Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,40

for several seconds, assessing me openly. He has brilliant green eyes and dark hair. Instead of returning my greeting, he simply nods. I break the stare first, looking down.

“Warm up, and we'll get started on the first pas de deux,” Mr. V. says. “Morgan wants to see how you and Frederick dance together.”

I nod and move to the barre beside Frederick, who is already stretching. He gives me a wink, and I smile back. I'm glad we're dancing together. Frederick has such an easy way that I know I'll feel safe dancing with him.

I chance a glance back to Mr. V. and the choreographer, my heart in my throat. The way he looked at me. His build. His hair color. So much like the man in Mr. V.'s office. And he just nodded. He didn't speak.

Is it him? I feel so ridiculous about all the people I've guessed could be the man whose initials are S.T. The choreographer's name doesn't start with these initials, but does that matter? He'll have to speak eventually. It would be too strange if he didn't. And then I'll know for sure. My stomach flutters with a thousand butterflies as I go through my warm-up routine, unsure if I want this man to be him or not.

“Frederick, Cassia,” Mr. V. says, calling our attention. “We're ready for you.”

Frederick takes my hand and squeezes it briefly. “You'll do great. You're an amazing dancer,” he says, misunderstanding the reason for my obvious nerves.

But I'm grateful I can hide behind this misunderstanding. The choreographer continues to watch me as Frederick and I move to the center of the sprung floor, ready to take instruction.

The choreographer picks up a red piece of fabric and comes to stand beside me. Without a word, he ties the scrap of red silk around my eyes. My breathing goes shallow.

“In this ballet, you'll be dancing with a blindfold for part of it. Can you see through the fabric?” the choreographer asks.

I let out a long, slow breath, trying to will my heartbeat to calm back to normal. It's not the same voice. It's not him.

“Y-yes, Sir,” I say. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to call him by his name. Guest choreographers don't necessarily follow all the same protocols of the company. But he doesn't comment on my formality.

“Good. The audience will be wowed, but it's more illusion than anything. It won't be as easy as dancing without it, but with practice, you should be able to orient yourself on the stage.”

I almost laugh out loud at this. He doesn't know I've been dancing on a stage with a blindfold that isn't just an illusion. This is nothing by comparison.

“Frederick, step back and give her some room,” he says. Morgan turns his attention back to me. “Okay, I want you to try a few pirouettes. Use your outline in the mirror to spot.”

I do as he asks, doing three sharp, quick turns in succession.

“Wonderful. So you can see well enough, then. You can take the blindfold off for now.” I untie the fabric and turn my attention back to the choreographer, trying desperately not to think of the stranger in the theater and all the associations that have attached themselves to blindfolds in the past couple of months.

The choreographer goes on to explain his vision for this Firebird. The blindfold is used as a tool of ensnaring her to Prince Ivan. She doesn't know who has her or what he wants at first. I listen carefully to the new story that has been concocted, and it sounds so much like the story of my own capture.

Just as in the original Firebird, Prince Ivan will only let her go if she promises to return to him when he asks. The choreography is challenging but a pleasure to dance. It's all so fluid, like a dream. I do feel like an actual bird as Frederick and I dance together.

I turn to find a few of the company dancers standing out in the hallway watching through the large picture windows.

When we break for lunch, the choreographer pulls me aside.

“I'm not sure of the company's rules,” Morgan says, “But I was wondering if you'd like to have lunch with me.”

I gape at him for a moment. In all the initial panic that he might be him, it hadn't occurred to me that the way he was looking at me was garden-variety interest. It's been so long since I've had innocent interest aimed at me that it's hard