Kassandra Flamouri
The Chalice and the Crown
Copyright © 2020 by Kassandra Flamouri
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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Acknowledgement
First, content warnings: Although full of magic and love and beautiful things, this work also contains depictions of violence, assault, slavery, family and animal death, and references to sexual and physical abuse.
Second, many thanks! My heartfelt gratitude goes out to all those who helped turn this book into a reality: My husband, who has supported me through all the crazy ups and downs; my mother, whose eagle eyes have caught so many typos that mine did not; my beta readers and critique partners, whose insight never ceases to humble and amaze me; and, last but far from least, my Kickstarter supporters without whom this book would never have been published. I’m so thankful for each and every one of you, and I can’t wait for you to see what your generosity has made possible!
I
Act One: Lacrimoso
“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”
-Friedrich Nietzsche
Prima
For years, I’ve wondered why people say dream when they really mean wish. A dream come true. A dream of a better life. It’s so much clearer in Russian: sohn for a picture you see in your sleep, mechta for a wish or a hope. It’s an important distinction to make, because my dreams have long since turned into nightmares… and the very last thing I want is for them to come true.
For years, I’ve watched the night fall like a condemned prisoner counting down to the hour of execution. I’ve raced through sleep searching for dawn and safety only to collapse with exhaustion upon waking.
Today is no different. I wake in darkness, disoriented, with my heartbeat pounding in my throat. Where am I? A drop of sweat trickles down the side of my face and onto my neck, making me shiver. A ragged breath shudders through my chest. A second one, and a third, until the air flows smoothly. I rest for a moment, the memory of my dream gnawing at me like a dog with a bone. It overtakes me and pulls me under again, as if once just wasn’t enough.
* * *
My name is Sasha.
I struggle to hold onto even this small bit of knowledge as I try to remember how to open my eyes.
A dull but intense pain hammers against my temples and makes my stomach churn. But finally, I succeed in pulling my gummy eyelids apart and then squint, trying to make sense of the strange pattern of blue and gray and black that shifts and sways above me.
I’m not alone.
There are other bodies stirring nearby. Though I still can’t see through the mist, I hear them with perfect clarity. Some are coughing and gagging, some gasping and scrabbling in the leaves. The sound of other people getting sick triggers my own gag reflex and I turn my head to vomit, unable to move my whole body.
I squirm away from the cooling bile trickling down my neck, but I don’t get far. Dead leaves and twigs dig into my bare flesh, scoring tiny, burning lines across my skin. My muscles twitch and jerk, refusing to obey as I scream inside my head. Finally, I give up. I lie still, gasping and trembling, and try to collect my scattered thoughts and senses into some semblance of order. But my eyes, though open, are useless. Or maybe not. I can see—there’s color, texture, depth, movement—I just don’t know what it means. All I know is that I’m cold and scared and naked except for a small, cold weight on my neck. A necklace, I realize, and it seems important, but I can’t seem to grasp exactly why. I put that aside for a moment and return to what I know for sure:
My name is Sasha.
I breathe slowly, carefully, as if I can coax the memories out of hiding. My head is spinning and throbbing, like I’ve had too much to drink. Is that it? Am I drunk? Or hungover, maybe? But no, that’s not right. I’ve never been drunk in my life. I’m responsible, I’m careful—I’m a dancer. I seize on this, relieved beyond measure to have something more than a name to cling to. I’m a dancer.
It’s enough for now. It has to be, because I think I’m going to be sick again.
I force myself to roll over, only to find myself staring into the empty eyes of a little boy. I reach out and brush trembling fingers across his cheek, only to snatch them back as I realize the truth: The boy is dead.
My stomach heaves, but nothing comes up except a thin dribble of bile. This time, I succeed in dragging myself a few feet away. I squint, forcing my eyes to focus until I find a clean patch of leaves. I press my face into them and suck in a shuddering breath. The leaves are cold and clammy, and they smell like rotting things—like death.
* * *
My eyes open slowly, reluctantly. What will I see? Will I see at all, or will I be lost again in a wash of color and fear? But it’s alright. Though the lighting is dim, it’s enough to illuminate the jungle of props and old furniture. My face is stuck to the arm of an old leather couch that smells like years of dust and deodorant and sweaty dancers, not dead earth. I’m wrapped in an oversized sweater, tights, leotard. I’m not naked. Not cold.
But I’m still shaking.
My hand twitches against my sweaty cheek. I tuck both hands under my arms and take another breath. I’ve just fallen asleep backstage, that’s all, and I’ve had another dream. A nightmare, nothing more. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.
There’s no time for nightmares now, no time for fear. A flock of beribboned, giggling dancers dressed as swans flutters by. The glances they cast at me range from speculative to envious to outright hostile. Would the Swan Queen’s handmaidens have looked at her like that, if the story had been true? Would they have hated her for being the one chosen to break their curse?
Perhaps it’s fitting then that the other dancers should ostracize me as they do. They all wanted this role, and I was the one who took it from them. That’s how they see it. When my grandmother announced that Nikolaev Academy would be putting on Swan Lake for the spring production, no doubt each one of them imagined herself dancing the role of Odette.
I’ve heard the whispers. They all think the role was handed to me because I’m Nadia Nikolayeva’s granddaughter—the heir to the Academy, the crown princess of the East Coast ballet world. They have no idea, any of them, how hard I’ve worked, the hours I’ve spent practicing the same minuscule gestures over and over again until each motion is perfect. They don’t know how much this role means to me, what’s expected of me.
Ballet is my life. My past, present, and future. But it’s the present that matters now. It’s time for my duet with Prince Siegfried.
I push myself to my feet with a groan that isn’t entirely for my sore muscles and aching feet. Prince Siegfried—also known as Loathsome Dave—is possibly my least favorite person in the world. He’s not a bad dancer, of course. He would never have been cast otherwise. But he would never have been cast if Simon Cantor hadn’t thrown out his back a week before the audition, either. Dave knows it, too, which makes his swagger and insufferable smugness even more unforgivable, the ungrateful little toad.
Dave greets me with a cocky grin as I join him onstage. I give him a tight smile in return and take my position. James, our director, rattles off our instructions and gestures to the rehearsal pianist.
The music begins, a deceptively delicate theme that carries an u
ndercurrent of tension. Well, I have plenty of that. It’s the delicacy that’s been eluding me, no doubt because I want to slap that smug little smile right off Dave’s—
“Hold it,” James calls to the pianist. “Sasha, stop scowling and relax. Remember, the audience shouldn’t be able to see how hard you’re working. Your job is to make this look effortless. Ethereal. Right now you look like you’re going to murder someone. Not good. You are a beautiful swan princess, not Lord Voldemort in a tutu.”
A smattering of giggles from the surrounding swans only makes me scowl harder. At James’ raised eyebrows, I take a deep breath and force my face into a smooth, blank mask.
“Good enough for now,” James says. “Again.”
The pianist begins again, and I rise en pointe. My arms float above my head and back down, graceful as a swan in flight. If James wants effortless, I’ll give him effortless.
I move like sunlight on water, my feet barely touching the ground. My every motion is controlled, secure…until Dave puts his hands on me. My whole body tenses as he lifts me into the air, my leg pointing straight up and my back arcing toward the floor.
“Loosen up,” James calls, but he doesn’t stop the pianist. “Melt into it—Sasha, relax—”
I realize Dave’s going to drop me a split second before I come tumbling down, and I twist in a vain attempt to catch myself. The hard planks of the stage seem to rise to meet me and slam into my side. I hiss against the pain, but I don’t cry out. The pianist cuts off in a tangle of notes, and a chorus of gasps sounds from somewhere offstage.
“Oh, God.” Dave reaches for me, his face beet red. “Sasha, I’m sorry—”
I smack Dave’s hand away then push myself to my feet, ignoring the shocked whispers of the other dancers.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
James rushes over and takes my elbow to examine the scrape and incipient bruise. I breathe deeply through my nose as his thumb presses into a particularly sore spot and wait for him to finish. He pokes and prods around the joint a few more times until he’s satisfied and then crosses his arms and scowls at me.
“Jesus, Sasha, it’s no wonder he dropped you. You’re so stiff, and you’re shifting your weight too soon. Don’t be in such a hurry to get down.” He throws his hands up. “You’re supposed to be in love, for God’s sake.”
Dave shoots me a wink that’s probably supposed to be charming but just comes off as creepy. But underneath, I can see he’s frustrated.
Well, so am I. Why did Simon have to go and take himself out of commission? We’ve danced together for years. We would have been unstoppable.
“Again,” James barks.
“Come, my love.” Dave sweeps a ridiculous bow and extends his hand to me.
I grit my teeth and take it.
* * *
After rehearsal, I make a beeline for the dressing room and throw on a pair of sweats over my tights. A moment of rummaging in my duffel bag yields a protein bar, which I shove into my mouth without tasting it, and a necklace.
My breath eases the moment my fingers close around the silver and moonstone pendant, a tiny replica of the crown waiting for me at home—the very same crown Baba Nadia wore for her debut performance of Swan Lake. I straighten up and fasten the chain around my neck, sighing as the pendant falls into place just below my collarbone.
The necklace is my most treasured possession. It’s the most beautiful, too: two delicate, silver swans inlaid with pearl and moonstone face each other with their necks arched to form a heart. Baba Nadia gave it to me after I was cast as Odette. It had been a gift to her as well, she explained, to commemorate the very same role. She never said who gave it to her, though, no matter how many times I asked. Just that he would want me to have it.
At first it was annoying, but her evasiveness did lend the necklace a certain mystique. I’ve worn it every day since, and now it’s more than an accessory. It’s my personal talisman, a charm to protect me from all manner of evil that lurks in the shadows of my world: cattiness, jealousy, laziness, complacency, despair…and, of course, failure.
James catches me at the door with a laundry list of notes he’s thought of in the time it’s taken me to change. Most of them are things he’s said already, but I nod and try to look like I’m paying attention. He walks me to the car, drilling my ear all the while with an endless stream of critique. Finally, he runs out of notes—out of breath, more likely—and I make my escape. I drive home and stomp into the house, too irritated and too tired to close the heavy oak door with any amount of care. It slams behind me, making the whole frame shudder.
“Watch it,” Emily shouts from somewhere out of sight. “You’ll bring the house down around our ears.”
Emily has been managing the Academy for nearly ten years, and she’s been with my family even longer—ever since she was twelve or thirteen or something. She was one of Baba Nadia’s students, and she sort of adopted me, watching me and playing with me while Baba Nadia taught lessons. Eventually Baba Nadia hired her officially as my babysitter, and she taught me my first ballet steps herself until I was ready for Baba Nadia to take over my instruction. Emily’s been a best friend, sister, and mother all rolled into one for as long as I can remember.
I find her sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by charts and schedules. I drop onto the floor next to her and rub my eyes.
She peers at me with pursed lips but doesn’t comment. “I was thinking you could give this a shot,” she says instead, indicating the schedules with a wave of her hand. “Get some practice.”
“Isn’t that what we pay you for?” I ask wearily, then grimace. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. But seriously, you do a great job. Why sully your work with my ineptitude?”
She raises an eyebrow. “May I remind you that I was also paid to change your diapers once upon a time. That didn’t stop you from learning to wipe your own ass.”
I can’t help but laugh. Emily always knows how to pull me out of a bad mood. She grins and pats my knee with a sheaf of papers.
“Come on. The studio will be yours one day, and you need to know how to run it.”
“Quite right,” Baba Nadia remarks from in the doorway. She crosses to the high-backed armchair, her cane tapping lightly against the hardwood floor.
I sigh, wondering if I’ll ever achieve the grace that comes so naturally to my grandmother. Baba Nadia always seems to glide, somehow, even with a cane, and she looks like a queen as she settles into the chair. I turn my attention back to the schedules, but I can feel her eyes on me.
“Now, then.” She pokes me with her cane, and the illusion of royalty fades a bit. “Tell me about rehearsal. Emily says you had a difficult day.”
“How—” I cast Emily an annoyed glance. “James told you.”
She grins at me, her blonde curls bouncing as she cocks her head. “Dating the director has its privileges.”
“It was awful.” I let the schedule slip to the floor and groan. “I can’t dance with Dave. I can’t stand him. My body just rebels.”
“That’s no excuse,” Baba Nadia says sternly. “He’s your partner. You don’t have to like him, but you do have to trust him.”
“How can I?” I protest. “He’s an arrogant ass. And he sickles his feet.”
“You’ll meet a lot of arrogant asses, I’m sorry to say.” Baba Nadia shakes her head and taps the forgotten schedule with her cane. When I pick it up again, she continues, “You don’t have the luxury of choosing your own partner now, and you won’t for many years to come—if you ever do. Trust doesn’t just happen, kotik. It isn’t even earned, not really. In the end, it’s a choice. You must choose to believe that your partner will catch you, or you will never fly.”
“If nothing else, you can trust that he has more to lose than you do if he lets you fall,” Emily adds helpfully.
That makes me laugh. And she’s right, too. If this performance is my big shot, it’s even more of an opportunity for Dave. He doesn’t have the co
ntacts I do or the many, many performances under his belt, or the scores of audition invitations already lined up. This is Dave’s first time cast as a principal. If I can’t trust him, exactly, I can trust his desire to not fuck up.
I study the schedule I’ve created. Are four classes too much for me to teach? Emily and Baba Naida have both been asking probing questions about my grades as we get closer to the performance. I can’t deny that their suspicions are justified—in fact, I have an English assignment due tomorrow that I haven’t started yet. I haven’t even opened the book. Henry IV. Or is it Henry VI? I don’t even know. I don’t care, either. After I graduate, I’m not going to go to college.
I’m going to dance.
“It’s a start,” Baba Nadia allows. “But you must try to do better. Is there nothing you like about the poor boy? It’s a love story, after all.”
“People keep saying that,” I complain. “But it’s not!”
Emily looks up with raised brows. “Swan Lake isn’t a love story? How in the world do you figure that?”
“It isn’t,” I insist, wrapping my arms around my knees. “It’s about freedom, not love. Odette is cursed by Rothbart to turn into a swan until the moonlight hits her, but she can break the curse by getting a man’s pledge to be true to her, right? So she does. She plays along and gets the prince to fall in love with her. Maybe she falls in love too, maybe not. But love isn’t the point for her. When Prince Siegfried betrays her, she could forgive him. Yeah, she’d be a swan forever, but she’d still be with him. But she doesn’t. She’d rather throw herself into a lake and drown. Because it wasn’t about him. It never was. What she wanted more than anything else was freedom, not love.”
Emily blinks. “Well that’s…painfully unromantic.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Baba Nadia says, unperturbed. “Let the passion be for freedom, if that’s the way you see it. As long as the passion is there.”
The Chalice and the Crown Page 1