Chapter 23 The Price of the Crown
The air in the hills is different. It is thin, smelling of manicured lawns and expensive rain. As the black sedan pulls up to the Vance Academy gates, the iron bars hiss open like the teeth of a metal trap. I sit in the backseat, my wrists still hot and red from the handcuffs, watching the glass and steel building loom over me.
I am not a student anymore. I am a Ward under Supervision. A fancy legal term for a prisoner in a leotard.
"Step out, Vane," the driver says. He does not look at me. To him, I am just a piece of luggage Arthur Thorne ordered back into the house to keep the peace.
I step onto the gravel, and my ankle gives a sharp, sickening throb that makes my vision blur for a second. I do not look back at Caspian. I can not. If I look at him, I will see the guilt in his eyes, and I need my anger to stay sharp right now. Anger is the only thing keeping my spine straight.
The foyer is silent, but it is not empty. They are all here, the elite, the legacy kids, the ones who spend their summers in Paris and their winters mocking girls like me. They stand on the balconies like a jury waiting for a hanging. No one whispers. No one moves. The silence is louder than the riot at the Gala.
I walk through the center of the hall. The sound of my scuffed sneakers echoes against the marble floors, a rhythmic thud thud that feels like a countdown.
I do not belong here. I do not belong here.
I reach the elevators, and the doors slide open. Sloane Miller is standing there. Her blonde hair is pulled into a bun so tight it looks like it is pulling her skin back. She does not move to let me in. She just stares, her eyes scanning my dirty hoodie and my bruised face with a look of pure, clinical disgust.
"The janitor's entrance is in the back, Vane," she says, her voice a cold silk ribbon. "Or did you forget? I heard you were too busy playing Bonnie and Clyde with a boy who is way out of your league."
"I have a contract, Sloane," I say. My voice sounds like gravel in a blender. "And Caspian is not a league. He is a person. Something you would not understand."
Sloane laughs. It is a short, sharp sound that rings through the foyer. "He is a Thorne. And you? You are the stain he is going to have to scrub off his reputation for the next ten years. You think you won because you are back? Look around you. You are a ghost, Zora. And ghosts do not get to dance."
She pushes past me. Her shoulder hits mine with deliberate force. I stumble, my bad ankle giving way for a heartbeat, and I have to grab the elevator door to stay standing. I do not let her see me wince. I wait until the doors close, and the small, mirrored space is mine.
I lean my forehead against the cool metal. My hand goes to my pocket, touching the crumpled piece of paper I have been scribbling on since the shipyard. It is the only thing that is actually mine. I close my eyes and whisper the words, a melody starting to form in the back of my mind, a heavy, driving rhythm that matches the throb in my leg.
Steel in the floor, glass in the sky,
They tell you to crawl, they ask you to fly.
I'm wearing the silk, but I'm tasting the dirt,
Counting the cost of the dreams and the hurt.
You can lock the door, you can dim the light,
But you can't keep the morning from the middle of the night.
It is not a ballet song. It is a song from the Flats. It is raw, and it does not rhyme perfectly, but it feels like blood.
The elevator opens at the basement level. My old locker is there, but it is covered in red tape. A notice is pinned to the metal: SUPERVISED ACCESS ONLY.
I realise then that Arthur Thorne has not just brought me back to dance. He has brought me back to break me in front of an audience. In the stories, the hero gets a coach who believes in them. I do not have that. Coach Elias is being watched. Caspian is being isolated in a different wing of the building.
I am alone in a fortress full of people who want to see me crawl.
I sit on the wooden bench and pull my pointe shoes out of my bag. They are dirty, the ribbons frayed at the ends. I start to wrap my feet, the physical ritual grounding me. One wrap for Lumi, who is sitting in a hospital bed wondering if she will ever walk again. One wrap for the rent my mom can not pay. One wrap for the boy who threw away a kingdom for a girl in a hoodie.
"You are late for morning rehearsal."
I look up. Madam Sterling is standing in the doorway. She does not look angry. She looks triumphant.
"From now on, you will not practice with the main company," she says, her heels clicking on the concrete. "You will practice in Studio C. Alone. Your curriculum is changed. Since you struggle with discipline, you will spend six hours a day on basic technique. No choreography. No Fusion. Just the basics. Until your spirit is as corrected as your form."
"You are trying to kill my soul," I say, standing up. My leg screams, but I do not move.
"I am trying to save my school's reputation," she replies. "And Zora? If you are seen within five feet of Caspian Thorne outside of a supervised classroom, you will be removed for breach of contract. No second chances. No riots. Just a quiet exit to the police station."
She leaves, the sound of her footsteps fading into the distance.
I stand in the empty basement. The smell of bleach and old sweat fills my lungs, reminding me of the years I spent cleaning these floors. I look at the mirror. I look like a victim.
I pull my hair back, tighter than Sloane's. I wipe the smudge of shipyard soot from my cheek.
If they want me to be a ghost, fine. I will haunt this place. But they forgot one thing about ghosts. They can go through walls.
I start to move. No music. No counting. Just the rhythm of the song in my head.
Steel in the floor, glass in the sky.