Chapter 11 The Ghost of a Dancer
The elevator ride down from Arthur Thorne's office is silent, but my head is a riot of noise. I clutch the signed paper against my ribs like it is a vital organ. My ankle is screaming, a rhythmic, pulsing heat that matches the throb in my temples, but I don't care. I have the deal. I have the leverage. For the first time in my life, I feel like I am the one holding the scissors to the puppet strings.
Caspian is still holding onto my arm as we exit the glass tower. The night air in the city is sharp and smells like rain on hot asphalt. He doesn't let go of me even when we reach the sidewalk. His grip is firm, almost protective, which is a strange feeling. I am used to being the one doing the protecting. I am the one who carries Lumi. I am the one who shields my mother from the truth of our bank account. Having someone else anchor me feels dangerous. It feels like a habit I can't afford to start.
"You're actually insane," he whispers, though there is a look of awe in his eyes that he can't quite hide. "You walked into the lion's den with a thumb drive and a dream, and you actually walked out alive."
"I walked out with more than a dream, Caspian," I say, lifting the paper so it catches the glow of the streetlights. "I walked out with Lumi's future. He can hate me all he wants. He can call me a janitor until his throat is sore. But he signed this. He is going to pay for her therapy, and he is going to leave my mother alone."
He looks at the paper, then at my bandaged foot. "And what about your future? Zoe, you can barely stand. How are you going to convince Elias to let you on that stage? Sloane is already in the studio. She is probably practicing your solo right now."
"Then she is wasting her time," I say. I pull my phone out and check the time. "It is six o'clock. The Gala is at seven tomorrow night. That gives me twenty-five hours to fix this."
"Fix a sprain? You need a miracle, not an ice pack. If you try to dance on that, you will snap the ligament entirely."
"I need a taxi," I counter. "Are you coming or are you going back to the mansion to play the part of the grieving son?"
Caspian looks back at the skyscraper, then at me. He doesn't even hesitate. He whistles for a cab, his fingers sharp and loud in the quiet street. "I am already disowned in his head. I might as well finish the job."
The ride back to the Academy is a blur of neon lights and the smell of the taxi's lemon air freshener. My mind is racing. I know how a sprain works. The swelling is the enemy. If I can't get the inflammation down by tomorrow morning, I won't even be able to get a pointe shoe over my heel.
When we arrive at the Academy, the lights in Studio A are still burning bright. We don't go through the front. We use the service entrance, the one I used to mop. We move through the shadows of the hallway until we reach the observation gallery above the main stage. I lean on my crutches, looking down.
Sloane is down there. She is wearing a black leotard that costs more than my rent, moving through the sequence Caspian and I spent weeks perfecting. She is good. She is technically perfect. But she is dancing like it is a math equation. There is no soul. No grit. No smell of the Flats in her movement.
"She is doing it wrong," I whisper, my grip tightening on the railing.
"She is doing it the way the Academy wants it," Caspian says, standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his shoulder. "Clean. Safe. Boring."
"I am not going to let her take it," I say. "Not after everything."
"Then we need to get to work," Caspian says. "My mother used to tell me about an old dancer's trick for injuries. It is dangerous, and it is going to hurt like hell, but it might get you through the performance."
"Tell me," I say.
"Contrast bathing and compression. We go to the training room. We switch between ice cold water and near boiling heat every ten minutes for the next six hours. It shocks the blood flow. And then we wrap it so tight you lose feeling in your toes."
"Do it," I say.
We slip down to the training room in the basement. It is cold and smells like liniment. Caspian finds the hydrotherapy tubs. He fills one with ice from the machine and the other with steaming water. I sit on the edge, pulling off the compression bandage the nurse gave me. My ankle is a sickly shade of purple, swollen to the size of a grapefruit.
"Ready?" he asks, holding my hand.
"No," I say. "Do it anyway."
I plunge my foot into the ice water. A scream catches in my throat, and I bite my lip until I taste copper. The cold isn't just cold. It is a thousand needles stabbing into my bone. I lean my forehead against Caspian's chest, my fingers digging into his forearms.
"Breathe, Zoe," he mutters, his voice low and steady. "Just breathe. Think about the music. Think about the stage."
"I am thinking about killing your father," I gasp.
"Good. Use that."
We do this for hours. Ice. Heat. Ice. Heat. The world shrinks down to the ticking of the clock on the wall and the feeling of Caspian's hands on mine. Around three in the morning, the swelling starts to go down. Not a lot, but enough that the skin doesn't look like it is about to burst.
"We should get some sleep," Caspian says, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.
"I can't go home," I say. "If I go home, my mom will see the crutches. She will make me stay. She will think the deal is off."
"You can stay in the dorms," he says. "My room. No one will check it tonight. They think I am at the mansion."
I am too tired to argue. He helps me up the stairs, my arm draped over his neck. His room is exactly what I expected. Clean, white, and lonely. He lays me down on the bed and props my leg up on three pillows. He grabs a fresh roll of athletic tape.
"I have to wrap it now," he says. "If it swells while you are sleeping, we are done."
I watch him work. He is incredibly gentle. He winds the tape around my joint, his movements practiced and sure.
"Why are you doing this, Caspian?" I ask. "You are throwing it all away for a girl who mops your floors."
He stops, the tape still in his hand. He looks up at me, and for the first time, the mask is completely gone.
"Because when I dance with you, I can hear the music," he says. "Everywhere else, it is just noise."
He finishes the wrap and moves to the small armchair in the corner. "Sleep, Zoe. Tomorrow is the only day that matters."
I close my eyes, the darkness pulling at me. But as I drift off, a thought hits me. Arthur Thorne didn't look defeated.
He looked like a man who was setting a trap.