Page 33 of Dance of Ruin

I nod. “Yeah, just…this stomach thing.”

His brow furrows as he shoves his fingers through his dark hair, the tattoos on his forearms rippling. “Shoulda called me, dude.”

I shrug. “It’s…fine. I just needed some rest. I’m totally fine now.”

“So… You’re saying you’re fine.”

I feel my lips curl slightly as he grins his roguishly charming grin at me.

“Yeah, I’m?—”

“Fine,” he finishes. “Well, in that case—let's go get worked over by Madame K.”

He turns to follow the rest of the company inside. Before I can do the same, Milena pulls me slightly aside, her brow furrowed.

"Are yousureyou’re okay?" she asks worriedly.

I nod, too quickly.

"You look like you’ve been through hell."

My mouth opens. I want to tell her. Want to spill everything. But the words shrivel on my tongue.

"It’s just a bug," I lie. My voice barely registers.

Milena doesn’t press, but the concern in her eyes cuts deep.

"Okay," she says softly. "Just... Don’t disappear on us again. Please."

I nod.

Inside, after I emerge from the changing room, the studio mirrors reflect a version of me I don’t recognize. Pale, hollow-eyed, brittle. Weak.

I realize that I’ve actively been avoiding looking into mirrors since…it…happened.

A black, curdling sensation writhes inside me as I forcibly pull my gaze from my reflection.

“Odette’s first entrance, please!” Madame Kuzmina, in her usual black shawls and glittering rings, is already shouting instructions at the rehearsal pianist, her voice slicing through the space like a blade.

Then, the pianist starts to play, and I take my first steps.

The role of Odette/Odile is grueling enough on agoodday.

Today, it feels impossible.

I'm rusty from the three days away, and it feels like there’s a dead weight clinging to my back and throwing me off. When I try to hit that first arabesque, it’s like I suddenly have no balance at all.

With a grimace, I wobble, ankle shaking a little before I lose my balance entirely.

Embarrassment floods my face as I feel the eyes of everyone on me.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Again,” Madame Kuzmina says sharply. The music starts again, and I launch into the steps that—frankly—I could do in my sleep at this point.

Except, again, my body fails me. It doesn’t follow directions, and my mind even forgets what comes next.

It’s a simple enough section. A sequence I’ve nailed athousandtimes. But today, I can’t seem to remember where my feet go, how to turn my head, what my arms do.

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