Chapter 46 The Serpent's Waltz
The Kensington flat feels like a sanctuary, but even sanctuaries have shadows.
"It is more swollen than it was two hours ago, Zora," Caspian says, his voice low and tight. He gently unwraps the beige compression bandage, his fingers moving with a precision that feels almost clinical if not for the way they slightly tremble.
"I know," I whisper, wincing as the air hits the inflamed skin. "The Gravity Test lived up to its name. I think I left a piece of my soul on that marley floor."
Caspian looks up, his dark eyes searching mine. "We could call Eleanor. Tell her you need a forty-eight-hour medical pass. Greg has pull here, Zora. He would not let Halloway cut you for a sprain."
"And give Soren exactly what he wants?" I counter, my voice regaining its edge. "If I take a medical pass now, I am the weak American for the rest of the term. Soren and Isla will smell blood. They will make sure every scout in London knows I am a liability before I even get back on my feet."
Caspian sighs, leaning forward until his forehead rests against my knee. "I hate this. I hate that we are still fighting like we are in the Flats. We are in London, Zora. We are supposed to be free."
"We are free from your father, Cas," I say, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair. "But the world does not just stop being a ladder because we changed countries. We are still at the bottom. We just have better views now."
He looks up, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. "Is that what we are? Still at the bottom?"
"Maybe," I say, pulling him up so he is standing between my legs. I wrap my arms around his neck, drawing him into my space. "But I like the person I am climbing with."
Caspian's hands find my waist, his grip firm and grounding. "I am not letting him get to you tomorrow. If Soren so much as breathes in your direction, I am going to—"
"You are going to be a professional," I interrupt, my nose brushing against his. "Because if you lose your cool, he wins. That is his whole game, Cas. He wants the Golden Boy to crack. He wants to prove you are just a spoiled brat with a temper."
"I am not a Golden Boy anymore," he murmurs, his eyes dropping to my lips. "I am just a guy who is incredibly in love with a girl who refuses to sit down when she is hurt."
"In love, huh?" I tease, though my heart does a frantic somersault. "Is that an official statement?"
"It is the only official thing about me," he says, and then he kisses me.
For a few minutes, the Vanguard does not exist. Soren does not exist. There is just the warmth of the flat and the steady beat of Caspian's heart against mine.
The next morning, the South Bank Cold Front is in full effect. The studio is frigid, the heating system struggling against the damp wind howling off the Thames.
Director Halloway is standing in the center of the room, her silver hair gleaming under the industrial lights. She does not look like she has slept. She looks like she has spent the night counting our failures.
"Line up," she snaps. "Standard positions."
We move into our spots. I can feel Soren's gaze on me from across the room, a physical weight that makes the hair on my arms stand up. He is whispering something to Isla, who gives a sharp, jagged laugh.
"The Showcase is about chemistry," Halloway announces, her voice echoing. "But chemistry is often a crutch for poor technique. Today, we test the individual. We are doing a Blind Swap session. You will be paired with a different partner for the next three hours."
A collective gasp goes through the room. Beside me, Caspian's jaw goes rigid. I feel the colour drain from my face.
"Director," Caspian starts, his voice projecting that Thorne authority. "Zora and I have been training as a unit for the Foundation's specific—"
"I am aware of what the Foundation wants, Mr. Thorne," Halloway cuts him off without looking at him. "But I am the Director of the Vanguard. If you cannot dance with anyone else, you are not a lead. You are a prop. Now, swap. Mr. Thorne, you are with Isla. Mr. Soren, you are with Miss Vane."
The room goes silent. It is a setup. I can see it in the way Soren steps forward, his eyes bright with a predatory hunger.
"Do not," Caspian whispers to me, his hand twitching at his side as if he wants to grab me and run.
"I have to," I murmur back, my eyes fixed on Halloway. "If I refuse, I am out. Just watch me."
"I am always watching you," he says, his voice thick with a warning.
Soren saunters over, a sharp, wolfish grin on his face. He does not offer a hand. He just stands there, radiating a cold, mocking energy. "Well, well. The Janitor and the Finn. This should be educational."
"Keep your hands where I can see them, Soren," I say, my voice like flint.
"I will be very careful with you, Zora," he purrs as the music starts, a sharp, dissonant cello piece that sounds like a funeral march. "I know how delicate you are today."
The music swells and we begin. Soren is a different kind of dancer than Caspian. Where Caspian is power and silk, Soren is all angles and unexpected shifts. He moves like a snake, unpredictable and jarring.
"You are stiff," Soren whispers as he pulls me into a close hold, his hand pressing firmly into the small of my back, right where it forces me to put more weight on my bad ankle. "Is the Thorne boy not giving you enough physical therapy at the flat?"
"Shut up and dance," I hiss, my teeth gritted against the flash of pain as we move into a series of rapid turns.
"He is watching us, you know," Soren continues, his voice a low, toxic hum in my ear. "He looks like he wants to commit a murder. Tell me, Zora, does he know you are failing? Does he know that your ankle is one wrong jump away from a permanent career ending snap?"
"He knows I am better than you on one leg," I snap, trying to pull away for a solo turn.
Soren does not let go. He tightens his grip, pulling me back into a forced lift. "Halloway is not blind. She is waiting for you to stumble. She wants to see if the American fire is just a wet match. And I am going to help her find out."
The music shifts to a crescendo, the cue for the partnered leap. It is not the Traitor's Leap, but it is high. It requires a perfect landing.
Soren launches me. For a second, I am in the air, the cold studio spinning around me. I see Caspian across the room, frozen, his eyes wide as he watches me.
As I come down, Soren does something subtle. He does not catch me squarely. He shifts his stance by an inch, forcing me to land slightly off centre.
My ankle hits the floor. A white hot bolt of lightning shoots from my foot to my skull. I feel the joint roll. A muffled pop sounds in my head, loud as a gunshot.
I start to go down.
Soren catches me at the last second, his arms wrapping around me in a mockery of a supportive embrace. He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "Oops. Looks like the bird finally hit the glass."
"Zora!"
Caspian breaks rank, sprinting across the floor before Halloway can even open her mouth. He shoves Soren aside with enough force to send the Finn stumbling back three steps.
"Get away from her," Caspian roars, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.
He drops to his knees, scooping me into his lap. I am gasping, the world turning grey at the edges as the trauma of the physical pain merges with the humiliation of the moment.
"I am okay," I lie, my voice a ragged sob. "Cas, I am okay."
"You are not," he says, his voice breaking. He looks up at Halloway, who is approaching with a cold, unreadable expression. "She is hurt. The floor was—"
"The floor was fine, Mr. Thorne," Soren interrupts, smoothing his hair back with a smirk. "Your partner simply lacked the stability for the transition. Perhaps the raw talent is just a bit too raw."
Halloway stands over us, her shadow long and dark. She looks at my ankle, which is already beginning to swell visibly over the tape. Then she looks at Caspian, who is shielding me like I am the only thing in the world that matters.
"Miss Vane," Halloway says, her voice devoid of pity. "Go to the infirmary. Mr. Thorne, stay. We have two hours of rehearsal left."
"I am not staying," Caspian says, his voice low and dangerous.
"If you walk out that door, Thorne, you lose your scholarship," Halloway warns. "The Foundation does not pay for nurses. They pay for leads."
I look at Caspian. I can see the war in his eyes, the prince who wants to burn the building down, and the dancer who knows that if he stays, we still have a chance.
"Go," I whisper, clutching his hand. "Cas, please. If we both leave, it is over. Stay. Show her why we are here."
"I cannot leave you," he chokes out.
"I am just going to the infirmary," I say, trying to force a smile through the agony. "I am the Janitor, remember? I know how to clean up my own messes. Just do not let Soren win."
Caspian looks at me for a long beat, his heart breaking in his eyes. Then he leans down and kisses me, hard, desperate, and completely official in front of the entire elite class of London.
"I will find you the second she lets us go," he promises.
As he stands up to face Halloway, his posture shifts. The warmth is gone. The peaceful boy from the flat is dead. In his place is a Thorne who looks ready to dismantle anyone who stands in his way.
I crawl toward the edge of the floor, the other students watching in a silence that feels like a burial. Soren is still smiling, but as I catch his eye, I do not feel like a victim.
I feel like a debt collector. And Soren has just added a lot of interest to his bill.