Chapter One
Paris
Perspiration covered Wilhelmina in layers. It was hot and sticky, slow-dripping down her spine, tightening her skin as she moved. Her sweatband was soaked, but still held up somehow. Rehearsal was in its sixth hour. Her feet screamed in pain and her pointe shoes were ruined, but her body was conditioned for this. She powered through it, because Giselle was the role of a lifetime. A ballerina could go her entire career and never get to play the coveted part. It was both theater and dance, a story of love, betrayal, vengeance, and forgiveness.
She and the other Danseurs Étoiles and the entire corps de ballet had just finished a run-through of Act Two on stage. It needed to be flawless. There would be no quirkiness in tomorrow night’s performance because Madame Durand would not allow it.
Earlier that morning, in rehearsal of Act One, Madame obsessed over the acting and pantomime. In Act Two, she was critical of technique. Mina’s stomach was pulled taut, sucked into her spine, her back arched, shoulders back.
“Take care to hold your pose and your expression, Mina,” Madame coached. She formed an effortless arabesque, her face stoic. “Tomorrow night, I want to see the same peace in your face as you land that I see when you’re in the air.”
Mina nodded and mirrored her body language.
“Beautiful,” said Madame. “Sophie, watch those arms. Take your time when you bring them down. Giselle is already dead, my dear.” And then louder. “Again.”
Sophie instantly became Myrtha, queen of the young ghost brides, moving like her muscles were made of water to summon Giselle from the grave. Then Mina was airborne in a lightning-quick series of jumps…
“Ya-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta!” Madame fired off, clapping out the time.
Mina’s right leg kicked out high and to the side with each jump, her body moving into an arabesque in mid-air on the final landing.
“Yes! You’ve got a lovely light jump. Let’s use it more.”
Mina stood center stage, hands on her hips, the sound of labored breathing echoing off the walls. Even after weeks of touring the world, Giselle continued to be more complex, more physically and emotionally demanding than any role she’d done before. Her body cried out for a chance to collapse, but if Madame commanded, she would charge up again.
“Take five.”
Mina shuddered with relief.
“Where is Albrecht?” asked Madame.
Anton, the tall, lean soloist with dimples and eyes like whiskey seemed to materialize out of thin air.
“There you are. Prepare for the pas de deux with Giselle. The rest of you, again!”
Mina waited for the other dancers to clear the wings and then sat on the floor to gingerly untie the pointe shoe on her left foot.
“Oh, those are wrecked,” Sophie said between quick puffs of air.
“I was hoping…they’d hold up until…tomorrow so I wouldn’t have to…break in another pair…so soon.” Mina worked to get her breathing under control.
“Your shoes have the shortest shelf life I’ve ever seen. Ballerinas. So… many…steps…” Sophie teased, doing little jetés between each word. She was too exhausted for anything else.
“Principal, Sophie,” Mina said. “Same as you.”
“Not the same. You’re the only Ballerina here and everyone knows it. The rest of us are just ‘ballet dancers.’”
Sophie was right. The hierarchy of the Paris Opera Ballet didn’t include “prima ballerina” like the rest of the world, but the roles Mina landed spoke for themselves. There was no point in playing coy. She gently peeled the shoe and toe pad from her foot, wincing at her angry red toes. She felt a blister forming between her big and second toe, and her callouses would be tougher by morning.
“I almost miss dancing with the Willis.” Mina sprayed Ambesol on her toes. “I was so desperate to be Giselle, do you remember? Two years in a row before I finally got to be the Queen. Last year, I started to think it would never happen.” Replacing the toe pad, she slipped the shoe back on, securing the ribbon around her ankle.
“And now I’m Queen and you,” Sophie said, handing Mina a coconut water, “are my bitch.”
Madame Durand’s voice cut through the air. “Giselle, Albrecht, pas de deux!”
*
New York
The sights and smells and humanity of the city were what Zachary Coen missed most during his year away. It vibrated with energy that never died down. As if the city read his thoughts, a persistent rattling on the street below ripped his attention away from the television. He glanced at the fourth-story guest room clock and watched the minute hand creep past midnight, quietly ushering Wednesday morning in.
Sighing, he moved to shut the window against the obnoxious sound but stopped as the culprit came into view. A homeless man pushed a shopping cart down the street, the big black trash bag inside of it bursting with every material belonging he owned. The café at the corner was still open, and the humidity of late June carried the smell of coffee and day-old croissants with it through the open window. Zack pulled the cash from his wallet on the tv stand, balled it into a wad, and sent it out of the window just as footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs.
Reaching for the remote, he paused the audition footage he was half-heartedly watching and turned to greet the man who’d inspired his entire career.
“Why are you still working at this time of night?” Alex Verenich set a cup of hot tea down on the night stand. “You’re conventionally attractive, relatively young, virile, etcetera. It’s New York! When you aren’t sleeping, you should be out charming the dress off some beautiful, eager young lady.”
Zack grinned. “No time for debauchery, Alex. History wasn’t made under a pretty lady’s dress.”
“Appropriately dramatic, if a little untrue. This is obviously your calling—May I?” Alex gestured at the reupholstered chair in the corner.
“You know you don’t need to ask.”
At sixty, Alex was wiry, the powerful muscles of his youth long shrunk, but he still moved with the grace of his glory days. Sitting down and crossing his long legs, he glanced at the television. “Still searching for your Camille?”
Zack nodded, sitting at the edge of the bed. “Every time I think I’ve narrowed it down, I change my mind again. I don’t know…” He rubbed the back of his neck in irritation. “They’re all beautiful. Perfect technique, incredible stamina…but something’s missing. Something I can’t seem to figure out-”
“A certain je ne sais quoi.” Alex smiled. “I find it endlessly amusing that something so profound as to leave us tongue-tied is defined simply as, ‘I don’t know.’” He considered the image frozen on the television. “Céline Depardieu,” he acknowledged appreciatively. “Quick feet, despite her height. She’d be able to keep up with that neoclassical stuff you’ve been doing in San Francisco that’s got the world off its axis.”
“Yeah, but we’re a bad match for the pas de deux. We wouldn’t fit together well, and the lifts-”
“Mmm.” Alex folded his arms over his chest.
“I had high hopes for Anastasia Romanov—her technique is flawless. Her voice…is not.” Zack pressed a button to rewind the footage. “What about Ruby Bertrand?”
“Fine, fine. She’s lovely. She’ll suit just fine.”
Fine. A double-edged sword, and Zack knew the end Alex assigned to the word was blunt and without shine. “Don’t string me along!” he said. “Who’ve you got?”
“A firebird. Brightest of them all. Constantly recreating herself, rising from the ashes. She’s the jewel of the Palais Garnier.”
Zack knew instantly who Alex had in mind. And no way was she right for this. “Absolutely not.”
“Zachary! She’s-”
“Willful. High-maintenance. Egocentric.”
“Determined. Strong-minded. Reserved. Compelling actress. Physically, she’s perfect. She’ll fit you like a jigsaw. Stir the hearts of men…” He grinned. “And women.”
Zack’s brows hiked in reluctant agreement. He’d never seen Wilhelmina Allende in person, but given her superstar status, there was no escaping that high brow, those delicate cheekbones, and dark eyes that shone from the glossy covers of magazines. The jewel of the Palais Garnier, indeed. She was beautiful…But so were the others.
“She’s an Étoile,” Zack reminded him. “I’ve toured there, Alex. It’s a bloodbath. I’m sure she didn’t scrap her way into the coveted seventeen just to lower herself to American theater.”
“She’s as American as you and I. Moved to Paris to live with her mother at just eight years old. Trained at the Paris Opera Ballet School where ninety percent of dancers don’t make it into the company. But she did. A black woman.” He frowned. “It pains me to say it, but very few people beat those kinds of odds.”
Zack shook his head, still not convinced. “What about the rumors, Alex? Or the fact that I’d have to untrain the equivalent of a black ops prima ballerina in a matter of weeks? I’m not interested in working with some prima donna.”
“I’m accustomed to the mild neurosis of passionate artists, but fatigue and pride are making you blind, my friend. This weekend is the final performance of her tour as Giselle. If you’re as quick as I know you are, you’ll ask her about the rumors yourself.” He held Zack’s gaze for a scolding moment, then moved on. “You’ve listed the reasons she isn’t right, but I will convince you why she is with just one. The only reason that matters.”
The quiet storm that shook Alex’s tone drew Zack’s eyes to his in silent question.
“One of the most interesting things I’ve ever read was written by Dan Brown,” Alex said. “‘Angels and Demons.’ Have you heard of it?”
Zack frowned. Alex loved to wax philosophical. It’s what endeared the dance legend to his pupils throughout the years, but this sidebar was hard to follow. “Of course.”
Alex dropped his arms and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, the forefinger and thumb of one hand pinching together to hold a small, invisible object. “In it, a seemingly inconsequential number of subatomic particles is kept in a tiny, indestructible glass case and locked away underground. It is so powerful, so devastating, that if released, could incinerate a radius spanning miles and miles.”
“Alex-”
“That is Wilhelmina Allende.”
*
Paris, 42 hours later
Zack watched Wilhelmina and her partner move into position from the darkened balcony of the Palais Garnier. The pianist sent the melody up into the hot air to blend with the echo of their feet hitting the wooden floor. The choreographer studied them with hawk eyes. She chimed in about a drooping arm here, a dragging pace there. They were a burst of flowing arms and lifting legs, flying limbs and tilted heads.
The distinct scent of sweat filled the space, drifting up to where Zack sat. His own memories of performing in venues like this one were quick flashes in his mind, overshadowed by the exquisite mass of sinew and bone that was Wilhelmina Allende - “Mina,” the choreographer called her.
She wasn’t what he expected. Graceful and precise, but with a subdued energy at rest that ignited the instant she moved. She looked younger than her twenty-eight years without stage makeup and bright lights. Her vulnerability stirred a protective instinct within him, but there was also an unmistakable sensuality simmering beneath her glistening brown skin. The combination made him lean forward, absurdly trying to get closer.
He wasn’t surprised that she nailed the first act. She didn’t pace herself at all, throwing herself into her movements, the music absorbed into her muscles. Moving with power and immense control, none of the effort showed in her expression. Her billowy jetés and high, drifting pirouettes drew appreciative sounds from the few other spectators in the theater, but his expression was unmoved. He hadn’t hopped a red-eye and submitted to highway robbery for Paris’s tiniest hotel room to see what he could catch in fifteen seconds of audition footage. He’d come to see Act Two.
It was difficult to imagine her as a spirit being—she was far too arresting a presence—but she quashed his expectations with a performance of haunting other-worldliness. She looked every bit the whimsy spirit floating through the air. Her arms came over her head to execute her flawless arabesque, holding it for several seconds before her partner drew her close from behind for their pas de deux. Her partner’s long, nimble fingers gripped her rib cage, the muscles of his arms rippling as he plucked her from her feet and lifted her into the air.
The competitive jealousy of a dancer ripped through Zack like a commercial airplane landing in his gut. The hairs of his neck prickled like chicken skin and his jaw was nailed shut. Mina was tirelessly gentle and forgiving, rising in her partner’s arms as if weightless, taking heartbreaking possession of Giselle’s affliction. She was a figurine atop a music box come to life. Though she wore yards of white chiffon and a shimmering headpiece, Zack conjured her in red, her hair free and feet bare. He knew from the rigid set of his bones and the blood wailing through his body that he’d found her. She was Camille, and he had to have her.