Page 2 of Daughter of a Monster

Because when I dance, I am no longerhisdaughter, the daughter of a monster. I am a vessel, an instrument. Dance is pain and within that pain, I lose myself.

I get to pretend.

The sharp claps of Miss Marchand’s hands snap me back to reality. “Enough, enough,” she mutters. “Everyone take a seat.”

By ‘seat’ she means the vinyl surface covering the floor and we all crumple in a mound of leotards and sweatpants and heavy breathing. Miss Marchand paces back and forth. She has such a determined way of walking, even when she’s not going anywhere. A few of the dancers share whispered secrets, risking her wrath. I hear what sounds like my name and panic twists in my gut. Closing my eyes I draw in a few deep breaths trying to will away the ‘flash’ I know could follow. Sometimes paranoia gets the better of me.

But then Dominic leans close. “Is it true?”

“What?” I ask, already scared of the answer. My voice comes out commanding, snappish.

But he doesn’t have the chance to elaborate as Miss Marchand claps her hands again and everyone drags themselves to a sitting position, giving her their undivided attention.

“Today we have the pleasure of a visitor. Jericho Priest is one of the company’s benefactors and I expect nothing but your best behavior. Without his support, we would not be able…” she pauses for a moment. “We would cease to exist. None of you would be dancing. There would be no building to practice in, no theatre for our performances. Nothing.”

She’s being overly dramatic, but we are used to it. The company does not exist on the generosity of one man alone, but from the way Miss Marchand is speaking, you would think it does. I shoot Dominic a glance, but he’s got his eyes fixed on Miss Marchand, almost like he’s avoiding my gaze.

I shake my head slightly, trying to will away the paranoia.

They don’t know.

They can’t know.

I’m imagining things.

The thud of the outside door echoes down the hallway followed by the sound of clipped footsteps.

“On your feet! On your feet!” Miss Marchand snaps. She pats her hair, smoothing out any stray strands from her severe bun, and plasters on a smile just as the door to the studio opens.

“Ah, Mr Priest.” She glides over to him, stooping her head in revered submission and clutching onto his outstretched hand. “I was just telling my students about your most generous contributions to our company. We are forever grateful—”

The man waves his hand in dismissal and Miss Marchand stops speaking and almost falls to the ground in an effort to please him. Her face is twisted in what I think is supposed to be a smile, but it looks pained.

Mr Priest’s cold gaze scans over us. I’m too far away to tell what color his eyes are, but I know they are dark. It’s almost as though his stare holds authority, some of us stooping under the weight of it, others straightening their shoulders in order to appear more graceful and gain more attention. His gaze narrows in on me for a fraction, barely an instant, but in that moment a deep shudder runs through me as though he knows who I am. As though he can see the darkness of my soul. But then his gaze moves again and I become nothing more than limbs and sinew among the bodies.

“I do not wish to waste your time so I will get straight to the point,” he announces with no preamble. Another shudder runs through me at the sound of his voice. It’s low and gravelly and sends vibrations through my body. There’s something dark and unknown about the man that resonates with me.

Miss Marchand steps forward, that same pained smile on her face as though she’s about to speak, but Mr Priest merely holds up his hand, silencing her. She takes a step back, dipping her head.

“I’m looking for someone to tutor my ward. She’s young. She has taken an interest in the art form of dance and is insisting on lessons. You will be required to live on my estate for the period of the contract. You will be rewarded in a generous manner. Auditions will be held tomorrow.”

Again, Miss Marchand steps forward. “You know I would only be too willing to—”

And again, Mr Priest cuts her off, sending her a warning glare. “Auditions will be held tomorrow,” he repeats.

I wonder at his use of the word ‘ward’. It’s so old-fashioned, as though the man saying it should be wearing a tailcoat with a vest underneath and a cravat bunched at his throat. He’s not. He’s wearing a navy suit, no tie, shirt open and revealing a hint of ink. His hair has been smoothed back from his face and his expression is unyieldingly stern. His eyes are cold. He is handsome, but there’s something out of place about him. Something hard when it should be soft. As though he doesn’t belong in the suit. As though it’s uncomfortable for him to wear.

No one dares to breathe as he looks over us once more. I find myself willing his gaze to linger on me for just a fraction, like it did before, but he passes by me quickly.

“That is all. You may go.”

Normally, none of us would leave without permission from Miss Marchand, but there’s something so commanding about his voice we file out the door in a single line.

“So, is it true?” Dominic asks as soon as we’re in the changing room.

Everyone turns to look at me. Their eyes run over my body as if seeing me for the first time. No one is getting changed. Everyone is waiting expectantly.

My mouth goes dry.

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