Page 37 of Reverence

And now when she laughed, it was sincere. Juliette smiled too, a sense of relief piercing her anxiety.

“The choices we make, right?” Helena’s voice was so close, so near and yet so far, the words familiar, said so many times between them, holding so much truth.

“Yes, Hels. The choices we make.”

“Be well, dearest. Don’t jump too high.”

Juliette could feel her smile growing wider at their inside joke. Helena could never outjump her, not when they were little girls and certainly not by the time they graduated. And so she concocted this silly little wish that they laughed at together, as Helena muttered it before every show Juliette danced.

“Oh, and dearest?”

Juliette’s eyes were drooping, Helena’s voice and the relief of having resolved their issues making her sleepy.

“Hmmm?” A murmur was all she could muster.

“Don’t worry about the critics. I hear if Paris thinks it’s too good for you, there’s someone out there who will come calling very soon.”

“Someone else wants me? Who? London?” Tiredness was fighting curiosity in Juliette’s mind.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out, Jett. And soon, by the looks of things at Palais Garnier.”

Unwilling to ask more questions and quite frankly too sleepy for riddles, Juliette said her goodbyes.

When she hung up the phone, a parquet board creaked somewhere in the quiet of the apartment and Juliette suspected that the last sentences of her conversation with Helena had had an audience. Did Katarina come out to talk to her? Had Juliette imagined the creaking board?

Everything was silent now, yet the absence of sound was not melancholy. Juliette was not lonely. The stirring in her chest was warm and welcome. As for the impending disasters, they were lulled to sleep by the Paris night and Juliette’s knowledge that her nightmares usually showed their faces in the daylight anyway.

14

OF DRESS REHEARSALS & GLASS

In her years as director at Palais Garnier, Francesca had taken every opportunity to eschew preview performances in favor of dress rehearsals. She took that road again forSwan Lake, forgoing any and all press exposure until the last possible moment.

“It’s better this way, amor. Your first night in costume is in front of friends and not all the peasantry and rubble, and I gag at the thought of the critics sneaking in and seeing the performance before I deem it ready.”

Juliette had never questioned Francesca’s logic, chalking it up to one of her eccentricities, and why should she not do as she pleased? After over a decade of dancing prima parts under these lights, followed by five amazing years leading the company, Francesca had earned the right to do pretty much anything.

But the last two years had been abysmal, and Juliette wished Francesca had granted them more time and preparation before rolling out a performance. A preview night might not have been such a bad idea, especially after theDon Quixotefiasco.

She had said as much and was given the stink eye from a harried and disheveled Francesca before Gabriel pulled heraway to avoid screaming. Not that it was really avoidable these days. Raised voices were everywhere.

When she made her way into the shoe room on the day of the dress rehearsal, Michel and Monique were engaged in a very public squabble involving a soloist and some alleged debauchery and, had Juliette heard right…debts? She had no idea Michel was a gambler, but Gabriel only shrugged a shoulder and Juliette let it go.

Francesca was in the middle of a good yelling session with Madame Rochefort, the reclusive shoe lady who ruled over the biggest bounty within the Palais. The room, which resembled a beehive with its honeycomb walls filled with shoes, named and labeled, for each of the one hundred and twenty dancers, was a marvel of architecture and a jewel in the crown of the French ballet.

Madame Rochefort was a jewel in her own right, renowned for having inherited the magic and knowledge of centuries of shoe masters. Juliette adored and feared her. Francesca was always in trouble with her, and their shouting matches were legendary.

As Juliette stepped into the gallery after class, she couldn’t help but notice two things. Well, three.

Katarina was trying on a black pair, clearly getting ready for her Odile, two other sets lying next to her, already properly broken in and cut. There were strange, mangled flowers on Madame Rochefort’s desk, and Madame Rochefort herself was stubbornly glaring at Francesca, who was yelling in Spanish. Judging by the level of noise, the purse of Madame Rochefort’s lips, and the speed with which several other dancers vacated the premises—among them Michel and Monique, still quarreling—the fight was serious, and Juliette knew better than to get involved.

And what was more important, as she tuned out the screeching behind her, all Juliette wanted was to stare at Katarina, even though Katarina had not yet lifted her eyes to her.

Which wasn’t that strange, Juliette told herself. In fact, she had been telling herself similar things all morning. When she had woken up, a bit later than her usual time, and decided to forgo her jog so she could enjoy a cup of coffee with Katarina, she had been greeted by an empty apartment.

Later, during class, Katarina did not take her customary place in the back of the room and stayed farther upfront, which ensured that Juliette was as far away from her as possible.

And now this. Not even looking up as Juliette plopped down on the floor next to her to check out her new shoes. Trying not to overthink things, she banged the little nail out of the first pair and went to town with the cutter, adjusting the height of the satin sides as her brain was in overdrive trying to figure out what was going on. They had shared something special last night, and if not for the phone call…

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