of his mouth and eyes as there was sweetness. “You trust me with this?”
“I trust you with all,” she said, feeling the truth in her words, and there were tears in her eyes. Perhaps there had always been tears in her eyes. “With every inch of me.” For a heartbeat, she thought of her father and his words so many years ago. Oh, Papa. You were always so honest with me.
“Then I swear to you-I will do everything to stay worthy of that trust. I will not let you slip away, not even if I must fight for every inch. I will find you in our world. I am coming, as quickly as I dare. Hold on.”
“I will,” she cried, the tears spilling down her cheeks. They were diamonds when they fell to the grass, perfectly formed and glittering. “I will hold on by my fingertips. For you.”
“I will see you dance. And I will see you smile and laugh.” He cupped her face with his large, callused hands, his skin weathered and tan against her porcelain pale cheeks. He was so young, just as she was young, but she could see heartache and knowledge and love beyond anything she expected or understood. There was a much older man looking out through those eyes; a man who had lived many lives, perhaps. The strangeness of it should have frightened her, but how could he ever frighten her? She had seen into his heart and it was a beautiful thing, full of light and color and the iridescence of many wings. There was no malice or darkness in him.
His fingertips brushed the last of her tears away. Jewels fell from his hands and lay unnoticed and unimportant in the lush grass. Then he kissed her, his lips ghosting against hers until she pressed closer, sealing the gesture. There was a sudden rustling in the leaves overhead, but she paid it no heed. Because he tasted of apples and cinnamon, and she had never felt so safe or wanted.
And when she did look up, it was only to gasp and smile with awe. Because falling from the trees were flower petals, and darting through the clouds of white were immense dragonflies and butterflies as tiny as her thumbnail. The wings flashed and whirred around them, darting in circles and figure eights-and there they stood in the center, in the eye of the storm, while their eyes filled with wonder.
“I think we should take this for a very good sign,” he murmured with a smile, reaching out one hand. A dragonfly alit on his fingertips, balancing precariously for a moment before buzzing back up into the cloud with a blur of its rainbow-prismed wings.
She was smiling with breathless delight, the terror of the days momentarily forgotten. When she turned back to him, he was almost glowing.
“Oh, glory be and my hallelujah,” he said, taking her hand. “You will pass through this current darkness; I have no doubt of that. This fire you face will not last, and you will come to the other side stronger. And I am coming, and I will do everything in my power to help you.”
“I know it,” she said. “I will hold onto your voice-it will keep me steady when all else shakes.”
She woke to pale sunlight, and half-fancied that there was the sound of wings outside her window. The next thirteen days passed in a blur best left unremembered. The days were spent in determined practice-not just of plies but in shuttering her mind-and he shared her nights. And finally the day came she had long dreaded and desired: the opening of Swan Lake.
She stood beside the curtain, at the barest edge of the stage. Every step, every movement had become a part of her. Were she asked to perform this dance again in twenty years, she would remember it all. She had breathed this ballet for months, and would now prove to all that she was a worthy prima donna. This was a defining moment, a turning point in not only her career but also her life, and she felt the importance of it the way the orchestra in the pit felt the unplayed music, resonating already in their bones before they ever pressed fingers to strings or valves.
Then came the gentle hum, the soft cacophony of the orchestra warming up their instruments. The murmur of excited voices faded swiftly with anticipation. The director tapped the podium before him. The lights dimmed. And then came the first quavering notes of violin and flute, and she stepped into history.
The spotlight caught her, held her in its sway. The backlights grew into brilliance, illuminating the finely painted backdrop and detailed set pieces. Her skirt shimmered pearlescent, the lights glittering off the miniscule sequins and gems sewn into the fabric. She lifted one white, smooth arm in a graceful sweep, and let the music carry her away into a world of magic curses and tragic love, of enchanted princesses and masquerade balls. The other dancers swirled around her, the Prince lifted her as easily as a downy feather, but she barely saw them. She was a part of the music, a creature of dance and emotion and light, and in the elegant steps she took she could feel the boundaries between the worlds wavering. In moments like this the realm of dreams and spirits was called out to, summoned to the very edge of the border; the World of Man still held some of the old beauty and wonder of that other land.
She lost herself in it all. The old ballet, performed hundreds of times before by great dancers and mediocre-not even a true masterwork according to most-became something new and breathtaking. A rainbow seemed to glow behind the luminous Odette, and every move of her hands or feet left a trail of color the audience swore they could see. She danced with a grace that seemed impossible, and in the transformation scene there was a suggestion of sweeping, feathered wings. The wailing flute became a swan’s cry of pure sorrow.
The other dancers felt it, too, and found they were dancing with more skill than they ever had before. They were seized by an overwhelming sense of joy when the Prince and Odette first met; then the choking dread of betrayal at the ball; and as the Prince and his Swan Princess cast themselves asunder, hearts broken and crying out to be together, there was not a single person in the hall who was not sobbing.
Gloria lay still against the cold stage for a long moment, shoulders trembling with effort, and felt the otherworldly power leave her. The ballet had finished, and the realm of magic receded once again. She had given the performance of a lifetime, and half-wondered if she would ever again dance with such joy and skill. But then she was climbing to her feet, the Prince taking her hand to lead her forward into the rapturous applause, and she saw him.
He stood in the front row, at the very center, and clapped louder than any other. In his arms was a bouquet of roses and he was smiling her smile. She was so overcome she nearly forgot to bow, and could barely keep herself from dashing off the stage then and there. But then he winked, and she nodded gravely, and made the extra bow the applause demanded before stepping off lightly behind the immense velvet curtains.
She ran to her dressing room, desperate to wash the white makeup from her face and pull the feathers from her hair as quickly as possible. The hall was full of noise as the other dancers dashed back and forth, laughing and talking and shouting to one another. Sasha Pietyr, the Prince, caught her just before her room and gave her a warm kiss on the cheek.
“You were the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he told her in their own tongue. “Never has there been or will there be a more graceful Odette.”
“Thank you, Sasha,” she said quickly, cheeks flushing through the makeup. “You were a wonderful partner-if I was as good as you say, it was because you and the others made me so.”
“Such modesty!” he laughed good-naturedly. “A prima donna who gives compliments as well as she receives them; you are a rare jewel indeed, Gloria. Have a good night. I look forward to dancing with you again tomorrow.”
“Good night, Sasha.” She closed the door firmly behind her and hurried to the bathroom. She had just turned on the hot water and plugged up the sink, and was turning to grab a towel from the rack when she heard the knock.
It could have been Monsieur Daupin, or any one of the dancers. It could have been a dramatic critic hoping for a quote for tomorrow’s review, or any number of admirers. But she knew who was standing outside her door, and she practically flew to open it.
“The most beautiful ballet I have ever seen,” he said. “And the most beautiful dancer. Hello, Gloria. I think I know you from somewhere.”
“From a dream, perhaps?” she said, heart fluttering wildly beneath her ribs. “…Am I dreaming now?”
“Well, does this feel solid enough?” He took her hand in his, half-bowed with due dignity, and pressed his lips to her fingers.
“Yes, quite solid,” she managed to say rather breathlessly when he had straightened. “And I thank you for the praise, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Please, call me Harry.”
“There are many things I wish to call you,” she replied, eyes flashing. “You took much time in coming to see me, Harry.”
“The traffic is terrible in the city,” he said, grinning.
“I am sure. You brought roses, hmm?”
“I’m a traditionalist. I brought something else, too, though.” He reached into a pocket and pulled a small box from it. “Something that already belongs to you, I think.”
She opened it and smiled. There was her gold locket ringed in seed pearls, a gift from her father when she was accepted at the Academy. The corners of her eyes burned, and she blinked furiously. “Thank you. But there was something inside that I gave to you.”
“For safe-keeping, you said.”
“Yes. But perhaps the best, safest place would be with you,” she said slowly. They both knew what she meant, and the air wavered and crackled between them.
“Something like that is quite the burden to bear,” he said quietly. “It’s a responsibility, and it demands unwavering trust.”
“I think you will always have that,” Gloria said somberly, meeting his eyes steadily. They stood like that in her doorway, gazes locked, studying the contours of faces already well known but somehow altered in this heavier light.
“…My God, but you’re beautiful,” Harry whispered, as if to himself.
“And you are most handsome man I have ever seen,” she said fervently, biting the edge of her lip.
They both stepped forward as if on cue, the roses sliding from his hand and tumbling carelessly to the floor as her arms encircled his neck. And yes, he tasted of apples, and she smeared lipstick and white foundation across his cheek, and a passing dancer giggled and catcalled at them. And it was a perfect moment.
“Would you like to get some coffee?” he asked when they had parted. Her hands were still warm against the back of his neck.
“I would.”
“Right now?”
“Every night.”