Page 2 of Sweet Nightmares
Jane breathed life into the story on the stage. She made the audience’s soul sing, unlike any other dancer in the company—in the country, possibly even the world. That’s just how good she was.
A young prodigy.
No mirror enchantment, no spell, and no false facade could compare.
People traveled from all over the world to watch her perform, and little girls dreamed of one day becoming famous like her.
If only they knew what her life was truly like, they’d never trade places. Because, like mirror deals, her talent and fame came with a hefty price.
Not all that glitters is gold… often, it is rancid at its core.
This ballet began with a difficult variation, followed by an even more challenging pas de deux, and concluded with a quick costume change. Jane had seven costume changes throughout the show, with four people assisting her in changing her headpieces, bodice, and tutu. Often, one of the four had to cut her out of a costume and then sew her into another because the fit had to be that precise.
But Jane loved her first variation because she danced alone in front of the invisible magic mirror at the Queen’s Royalle Ballet. There was something so peaceful and calming about it, and every time she danced in front of it, she felt like she was finally home. It rested at the back of the stage, and—to herknowledge—only she could see it. Jane would have thought she was going crazy if she hadn’t lived in New Swansea, the country of magic mirrors.
In New Swansea, hundreds of magic mirrors held trapped gods inside, and those gods used their magic through deals, trading information, wealth, prestige, and magic at terrible costs. People negotiated to improve their lives, but the bigger the ask, the bigger the cost and unintended, unknown consequences.
Jane wasn’t old enough to have made a bargain yet. Citizens weren’t allowed to trade until the age of twenty-three, and then they were required to make at least one deal, called their Mirror Rite. But people could take advantage of others’ deals, and there was an entire economy built around them, like Jane’s Mirror Cosmetics.
But even though she had never made a deal, the mirrors sang to her soul. They called to her, and sometimes they screamed at her to free them—like she would even know how. The Queen’s Royalle Ballet’s mirror was no different.
It sang soft melodies of joy and appeared to her when it wouldn’t for anyone else, and it was for this precise reason she liked dancing alone to it on the stage. They shared a beautiful synergy.
The show always ended too soon. If she could, she’d stay dancing forever. But her happiness never lasted. No, it was always temporary, and now she had to meet up with her husband, smile for reporters at the gala, and most likely endure “celebration”sex which involved her husband rutting on top of her as she pretended to enjoy his small, lackluster penis.
At least when he gave her to one of his debtors for a night, they usually had a bigger package. Jane had to look on the bright side of being a toy for men to use and abuse. It was the only way she survived it. And his debtors weren’tthatcruel to her. None of them cared about her pleasure, but at least most of them didn’t hit her—some were even gentle. Her husband was neither kind nor gentle. He seemed to like painting her body with bruises.
The icy midwinter air sliced along her skin as she exited the back of the Ballet and headed first to bathe and then to the gala. Another bitterly cold night in a string of them. It didn’t help that the streets of the Gold Quarter were literally made of metal. Not only were they slippery, they were also freezing.
The sweat-soaked strand of hair dangling from her bun hardened into an icicle within moments of being outside.
Not again. Jane groaned.
But her groan was quickly turned into a muffled scream as a man in a balaclava and gloves jumped out at her and covered her mouth with a slightly sweet-tasting rag.
Jane’s knees buckled first before her eyes fluttered shut, and darkness enveloped her.
Chapter Two
Age 21.
Pain.
All Jane knew was pain.
It clung to her skin and soaked into her hair. But the worst of it felt like it was coming from her wrists. She swallowed, trying to get her bearings, but the world was all black.
A flash of wet coldness hit her.
She tried to blink her eyes open, but it was difficult; they appeared to be swollen shut. From drugs or abuse? She didn’t know. She didn’t remember anything past the ballet.
“Welcome back, little whore.” The words echoed through her brain, but she didn’t understand them or their origin.
Water hit her face again and dripped from her eyelashes as she desperately tried to pry open her lids. With considerable effort, she eventually managed to do it. She blinked open her drugged and droopy eyes.
Everywhere she looked was grey concrete and silver chains, and she was hanging from metal cuffs and chains with her hands stretched up above her.
Her shoulder ached. No, scrap that, everything hurt, and she felt the blood draining further and further from her fingers and arms.
