Page 59 of Among the Sins of my Father

Michael’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder again. He’s rubbing back and forth, back and forth. I want to shake him off. I want to jerk out of his reach. But I don’t.

“It’s not. It’s a dance performed to Le Cygne from Le Carnaval des Animaux, and there is simply no way I can perform it. I’m not good enough. The pointe work alone is an impossibility. I don’t have the skill. I’m out of practice.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to get some training in before the party,” my father says.

“And from what I’ve witnessed,” Michael’s face twists into a mocking smirk, “your ability to move your body is exceptionally good.”

I glare back at him. “Strange, as I don’t seem to recall you giving me the chance to move at all.”

chapter twenty-two

BERKLEY

The final notes of Camille Saint-Saëns’s Le Cygne fade as I sink to the floor, chest heaving, muscles aching. Over the last couple of days, I’ve pushed myself into a grueling routine in the hope of being somewhat able to perform. My feet are bruised and bleeding, my toenails black. And even then, I’ve only been able to manage to perform a stilted version of the dance at half pointe.

But at least Michael isn’t here watching me this time. He and his father left to attend Jericho’s famed monthly gathering. He’s been moody since his father insisted on them attending. He snaps at me and insults Jericho, attempting to elicit a response. But I don’t bite. I don’t give him the pleasure.

I’m trying not to imagine them shaking hands, acting civil, pretending I don’t exist. I don’t know what Jericho’s plan is, but I trust he has one.

Each day I spend here I miss him more. There are times when I wake in the morning, trapped in Michael’s arms and for a split second, I think it’s Jericho. In my half-dream state, I’m happy. A warm glow radiates from my chest, but then I open my eyes and realize where I am.

I haven’t had any flashes over the last few days. I’m beginning to miss them. Not the twisting in my stomach. Not the shortness of breath or the pounding of my heart. But because I don’t see him. As confusing and vivid as they were, they allowed me to be close to him even when I wasn’t.

My only joy is seeing Ette at dinner each night. Not that we’re given any time to talk. But at least I get to see her. I get to check that she’s okay. Physically at least. It’s given me some peace.

Pulling myself to my feet, I walk over to the stereo to start the song again. Michael cleared out his gym for me, pushing all the weight machines, treadmills and rowers to the side. It doesn’t allow me a huge space to practice in, but it’s better than the cramped space of my apartment where I used to train.

It’s the first time he’s truly left me alone since I came here. He made sure to show me the feeds of the cameras and introduced me to some of the hidden guards before he left. But knowing I’m not being watched by him, even if I am by others is a weight lifted from me. I feel lighter than I have in days, even if my body is exhausted.

My feet are too sore to even attempt full pointe, so I concentrate on the movements of my arms. They are still too stiff, still too human-like to replicate the movement of wings.

I take my position as the rolling notes of the piano start. My arches and toes protest when I lift to the balls of my feet and hover my way across the room as the cello joins. I wish there was a mirror so I could see my progress. I wish I had something to record myself so I could watch it back. Even though I don’t want to perform, I know I have to, so I want to do it well.

I close my eyes, allowing myself to get lost in the beauty of the music, the sadness of the dance. It tells the story of a swan who has been wounded. She’s fighting against it, fighting against death, but she loses her battle. The melancholy strains of the cello are haunting but it’s the final note which brings my tears. It quivers almost as though the cello itself can feel the pain.

When I’m collapsed on the floor again, a slow clap echoes about the room. I lift my head to find my father, the monster, leaning against the doorway, watching me.

“I told you all you needed was a little practice.”

After taking off the slippers Michael arranged for me to use, I get up and turn off the stereo. “I’m not even close.”

“It looked beautiful to me.”

I turn, waiting for the next comment, the barbed remark but it doesn’t come. He pulls himself away from the doorway and steps into the centre of the room.

“You have it good here, daughter. You must have something rather appealing between those legs considering you’ve now managed to trap two men between them. I guess you’re more like your mother than I thought.”

He chuckles and the sound runs through me as chills. I grit my teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. It doesn’t work.

“Oh, come on now. You know how enamored Michael is with you. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful?” I splutter before I can stop myself.

“Yes, grateful.” He narrows his eyes. “Fucking grateful in fact. He’s offering you a life you don’t deserve. If it were up to me, I would have left you in that cell, given you a taste of what your life could be. But Michael wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted on bringing you back here. Insisted you were part of the family even though I’d told him you’d already spread your legs for that excuse of a man, Jericho Priest.”

He’s purposely trying to provoke me.

“You know.” He slowly stalks around the room, running his fingers over the gym equipment and rubbing them together when he finds a speck of dust. “Everything good in your life is because of me. I was the one who raised you. I was the one who paid for your life.” He glances up, no doubt hoping to see the anger in my expression, but I push it deep down and hope I’m showing nothing but nonchalance. “I’m still paying for your life,” he adds, pushing the barb in harder. “And yet you’ve done nothing but disappoint me. You owe me everything, daughter, and you’ve done nothing but turn your back on me.”

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