Chapter 24 The Geometry of Pain
The fluorescent lights in Studio C don't just illuminate. They hum. It is a low, teeth grating vibration that crawls up my spine as I stand at the barre. This room is a graveyard for forgotten dancers. It is small, tucked behind the boiler pipes, and the mirrors are slightly warped, making my reflection look like a jagged version of myself.
Madam Sterling stands by the door, her tablet in hand, her expression as flat as the concrete floor under the thin linoleum.
"Again," she says.
I lift my leg. My hamstrings are screaming. My bad ankle is a pulsing knot of fire, but I keep my face a mask of stone. I have been doing the same basic tendu for forty five minutes. No music. No water. Just the sound of my own breath and the click of Sterling's stylus against her screen.
"Your alignment is off by two degrees, Vane. You are compensating for the injury. If you can not hit the position, you can not stay in this building."
"I am hitting it," I grit out through clenched teeth.
"You are survival dancing. There is no grace in survival."
I want to laugh, but I do not have the breath for it. Grace is a luxury for people who have never had to wonder where their next meal is coming from. Grace is for Caspian, who was born into silk. I am a creature of grit and bone.
"Take it from the top. First position."
I drop my heels. The pain is so sharp it makes my stomach flip. I can feel the bandage shifting under my tights, the one I hurriedly wrapped this morning. I look at the mirror, and for a second, I do not see a dancer. I see a girl who is being disassembled, piece by piece, until there is nothing left but an obedient machine.
The door to the studio creaks open. My heart skips a beat before I even see who it is. I know the rhythm of those footsteps.
Caspian.
He is in his full Academy uniform, the charcoal blazer and the crest that feels like a brand. He does not look at me directly, but I can feel his gaze like a physical heat on my skin. He is carrying a stack of sheet music.
"Madam Sterling," he says, his voice sounding hollow, "Coach Elias sent me to retrieve the syllabus for the Fusion midterm. He said it was left in here."
Sterling does not turn around. "It is on the bench, Caspian. And then you are to return to your private coaching. You are not to be in this wing."
"Of course," he says.
He walks toward the bench, which is inches from where I am shaking at the barre. As he reaches for the papers, his hand brushes against the wood, just a hair's breadth from my leg. It is the closest we have been since the shipyard. The air between us is electric, thick with everything we can not say.
I look at him in the mirror. He looks tired. There is a shadow in his eyes I have never seen before, the look of someone who is realising their cage is smaller than they thought.
I am here, his eyes say.
Do not break, mine answer.
He lingers for a fraction of a second too long, his fingers trailing over the edge of the bench. Then he turns and leaves without a word. The silence he leaves behind is heavier than the hum of the lights.
"Focus, Vane," Sterling snaps. "Third position. Now."
By the time the six hour session is over, my legs feel like they belong to a stranger. I stumble out into the hallway, my sweat soaked hair sticking to my neck. I need to get to the basement, but I have to pass the main cafeteria to get there.
The lunch crowd is out.
It is a sea of white linen and laughter. I try to move through the edges, a shadow trying to disappear, but Sloane Miller has a sixth sense for weakness. She is sitting at the center table, surrounded by her disciples.
"Oh look," she says, loud enough for the entire room to go silent. "The charity case has returned from the dungeon. How was the basement, Zora? Did you find any more secrets to steal, or are you just practicing how to beg?"
A ripple of laughter follows. I keep walking.
"I heard the police are still questioning her mother," one of the boys says, leaning back in his chair. "Imagine having a kid so messed up she has to kidnap a Thorne just to pay the rent."
I stop. The rage is a cold, sharp thing in my chest. I turn and look at him, a boy named Marcus whose father owns half the shipping docks.
"My mother is a better person than anyone in this room," I say, my voice steady. "And the only reason you are sitting there is because your daddy bought the chair. I earned my spot. Twice."
Sloane stands up, her eyes flashing. "You did not earn anything. You are a PR stunt that went wrong. You are a liability in a leotard. And do not worry about the money for your sister's surgery. I hear the state is looking into negligence charges for the accident. You will not need a surgeon where you are going. You will need a lawyer."
She walks closer, her face inches from mine. "Enjoy the basement while you can. Because I am going to make sure your final performance at this school is the one where they carry you out in cuffs."
I do not respond. I can not. Not without breaking the contract. I turn and walk away, the sound of their mockery echoing in my ears.
I reach my locker in the basement. The red tape is still there, a reminder that I am being watched. I sit on the floor, the cold concrete a relief against my burning skin. I pull out my notebook and the lyrics from this morning. My hand is shaking as I write.
(The Secret Song — Verse 2)
They are counting the flaws, they are marking the time,
They are turning the truth into a beautiful crime.
You can dress up the wolf in a coat of white wool,
But the hunger is there, and the moon is still full.
I am dancing on needles, I am breathing the smoke,
Waiting for the moment the golden cage broke.
I close the book. The Pit starts in four hours. My body is broken, my spirit is bruised, and the entire school wants me dead.
I pull myself up, using the locker for support. I have to go to the south side. I have to win that five thousand. Because Arthur Thorne and Sloane Miller think they have trapped me in their world.
They do not realise I have already built a door.