Page 60 of Soft Limits

My throat is too tight to speak. I’m burning up.

“Well?” There’s an edge to his voice. His knuckles push against my throat. Does he know he’s pressing on my windpipe?

I swallow and just manage, “Yes.”

“Yes what?” His voice is quiet and insistent and demands to be obeyed.

“Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”

He forces my chin a little higher. He’s standing so close I catch the scent of him, a rich, piney scent that makes my knees tremble.

“When you’re out there,” he murmurs, “don’t think about the audience. Think about me. You’re only dancing for me.”

For him? I only ever danced for the audience and for myself. I’m proud when I know I’ve done a good job, and happy when I see the rapt faces in the stalls and hear the applause from the house. Resentment blazes in my chest that this terrifying figure has swept down into the wings to tell me I’m dancing for him. Is all he can think about the reputation of his theater?

But when I look again, his eyes hold nothing of the raw fury that they did the previous day. He’s looking at me like he’s actually seeing me and not just a dancer he can order about. His hand holding my chin is firm but gentle. It’s a heady feeling, being singled out by Mr. Kingsolver, and something golden spreads through me. He’s demanding something of me that he knows I can do, and he wants me to do it for him.

“Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”

His eyes blaze into mine a moment longer. “Good girl.”

Then he’s gone, but I can feel the ghost of his knuckles against my throat. A few minutes later the other woodcutters appear and we stand silently, waiting for our cue. My heart should be racing and there should be tears in my eyes after the encounter with Mr. Kingsolver, but I hear only the soft, growling warmth of that good girl. I’m grounded. I’m calm. The knowledge that Mr. Kingsolver will be watching makes me feel safe, not afraid.

When our cue comes, I step out onto the stage and begin the dance, the others in my wake. I move like I’ve danced this dance my whole life. Everything is perfectly in place and I am at the center of things, like a clockwork doll within a great machine.

I lift my eyes and see the outline of a large man standing right at the back of the theater, watching me. Somehow I know he’s watching only me.

* * *

I’m late. This never happens. I’m running up Charing Cross Road like the four horsemen of the apocalypse are on my heels, though it’s not the end of the world I fear, but something far worse.

The theater comes into view and I glance at my wristwatch and whimper—I’m ten whole minutes late. The train sat on the wrong side of the river for twenty minutes with no explanation, and each second that ticked by seemed to take a month off my life. Mr. Kingsolver has strict rules, and never being late, even by a minute, is at the top of his list. I cross my fingers and hope that he won’t be here tonight, as he isn’t always at every performance.

I push open the stage door and dash downstairs to the dressing rooms—and my heart plummets. Just before I disappear into the chorus’s communal dressing room I see Mr. Kingsolver and the director standing in the hallway, heads bent over Gregory’s notes. Mr. Kingsolver looks up, his dark brows drawn together, eyes arrowing into mine.

I press my back against the closed door, breathing hard.

The other dancers turn and look at me, then glance at the clock. One or two bite their lip.

“Did he see you?” We all know Jacintha doesn’t mean Gregory.

I nod, and she winces.

“Maybe it’ll be okay,” says Kayla as she rolls on her tights. “You’re only a few minutes late. He can’t be that angry.”

But we both know that’s not true.

Despite my agitation the performance goes off without a hitch. I remind myself I’m a good dancer and that dancing is what I want to do. The echo of Mr. Kingsolver’s voice telling me I’m only dancing for him helps keep me grounded, too. Until the final curtain goes down, that is. And then I start to go to pieces, teeth worrying at the sides of my nails.

Gregory gives us his notes on the performance. There are just a few, and afterward we all head for the dressing room. Then he calls out, “Oh, and, Abby, Mr. Kingsolver wants to see you in his office when you’re changed.”

The others give me shocked looks. Tears prickle in my eyes. I’m going to lose the only thing in my life that means anything to me. My hands tremble as I wipe away my mascara and pancake foundation. One by one the girls touch my arm as they file out, bags slung over their shoulders.

“Sorry, Abby.”

“Yeah, sorry, Abby.”

They know they won’t see me again after tonight.

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