Page 40 of The Muse
More things that are my fault.
“Miss Persephone?” Sophie enters the room but stops as I turn to face her. “Are you okay?” The startled expression she wears is half shock half annoyance.
“I’m fine, Sophie. I just had an accident. Please leave me.” I let the fall of my hair hide my face as I set about picking up some of the debris now littered across the floor.
“If, if you’re sure.” She backs away slowly, hopefully understanding my need for privacy right now.
“Please leave. And don’t worry about the room. I’ll see to it.”
“But, Miss-”
“Leave!”
I don’t turn back around until I hear the door shut, and then I abandon the broken beauty bottles and trinkets.
The interruption at least gives me a kick to halt my tears, and I sniff the final drops back, stand, and brush myself off. I’ll shower, wash all traces of that argument from my skin and then gather myself properly.
My intentions are good—but my heart seems to have a bigger say in my actions right now. The minute the clothes hit the hamper and the hot steam fills the shower, the grief forces the tears to return. They mix with the warmth of the shower water, causing the droplets to mingle as they both cascade down my cheeks.
Maybe I just need to cry. Stop hiding or pretending and let my body cry out every last tear. It’s a good idea at least, and for the next twenty minutes, I do just that.
~
When I was a student, my parents converted one of the bedrooms down the hall into a studio for me to practice in. Stripped back wooden floors, gleaming of soft honey, with a barre along one wall and a bank of mirrors at the far end. I spent hours and hours honing the skills I needed in there. First, stretching the arch of my foot and learning the position of my feet before going en pointe. And then, my pirouette, or the choreography for a particular piece I was dancing.
As I advanced through the school, I stayed away from home and spent less time in the studio, but I've always loved that space. It's mine.All mine. The mirrors clear my mind, and the door closing behind me focuses my thoughts to my dancing—any element of it—and shuts out the world.
That’s what I need to do right now.
Dressing in black leggings and an athletics top, I head along the hall to the room. There’s a box of my old ballet slippers in the room that will serve me for what I have in mind. I'll get lost in the steps—pour my emotion and passion into something tangible rather than harbour the pain in my chest.
My memories skip to some of the most challenging steps I’ve danced. I’ll need that to pull my full attention, to lose myself to the extent I require to even consider a distraction from Scott. Plus, it will deliver my own kind of punishment. That’s the only way to shut off whatever is in my chest that’s leaching out into the rest of my body and making me feel so awful.
My feet take over, and my body comes alive as I run over the dance in my mind's eye. Before long, I’m marking out, but as much as I want it, it doesn’t feel right. The focus I’m looking for is just out of reach, and the negativity begins to pulse around me like a living thing.
I know what it is. It’s this house. The pressure of what Earlwood stands for. Generations of Brodericks, all of them casting their disapproval down on me for falling in love with a Foxton. Well, screw them.
My feet stop, and I lean forward on my knees to catch my breath. The reflection of my form in the mirror gives me something to draw my attention. I’m still Seffi Castlewood. I’m still a world-class dancer, and I won’t be scared off by the ghosts of my family for simply following my heart.
I take a deep breath, compose myself before rising into a perfect relevé. With my breathing controlled, I spin and complete a combination of pirouettes, développé and other movements that come from my heart, not from the steps I’ve previously memorised. My body moves and stretches and bends to the rhythm of the pain in my heart, not from the steps that a stranger put together.
And that’s all I needed to find my focus.
~
After dancing all of my emotion from my body, I feel drained. Physically and emotionally. I don’t want to go back and wallow in my bedroom, so I head for the stairs. Sophie's bound to be around and be able to get me something to eat.
Before hitting the first step, I fire off a message to Scott, hoping he might have at least calmed down enough to talk to me.
Scott, please talk to me. You have to understand. I promise everything between us is true x
I give it a few seconds and wait to see if he’ll text back, but nothing happens. No magic flashing dots to show me he’s at least responding. I shake my head and stuff my phone into the pocket of my leggings. The further I get downstairs, the more sour my mood turns. All the hard work of my dance seems to be vanishing with every step.
I walk into the dining room and stop dead. Landon is sitting at the table with a tablet out in front of him.I freeze. I can’t do this—I can’t sit down with Landon and pretend everything is okay. My feet fall backwards silently as my body turns from the room. After all, he’s not looked up from his business.
“Join me.” He delivers it as a command rather than an invitation.
“Sure.” My retreat halts and I take my seat opposite him. Sophie appears with a tray of tea, complete with my own teapot and places it just to my side.
