Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,45

the records over to the old art room, Klara retrieves the turntable. She sets it up in the corner of the room, balanced on one of the little end tables I’ve shoved into the corner. The turntable is just as old as the vinyl, and even dustier. Klara has to clean it all over with a damp cloth. Even after she plugs it into the wall to prove that the platter still spins, neither one of us is certain it will play.

I pull out one of the records, removing the vinyl from its protective sleeve. Klara places it carefully on the platter and sets the needle in place. There’s an unpleasant static sound, and then, to our joy and amazement, it begins to play “All I Have to Do Is Dream” by the Everly Brothers.

We both start laughing, faces and hands filthy with dust from the attic, but our smiles as bright as ever.

“Proszę bardzo. Muzyka,” Klara says. There you go. Music.

“Dziękuję Ci, Klara,” I say. Thank you, Klara.

She smiles, shrugging her slim shoulders.

Once she leaves, I pore over the vinyl in the box. Most of it is from the 50s and 60s—not what I’d generally dance to, but miles better than silence.

However, there are also a few LPs of classical music, some by composers I’ve never heard of before. I play through a few of the records, looking for one that suits my mood.

I usually lean toward cheerful, upbeat music. I hate to admit it, but Taylor Swift has been one of my favorite singers for years.

There’s nothing like that in the box. A lot of it I don’t recognize at all.

One cover catches my eye: it’s a single white rose on a black background. The composer’s name is Egelsei.

I swap out the record, setting the needle in place.

The music is unlike anything I’ve heard before—haunting, dissonant . . . yet entrancing. It makes me think of this old mansion creaking in the night. Of Klara in her witchy gown, reflected in a dusty mirror. And of a girl, sitting at a long table lit by candlelight, facing a Beast.

It reminds me of fairytales—dark and terrifying. But also tantalizing. Full of adventure, danger, and magic.

My favorite ballets have always been the ones based off fairytales—Cinderella, The Nutcracker, The Sleeping Beauty, The Stone Flower, Swan Lake.

I’ve always wished there was a ballet of my favorite fairytale of all: Beauty and the Beast.

Why shouldn’t there be?

I could make one.

I choreographed four songs for Jackson Wright.

I could make a whole ballet if I wanted to, start to finish. One that would be dark and gothic, frightening and beautiful, just like this house. I could take all of my fear and fascination, and pour it into a dance. And it would be fucking beautiful. More real than anything I’ve made before.

Jackson said my work lacked emotion. Maybe he was right. What had I ever felt before?

I’ve felt things now. All sorts of things. I’ve felt more emotions in two weeks of captivity than in my whole life before.

I turn the volume up on the record player, and I start to choreograph my ballet.

15

Miko

When I return home from the cemetery, I expect to find the mansion silent and dark.

Instead, as I walk through the main hall, I hear the distant sound of music playing in the east wing.

Nessa is not supposed to have music. She can’t have a phone, a computer, or so much as a radio. Yet I hear the unmistakable sound of piano and cello mingled together, and the light thump of her bare feet on the floor overhead.

Like a hook through a trout’s mouth, it catches me and yanks me up the stairs before I’ve made the conscious decision to move. I follow the line of the sound, not to Nessa’s room, but to the salon where the Baron’s daughter used to exhibit her watercolors.

When I reach the open doorway, I stop and stare.

Nessa is dancing like I’ve never seen her dance before. She’s spinning around and around, the raised foot whipping around the supporting leg, her arms spreading open and then pulling tight toward the body to spin her all the faster.

She looks like a figure skater, like the floor must be made of ice. I’ve never seen someone move so cleanly.

She’s drenched in sweat. Her pale pink bodysuit is so wet that I can see every detail underneath, as if she were completely naked. Her hair is coming loose from its tight bun, damp strands plastered to her face