Page 21 of Reverence

“Goody Two-shoes?”

Both Katarina’s clear objection to being immediately cast as the villain and Juliette’s reaction to being essentially slotted as the boring one would have been comical if they hadn’t also been visibly uncomfortable.

At least, Juliette was. Ever since this morning—and honestly, who was she kidding, ever since last night—she had just not been feeling like herself. That sense of premonition, of an extended déjà vu of sorts, that kept tugging at the corner of her conscience was rather exhausting when all was said and done.

Since Juliette always tried to be as sincere as she possibly could, at least with herself, it didn’t feel like things were actually done at all. It seemed that whatever was looming over them all had only just begun its ominous approach.

She told herself it was the deal she had made with the Culture Minister. She told herself it was the stranger in her apartment. Juliette told herself many things, but she couldn’t ignore her own distinct discomfort and a state of alertness that was so outof character. She felt boxed in, in this office full of light and old librettos.

Music sheets were scattered on every surface, some amongst dust bunnies and some covered in empty mugs. And yet even here, with scents of stale coffee mingling with Francesca’s bespoke Dior, the orange blossom teased at Juliette’s senses, making her extra aware of the presence to her right. Making her extra aware of her own reaction to said presence.

Not that Katarina needed much to be noticed. Or remembered. Ramrod straight, shoulders thrown slightly back, she was the picture of a thunderstorm in complete stillness. For someone who was so unreadable damn near all the time, today of all days those sharp angles of the pale face showed exactly what she was thinking, and Francesca’s call for a revolution clearly did not resonate. Maybe as a person whose country boasted to have undertaken quite a bloody one, she just wasn’t a fan?

Juliette grinned at her own joke before schooling her features. She had her own objections to voice, chiefly among them?—

“I shall not, under any circumstances, be taking any parts off Mademoiselle Lucian-Sorel’s plate.”

Yeah. That one.

Katarina had beat her to the punch, and it was like a weight had lifted. Juliette stood taller. Helena had planted a seed last night, one that Juliette did not want to necessarily nurture, but with Francesca already making moves to split roles, it was hard not to become a touch paranoid.

Francesca pursed her lips and laid her hands, palms down, on the antique desk.

“I was not going to stageSwan Lakeat all. Not this year. The company’s repertoire was getting predictable, and what can be more predictable than the little swans? Now, shaking it all up,two ballerinas being the centerpiece, doing an extensive pas de deux between the shadows and the light? Nowthatis something that has never been done before. And that is something that I could have never even dreamt of doing, simply because no one—absolutely no one—who walks these hallways could ever be on the same stage as Jett as an equal and belong there.”

Juliette could feel her own eyebrows rise toward her hairline. Francesca was never effusive with her praise, perhaps wary of giving her too much leverage in their already murky relationship, but this was decidedly nice to hear. Even as her cheeks turned pink, Francesca went on, pointing a long bony finger straight at her.

“She is my prima. My principal dancer. Nobody in my company dares to take her parts. Not even me. But she cannot dance opposite herself, and in you, I finally have a puzzle piece that will match my star.” The up-and-down look Francesca gave Katarina would have probably made a lesser woman spin around and run. Katarina didn’t so much as flinch.

“You helped me get asylum because?—”

“Iallowedyou to stay at Palais Garnier, Mademoiselle Vyatka, against my better judgment and under duress, because the powers that be forced me to and because you are the second-best dancer I have ever seen on the floorboards of this theater. But please don’t mistake my self-interest as approval of you being here.”

Juliette almost gaped and managed to school her features only at the last second. This was harsh. Yes, Katarina had caused a lot of trouble for everyone involved, but surely Francesca saw?—

“I do see the advantages of having you with the company. And I would have been a fool to not grab this chance of capitalizing on your fame, your considerable skill, and your even greater scandal. But make no mistake. If not for Juliette, you’d not be here, and she will always be my number one.”

Francesca’s dark eyes bore holes into Katarina’s, and Juliette felt like she was intruding on a very personal conversation. She had more often than not been on the receiving end of praise, applause being very much her milieu, yet this felt different. Territorial. And thus all the stranger.

A few more seconds of the staredown and Francesca was the first to avert her eyes. When Katarina spoke, her words had the finality of a death sentence.

“You have your Odile, then.”

She took a step back and leaned against the wall, leaving Juliette space to stand alone in front of Francesca, alone with her argument, alone with her decision. Even Gabriel, stretched out on the futon by the bay of windows, was quiet.

She tried to sift through the multitude of questions that kept popping into her head. The original pas de deux was iconic for its physicality, and neither ballerina would be able to so much as lift the other one an inch off the floor. But that seemed somewhat moot, especially when Francesca’s eyes were shining with that maniacal light of obsession.

“I will dance the parts I’m given, Cesca, you know that?—”

A clap of hands, then a fist pump, and Francesca was on her feet, cane forgotten, limping her way across the office and sweeping Juliette into a bone-crushing hug.

“Excellent. Most excellent indeed. And Gabriel is still your Prince, and he loses nothing?—”

“Just the most beloved part. The audience will lose its collective mind!” Gabriel’s face was a comical mixture of a pout and the brightest eyes ever. Honest to a fault in both his disappointment for himself and excitement for her. For the potential of the production. Because in one thing Francesca was absolutely right, despite her brashness: Two ballerinas dancingSwan Lakewas a revolution. And that meant butts in seats and a revamp of Paris Opera Ballet’s reputation, from predictable andstale to unexpected and unprecedented. And in their business, that meant everything.

Still, the issue of the pas de deux was a logistical nightmare. That and the lifts.

“No lifts.” Francesca made a sweeping gesture with her arm, not unlike flicking off a cape.

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