by Lola Keeley
“It’s dealt with.” It isn’t supposed to sound so snippy, but Victoria hasn’t entirely forgiven yet. “Clean up after this. You’ve got a costume fitting with Susan at eleven.”
“But—”
“Rearranged. I’ll see you in Wardrobe.”
If Anna mutters something as Victoria walks away, well, she isn’t sure she wants to hear it.
“Susan!” Anna greets her with a happy squeal. “I haven’t seen you in so long. You’re never here when I come to grab shoes lately.”
“Speaking of which.” Susan nods toward the rows of shelves, each section marked off with a dancer’s name. “Fresh arrivals from London.”
Hangover chased away by a long shower and some breakfast, Anna practically skips down the aisle to where Gale, A. is written in Sharpie on her cube stuffed full of shoes. Somehow, this is the moment that punches her in the gut. So far she’s been grabbing her shoes straight from bags or piles of boxes as they come in, but now she’s officially and semipermanently part of the gang, in a way that performances or just showing up every day doesn’t quite reach.
Stuffing five new pairs in her bag, Anna is wiping an errant tear as she turns away.
Victoria is waiting at the end of the row, leaning against the shelves.
“What?” Anna asks, composing herself.
“Are we going to talk about yesterday?”
“With Susan just down there?”
“Susan?” Victoria calls. “Kelly has some paperwork for you to sign. And have you left out the Prince costumes for Anna?”
“On the rail,” Susan confirms before taking her leave. Clearly she doesn’t mind being thrown out of her own domain if Victoria Ford is the one taking over.
Anna shivers at the thought, because she doesn’t mind the idea one bit, either. They both listen to the door opening and closing again, leaving them alone.
“So.” Anna gathers herself enough to ask, dropping her bag on the floor. “Where do you, um, want me?”
Of all the loaded questions Victoria has ever been asked, that one is a grenade with the pin long since pulled. She can do what they’ve been doing—she can bolt and avoid it, and pretend like they aren’t going to keep finding themselves in these situations. Or she can lean into it, and actually enjoy the spark that’s making them such a formidable pair onstage and off.
“Well, it’s not long until you get your chance to play the Prince. Your lifts are coming along well, and Delphine makes a perfect Princess Rose for you.”
“If I’m doing so well, how come you wouldn’t let me dance for Rick? Are you ashamed of me?”
“What?” Victoria is used to insecurity, predominantly from other people. This business breeds it—from the body image, to the performances, to the critics, there’s ample opportunity to stop believing in one’s own talent.
“He asked me to dance and you sent me to physio.”
“You didn’t go.”
“My hamstring wasn’t that tight.” Anna folds her arms over her pale pink sweater. The white leotard beneath it is brand-new, long-sleeved with those darling little loops around the middle finger. It does wonders for the line of the arms. “And I know when I’m being sent away.”
“Oh for God’s… Will you go try on the costume? We don’t have all day, and if Susan guessed your sizing too far out, it’s another round of alterations.”
“She didn’t guess. I was measured for La Bayadère fittings.”
Victoria starts to prowl down the row, shoes stacked up on either side. “It may be surprising to you, but there are still variations, depending on the cut and fabric. You’re just lucky you’re tall, and that not all our leading men have been as impressive in physique as Gabriel. There should be options for you.”
“Fine,” Anna grumbles, stalking off to the rail by the seating area and plucking the hangers labelled ANNA from it. Of course, there’s no privacy. Defiant, she starts stripping right there, not caring if Victoria gets an eyeful, or who else might walk in. Her gray tights go first, the sweater dropped on top of them.
“This can stay for now,” Victoria reaches out to tap the sleeve of Anna’s leotard.
She doesn’t so much as flinch.
The first costume is ridiculous, and Victoria knows instantly that it’s only included because Susan is screwing with her. It’s Rick’s Romeo from God knows how many years go, and Victoria thought everything from that disaster would have been ceremonially burned. Gray, asymmetrical, sequinned in the strangest of places. She plucks it from Anna’s hands and sets it aside.
“Start with this.”
The leather pants are baggy in all the wrong places. Such an unforgiving material, it rarely stretches with the body, staying mostly out of shape instead. Victoria has seen some fantastically structured bodices and tutus in leather, but for the kind of androgyny she’s going for, it’s falling short. The mesh top looks tired, almost sad. At least Anna is a quick changer.
“Not quite.” She starts flipping through the selection herself, skirting around Anna. “You know, usually I can trust Susan on the aesthetics, but I suspect I didn’t make myself clear. No, wait…I think we have something.”
A military uniform, of sorts. Jade green and elegant needlework. With Anna’s coloring, it’ll be a rich tapestry. With Susan’s alterations, it’ll be a moving piece of art.
Victoria turns back toward Anna and holds it out with a smile.
Anna just stares at the ensemble in front of her.
“Is everything in this range some kind of fetish wear?” she can’t help asking.
“Really?” Victoria tilts her head as though the thought has never crossed her mind. “And what does Miss Vanilla know about fetishes?”
“Who said anything about vanilla?” Anna taps her toe experimentally on the floor, which continues to lack the functionality for swallowing her whole. “Fine, I’ll try this on too.”
Anna shrugs the velvet jacket on first, running her fingertips over the stiff brass buttons and the elegant brocade. The pants are going to be too big, she can tell that at a glance, but maybe if she rolls the waist down and the ankles up, it could look sort of intentional. Whatever they settle on, her own versions will be brought in or tailored.
When they’re pulled up—a better fit than she hoped, but rolled down to skim beneath her hipbones—Anna seeks out the full-length mirror. Well. It’s a look. So used to white and pale pastels, she enjoys the contrasts of the darker, heavier materials against her skin.
“Move,” Victoria suggests. “Obviously we can tailor something from scratch, but can you dance in something like this?”
“You want me to pirouette barefoot in the wardrobe department?” If Anna sounds dubious, it’s because she is.
“A little bending and extending is just fine, thank you.” Victoria folds her arms, expectant. Her hair is down again today, a strand falling in her face that she idly blows away.
Anna dips and extends a leg in one direction, then shifts to extend the other. It’s comfortable enough, if a little weird.
“A few tendus, then,” Victoria presses, and Anna complies. “Hmm, it’s not really rubbing off those feminine edges like I hoped. You’ve seen the boys. Where’s your swagger, Gale?”
“You want me to get all butch about it?” Anna snorts, but Victoria only folds her arms. “I’m not exactly prepared.”
“Why not?” Victoria circles in close.
Anna feels herself slipping straight back into that mode of expecting a touch, a kiss. She thrums with the anticipation of it.
“You won’t exactly be packing when you dance on stage, will you?” Victoria asks.
“Will I?” God, can Anna’s cheeks actually catch fire? It feels like they might.
Then Victoria, who’s worn one of her signature scarves to liven up her black sweater and tapered pants, is tugging at the artful knot in the silk.
A moment later, somehow Anna is pressed up against the mirror where it hangs on the wall, and Victoria’s free hand is re
sting just above Anna’s shoulder. In her other hand, Victoria has neatly balled up the silk that comes in a vibrant red and black, white horses drawn across it. Hermès, Anna assumes. That’s Victoria’s signature accessory, after all.
“Would it help,” Victoria asks in a soft voice, mouth barely inches from Anna’s ear, “to feel something between your legs?”
Anna gasps in response, nodding once, then twice. With the hand holding the scarf, Victoria traces an idle finger along the waistband of the tights. Just when it seems she won’t follow through, she slips that hand inside. The heat of her hand is almost shocking, the silk just decadent as it’s pressed between Anna’s thighs. She hopes Victoria’s hands will linger, but after she’s rubbed the scarf into position, and drawn a lascivious little moan from Anna, those wicked fingers are quickly withdrawn.
But then that hand is skimming over velvet and cupping Anna through the tights. If she says something, maybe Victoria will stop. Since Victoria’s mouth is now nipping at her collarbone above the open top buttons of the jacket, stopping is the last thing Anna wants.
“How does it feel?” Victoria whispers.
“G-good,” Anna admits. Her center of gravity adjusts slightly, the camber of her hips and her stance in general.
“Would you like it to feel even better?”
Victoria’s questions have only gotten more risqué, but Anna already knows what her answer will be.
CHAPTER 32
Victoria knows she’s way across the line, but they’ve been struggling to balance on it for far too long. She wants this. She wants Anna. The one who stands up to Rick and Liza, who tries harder than everyone else, who’s talented, beautiful, and so unexpectedly kind.
She presses a tender, openmouthed kiss just below Anna’s ear. It makes Anna’s knees buckle, and Victoria laughs low in her throat at how powerful she feels, holding Anna up by grabbing at the barely appropriate mesh top.
“If we put you on stage like this,” Victoria murmurs, “they’ll be throwing themselves at you from the aisles. They say ballet can’t be hot? We’re going to fuck with gender, with convention, and they won’t be able to take their eyes off you. You want that, don’t you?”
“I want…” Anna swallows as Victoria nips at her earlobe. “I want you. This. Now.”
Victoria kisses her full on the mouth, swallowing the contented little sigh ’forming on Anna’s lips. They kiss almost like it’s the first time, enthusiastic but tentative, each taking unscripted turns to lead or retreat slightly. The whole time, Victoria doesn’t move her fingers from where they’re wrapped around the bulge her scarf is making.
They’re interrupted by the department’s main door slamming open. Victoria expects to be pushed aside, but Anna just freezes with her hands on Victoria’s hips.
“Victoria?” The boy with the cardigans calls out. Ethan. What the hell is he doing here? “Susan said she left you here? We, um, we need you?”
“Christ,” Victoria snorts, peeling away from Anna reluctantly. “I’m coming.”
Chance would be a fine thing.
She pats Anna one more time. “You can give me my scarf back later, once this annoyance is dealt with. Let it stay put for now, hmm?”
She departs with what she’s sure is her most salacious look, and almost punches the air at the wrecked little whimper of Anna’s that follows in her wake.
Anna touches the wall behind her with both palms. It’s the only way to convince her legs that she can stay standing.
She peers through the rows of clothes and shoes to watch Victoria talking to Ethan, who looks much more agitated than normal. The speed at which they both depart suggests something’s really wrong, and Anna’s mind goes immediately to Irina. Has she tried to overdo it? Or maybe Teresa is causing a scene. Either way, Anna can’t just stay put. She doesn’t bother to change since her casting as the prince is hardly a secret.
The destination turns out to be the auditorium, where the Coppélia rehearsals should be in full swing. They open that show in a matter of days, though Anna has enjoyed the luxury of not being in the corps for that one. It might feel like getting off lightly if Victoria didn’t work her twice as hard as the extra production would have.
It’s chaos.
Anna freezes in the wings as she watches the commotion on stage. Someone—she can’t quite see who—is clearly in pain. The noise can only be described as a series of howls, almost animalistic in their rawness. It’s like someone trying to scream but they can only open their mouth and let the pain make its own guttural sound.
A glance at the auditorium reveals Irina in the front row, engrossed in her book and only glancing at the swarming crowd of dancers onstage. Just as Anna looks around for Victoria, she hears that imperious voice projecting throughout the space.
“Everyone not injured, make your way into the house or the wings. You are not helping. Let David and I handle this.”
In a trickle, the sea of women in tutus and men in white tights retreat as instructed. The noise barely dims, the tide of gossip only spreading rather than stopping. It finally reveals the scene to Anna as dancers shove past her into the wings, most of them pausing to give her outfit a derisory stare.
“Jesus Christ!” Morgan gasps from where she’s prone on the floor. Tears are streaking down her face, and ’Victoria is leaning over her to check the extent of the injuries. “Oh, it’s gone, it’s really gone this time.” The words are choked out around sobs, and it’s awful to watch.
Next to her on the floor lies one of the male soloists who Anna doesn’t really know. He’s blond and wiry, and she thinks they might have shared the stage for half a moment in La Bayadère, and it hits her then how new she still is, how much of an outsider she is compared to the dancers who have been part of this company for years.
David is on the phone, and Kelly dashes in moments later. “Ambulance is out front,” she says through gasps, and there are some unpleasant snickers from the girls next to Anna at the fact Kelly is out of breath.
“Can I help?” Anna marches over to ask Kelly. It’s an excuse to get a closer look at Victoria, who seems like she might throw up at any moment, kneeling beside Morgan as she tries not to writhe in pain. “Is it her hip?”
“Yes, it’s my fucking hip!” Morgan snarls. “Sorry, it’s just… Oh God, nobody call my mother. Not yet. Not until there are drugs.”
Anna drops to her knees on the other side of Morgan, meeting Victoria’s gaze but getting no response. Prioritizing, Anna takes Morgan’s hand and squeezes gently.
“They say deep breaths help with the pain. I’m sure the paramedics will give you something to make it better. You’re going to be fine, okay?”
“I’m done,” Morgan says through gritted teeth, but she follows Anna’s example of breathing in deep and then slowly releasing it. “I knew if it went again, after the surgery and all…”
“Hey, hey,” Anna soothes. “You don’t know that for sure. Doctors can work miracles, and you could be back dancing in no time. It might not even be that bad.”
“Oh, stop it,” Victoria cuts in, her tone dripping acid. “You don’t have the first clue what you’re talking about, and the last thing she needs right now is a dose of Pollyanna. Morgan, stick with the breathing. It’s the only valuable thing Gale told you, even if she does mean well.”
The paramedics arrive then, carrying a stretcher between them. They’re brisk and professional despite the warm smiles they offer to everyone. A quick assessment and Morgan is gently strapped to the backboard, an oxygen mask placed carefully over her mouth and nose.
Only then does Irina move from her seat, coming to stand beside Anna onstage as Morgan is readied for a trip to hospital. A careful hand is laid on Anna’s shoulder.
“It happens,” she says. “This bastard dance we all live and die for, it doesn’t care for us so much.”
“I thought it was you.” Anna’s words are strained with worry, but she knows this is very much not about her. “I’m sorry it ha
ppened to anyone, but I thought you’d tried to come back before you were ready.”
“Well, my understudy is out now,” Irina says as they carry Morgan away.
The man she was dancing with is back on his feet, protesting to anyone who’ll listen that his lift was perfect, that it was some fluke with the way she landed, and that’s on Morgan.
Anna can understand that need to deflect blame, but it makes her not like him very much.
Victoria picks herself up and follows the paramedics without a word. She’ll be accompanying Morgan to New York General, then. David ends his call and nods to Irina. “Do we think she meant it about her mother?”
“I would not want to be the person who delayed telling her that her only daughter might have just ended her career today,” Irina says.
“As always, you make the bleak but relevant point, comrade,” David says.
Irina swears briefly at him in Ukrainian, a curse Anna recognizes but doesn’t know the true meaning of. She’ll add it to her list, if there’s ever time to sit down together and ask the hundreds of questions she has.
“We’re taking ten, people. Be back here ready to move,” David calls as the dancers reluctantly disperse.
It’s probably not so strange that they’ll reset and carry on so quickly. Part of Anna expects exactly this. No one died. It just feels like everyone’s concern for Morgan left the room when she did, and Anna sees now it was probably the same when she found the glass in her toes, even though that was almost life-changing for her.
“Come, malenkaya,” Irina instructs. “I am still out of commission with this boot, so it’s time for tea.”
“The café’s closed until the house opens,” Anna reminds her.
“Not here,” Irina says with a snort. “You should never trust an American to make tea. They give you their strange take on it, which I think is maybe for cleaning floors, only nobody ever wanted to correct them. Street clothes, then meet me in the alley.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Anna clicks her heels together. “Should I call Jess, or do you want to?”