Chapter 17 The Spotlight and the Shadow
Sloane takes a step toward me, the metal trophy gripped tight in her hand. The white tulle of her tutu rustles like dried leaves. She looks perfect, a vision of Academy excellence, but her face is twisted with a frantic kind of greed.
"I'm not playing, Zora," she hisses. "I saw Caspian slip out. I know what you're planning. You think you can just waltz in here and ruin everything I've worked for? This is my night. My solo."
"You didn't work for this, Sloane," I say, my voice low and steady as I finish tying my second ribbon. "You inherited it. You sat in the wings and waited for Arthur Thorne to clear a path for you. That's not talent. That's just being a good puppet."
"At least I'm not a thief," she sneers, lifting the trophy higher. "I saw the news. I know the police are downstairs. One scream from me and you're in handcuffs. Give me the drive, and maybe I'll tell them you came here to surrender."
I let out a dry, cold laugh. "The drive isn't here, Sloane. It's already on its way to the server room. By the time the curtain goes up, everyone in that audience is going to see exactly how your father and the Thornes handled the accident a year ago."
Sloane's eyes widen. For a second, the mask of the elite ballerina slips, revealing the terrified girl underneath. "You're lying. You wouldn't risk Caspian like that."
"Caspian is the one who took it," I counter. "He is tired of being a puppet too. Are you? Or are you going to spend the rest of your life dancing to a rhythm Arthur Thorne dictates?"
"Shut up!" She swings the trophy. I dodge to the side, my injured ankle barking in protest. I stumble against a stack of gym mats, my breath hitching.
"You're a cripple, Zora," Sloane says, her voice trembling. "Look at you. You can barely stand. Even if you get on that stage, you'll fall. You'll be a laughingstock."
"Then let me fall," I say, pushing myself up. I look her straight in the eye. "If I am so pathetic, why are you so afraid? Why are you holding a weapon instead of practicing your pirouettes?"
"Because you're a virus!" she screams. "You came into this school and made everyone look at the dirt instead of the stars! You ruined the discipline! You ruined Caspian!"
"I woke him up," I say. "And that is what scares you. You are afraid that once the lights come up on the truth, nobody will care about your perfect technique anymore. They will only see the blood on the floor."
Sloane lunges again, but this time, the door to the prop room creaks open. A tall, shadow drenched figure stands there.
"That's enough, Sloane."
It is Madam Sterling. She is wearing a navy velvet gown, her silver hair pulled back so tight it looks painful. She looks at Sloane with a cold, piercing disappointment.
"Madam! She's here! She broke in!" Sloane cries, pointing at me. "She's trying to sabotage the Gala!"
Sterling doesn't look at me. She looks at the trophy in Sloane's hand. "Put that down. You are a prima ballerina of the Vance Academy, not a street brawler. Act like it."
Sloane slowly lowers the metal weight, her face flushing red. "But the police—"
"The police are busy at the front gates," Sterling says. She finally turns her gaze to me. Her eyes are unreadable. "Zora Vane. You have caused more trouble in one semester than this school has seen in a decade."
"I am just finishing my job, Madam," I say, leaning against the wall. "Cleaning up the mess."
"The Board wants you arrested," Sterling says, stepping closer. I can smell her expensive rose perfume. "Arthur Thorne is in the front row, demanding your head on a platter. He has the police chief sitting next to him."
"Then he has a front row seat for the truth," I say.
Sterling looks at my bandaged ankle, then at the dirty pointe shoes on my feet. "Caspian is in the tech booth. My security caught him three minutes ago."
My heart stops. "Where is he? What did they do to him?"
"He is fine," Sterling says, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He gave them the drive. But the boy is stubborn. He told the guards that if they touched him, he would scream kidnap until the reporters outside heard him. He is currently holding the server room door shut from the inside."
A small spark of hope flares in my chest.
"Sloane," Sterling says, turning back to the girl in white. "Go to the wings. The orchestra is starting. You have five minutes until the opening solo."
"But what about her?" Sloane asks, glaring at me.
"I will handle Zora," Sterling says firmly. "Go. Now."
Sloane hesitates, then shoots me one last look of pure hatred before vanishing through the curtains.
The room goes quiet, save for the muffled sound of the violins warming up. I look at Sterling. I expect her to call the guards. I expect her to finish me off.
Instead, she reaches into the folds of her dress and pulls out a small glass vial.
"Adrenaline and lidocaine," she says, setting it on the bench. "It is what the professionals use when they have a broken toe on opening night. It will not heal you. In fact, you will probably be unable to walk for a week after it wears off. But it will give you twenty minutes of numbness."
I stare at the vial, then at her. "Why?"
"Because Arthur Thorne thinks he owns my Academy," Sterling says, her jaw tightening. "He thinks his money entitles him to dictate who dances and who stays in the shadows. He forgot that I am a dancer first, and a director second. I hate messy stories, Zora. And Arthur Thorne has made this very, very messy."
"You are letting me dance?"
"I am letting you compete," she corrects. "If Caspian gets that video on the screen, the police will be the least of your worries. The scandal will be global. But if you are going to burn this house down, you had better do it with perfect form."
She turns to the door. "You have four minutes. If you are not on that stage when the music for the fusion duet starts, I will have the guards drag you out myself."
She leaves without another word.
I do not waste time. I grab the vial and the syringe next to it. My hands are shaking, but I manage to find the muscle in my calf. I push the plunger down. A cold, tingling sensation spreads through my leg, deadening the fire in my ankle.
I stand up. For the first time in twenty four hours, I can feel my toes without screaming.
I move toward the heavy velvet curtains that separate the prop room from the stage. I can hear the announcer's voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Winter Gala. Tonight, we begin with a special solo performance by Sloane Miller."
The audience claps. I peek through the crack in the curtain.
Sloane is center stage, bathed in a white spotlight. She looks like a dream. But high above her, in the shadows of the tech booth, I see a small red light blink.
Caspian is in.
I take a deep breath, the adrenaline starting to hit my bloodstream. My heart is a drum. My blood is a storm.
"Lumi," I whisper. "Watch me."
I step into the wings, hidden by the shadows, waiting for the music to change. Waiting for the moment the spotlight is no longer a gift, but a theft.
The violins reach a crescendo, and suddenly, the music cuts out.
The audience gasps. The stage goes black.
And then, the giant screen behind Sloane flickers to life.
It is not a background of a winter forest. It is a grainy, high definition video of a black sedan blowing through a red light at ninety miles per hour.
The silence in the room is deafening.
"Now," I whisper.
I step out of the shadows and into the dark center of the stage.