Dance of Twilight and Tears, page 1
DANCE OF TWILIGHT AND TEARS
ZARA MILLS
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Copyright © 2022 by Zara Mills
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All rights reserved.
For Tima and Lynsey. Their love of Young Adult books made me want to write again.
CONTENTS
1. Lucie
2. Madeleine
3. Lucie
4. Madeleine
5. Lucie
6. Madeleine
7. Lucie
8. Madeleine
9. Lucie
10. Madeleine
11. Lucie
12. Madeleine
13. Lucie
14. Madeleine
15. Lucie
16. Madeleine
17. Lucie
18. Madeleine
19. Lucie
20. Madeleine
21. Lucie
22. Madeleine
23. Lucie
24. Madeleine
25. Lucie
26. Madeleine
1
LUCIE
“Try again, Lucie.” Henri’s smooth voice calls out from the darkness of the theater. “Try again, but this time lift your neck higher. Make it more swanlike.”
My stomach seizes at his choice of words, but I rise on pointe and elongate my neck. “Comme ça?”
“Oui.” Henri’s voice echoes through the gilded theater. “That’s perfect. Beautiful.”
I relax into first position and let my arms hang slack as Henri emerges from the shadows. His body is both lithe and muscular, like a danseur, and he hops onto the stage easily. He appears to be not much more than twenty-four. A ballet genius, he’s been called. A wunderkind.
Silence hangs over the vacant Palais Garnier Opéra house. Some nights Henri lets me leave with the rest of the dancers, but most nights he asks—no, demands—that I stay.
He curls his outstretched hand toward his body, beckoning me to him. Despite hours of practice and pain radiating through all my muscles, I undo my topknot and let my waist-length hair pour over my shoulders in chestnut-colored waves before pivoting stage left. Henri slides behind me, and his warm breath washes down the side of my face as his hands grip my hip bones. I shudder, and he ignores it.
“Dance with me?” he asks as if it weren’t an order. I know better. What Henri wants, I give. It’s the only way to survive.
I nod, and he taps out an eight-count. There is no music, because the accompanist left hours ago. It is just Henri and me on stage like we have been so many times before.
Our bodies move in unison, and magic clings to our skin like a thick, musky perfume—one I can never rid myself of. People believe Henri to be charismatic and myself enchanting, but they will never know how close they are to the truth. Henri and I aren’t meant to be alive; we are oddities of nature; we are enchanted.
“I’m angry with you,” Henri says as he guides me through his favorite pas de deux. “You didn’t greet me when I came to see you this afternoon.”
“Oh? Did you come?”
“I did indeed.”
My eyes close, but my body stays in motion. Dancing, dancing, always dancing. “Was I sleeping? These late nights, they exhaust me.”
Henri sets me softly on the stage, but his hands linger on my hips. Familiar, yet unwelcomed. Without warning, his fingers dig into my flesh, and when he spins me around, I open my eyes. Henri’s steely-gray gaze focuses on my face as controlled anger and desire emanate from him.
I know better than to anger Henri.
He releases me. “You were across the lake on the island with Madeleine. I couldn’t tell whether you were asleep or not.”
My insides knot. “I’m sure I was asleep, as was Madeleine. She would have told me if she saw you.”
“You know I come in disguise.” Henri cups my chin and tilts my face upward. I prepare for his devouring kiss, but it doesn’t come. “She wouldn’t recognize me. She never has.”
“Then perhaps I, too, was deceived by your disguise.”
Henri peers into my eyes. How many women have been enamored by his beauty? How many would give their mortal life for an eternal one with him?
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Lucie?” He runs a hand through his light-brown hair.
“No. Of course not.” I have done many reckless things over the course of my long life, but I’ve never blatantly deceived him.
“You should greet me next time. It’s only polite.”
“Should I honk long and low?” I ask, knowing that this is how to say good-bye in Swan.
“I think you should know better than to insult me.” A whisper of static surrounds me. “You know what I can do.”
Panic nibbles at me, but I remain calm. “Since when do you speak Swan?”
Henri laughs. His hands still hold my face, and I resist shaking free. “After all these years together, haven’t you learned to expect the unexpected?”
The hairs at the nape of my neck prick up. Henri’s magic created me, and I have the burden of eternal youth, something so many dream of without considering the consequences.
But his generosity, if it can be called that, comes at a price: at night I am a girl, and by day I am a swan. And at any moment, Henri can choose if I stay as either for the rest of eternity.
He never fails to remind me of this—especially when he punishes me by re-enchanting me into a new body. That is only one way Henri controls me: he rips me from the lives I create and forces me to begin again.
Today, I appear to be seventeen, like I have for more than three centuries, but I possess none of the optimism or exuberance of youth.
“What is it, my love?” Henri whispers in my ear.
“I’m wondering if you like me like this?” Henri makes my hair different shades of blonde or brunette, but he never gives me the auburn waves I possessed when we met.
“I do.” He effortlessly lifts me off the ground and spins us so quickly I become dizzy. My hair whips around us and tangles us together, much as the years have done. When he sets me down, Henri’s perfect lips brush my right cheek, and he inhales deeply. “I’m never going to lose you, Lucie. I couldn’t bear it.”
My jaw clenches and aches. Henri has never considered my wants or desires, only his own selfish needs.
And his greatest desire, the one that keeps me enchanted, is to possess me.
Like so many nights before, Henri drops to a knee before me and kisses the palm of my hand. “Marry me. If you do, I’ll make this all go away. No more swan enchantment. No more living a half-life. We would be happy traveling through eternity together.”
He taunts me with this talk of ending the enchantment. I wish I could believe him, but Henri is determined to get what he wants at all costs, and for the past three hundred years, refusing him is the only power I have had.
“We haven’t been happy yet,” I say.
Henri hangs his head and looks up at me with soulful eyes. “But we could be.”
I chaîné to the farthest corner of the stage. “We’ll never be happy. We were doomed from the start.”
Henri bounds toward me and pulls me into an embrace. “You would rather be covered in black feathers than love me?” He peers into my eyes, exposing the centuries of hurt that are buried deep inside him. “Would you rather Madeleine live this life than the one she should have had?”
His words strike the soft spot of my hardened soul, and for a moment I consider his marriage proposal, until I remember he is Henri, I am Lucie, and then there is Madeleine . . .
“I would die without her.” My voice trembles. Unlike me, Madeleine never asked for nor wanted Henri’s attention, but now she is cursed. Damned to a life of algae and toe shoes, feathers and tutus.
2
MADELEINE
In this life, I am graceful. Elegant. I personify beauty, love, and fidelity.
I also eat bugs and pond scum.
Hazy light filters through the branches and glints off the lake. My best and only friend, Lucie, dips her dark, feathered head beneath the surface, and small circles ripple away from her. When she emerges, beads of water cling to her black feathers, and in the sunlight, they sparkle. Glow, actually, like balls of liquid sunshine.
She spins slowly as if pirouetting and motions for me to join her. I slice through the water, toward the willow tree, and imagine that all the people passing on the path are watching me perform my greatest role. One day, I will stand on stage before a rapt audience and bask in their ovations.
In my other life, my non-swan life, I am a lowly coryphée with the Paris Opéra Ballet.
Beauty.
A wall of water hits me in the face.
“Daydreaming?” Lucie teases.
“No,” I sputter as I shake the water from my head.
“Are you sure?”
I duck beneath the surface before she can splash me again, and when I come up, Lucie’s retreated to the shaded spot near the reeds. The willow’s hanging branches skim the lake, and I glide beneath them.
“Where were you last night?” I ask.
“Henri asked me to stay for extra practice, you know that.” Lucie turns her head toward the bank.
“What did you do after?”
She lowers her head and peers into my ey
A long laugh tumbles out of me. “Well, since you asked, I had an amazing evening. I went to a club near Arts et Métiers. It was almost like a warehouse, but not quite.” The memory of the thumping bass echoes through my mind. “It was fun. You should come one night.”
“I’m sure it was.” Lucie doesn’t approve of my late nights, but what does she expect me to do? Sit in the park by myself? Or wait for her in the dressing room? No. I’m going to seize every second of being a human girl that I can.
I nuzzle next to her. “Why do you bother practicing with him? He’s never going to let us advance.”
Lucie bobs in the cool water, and instead of responding, she paddles toward the murky bank. After fluffing her feathers, she says, “You don’t know that.”
“Really, Lucie? When has Henri ever given us anything we want?” I huff. “I want my freedom, but I’m pretty sure he’ll never do that.”
“He could change,” she says. “You never know.”
Sometimes, discussing Henri with Lucie is the most frustrating thing I do. She’s equally fearful of him and indifferent to him, and she will never answer any questions I have about their past.
As for Henri, he has always favored Lucie over all other dancers, and his preoccupation with her is creepy. And yet, I don’t think she sees it. As ripples of water splash against me, a million things to say come to mind, but as usual, I keep my beak shut.
“My turn for a question.” Lucie floats in a circle so that she faces me. “What do you think about when you’re so quiet?”
I don’t dare tell her the truth—that I’m thinking about her and Henri and their odd relationship of fear and obsession. “Mostly about breaking the enchantment and the Ballet.”
Lucie stretches her long, graceful neck and lays it across my back. “Does it make time pass any quicker?”
I sigh. “Not really.”
“Oh, Madeleine. Why do you do this to yourself? We are what we are. And right now. We. Are. Swans. We will probably always be swans.”
I shake my head. “No. Tonight we will be dancers. That is our real life.”
Lucie sighs. If I were in my human form, I’d hug her, but since I’m not, I lay my white feathered head across her black back and knot our bodies together.
“Why can’t you be happy to be both?” she asks. When she pushes away from me, the void between us fills with chilly early November sunlight.
I’ve always suspected that Lucie’s been enchanted years longer than me. She’s never told me exactly how long, but by the time I had joined her in the Bois, she’d clearly been a swan for many, many years. In those early days, when I cried for my mother and my old life, Lucie comforted me and promised to never leave my side. And she never has.
Fidelity.
I swim toward the bank farthest from the walking path. “Were you a swan that Henri turned into a girl?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. “Could he find no one who danced well enough that he had to turn a beautiful black swan into his favorite dancer? Have you been lying to me all this time?”
“If I were a swan first, I would enjoy this much more.” Lucie gulps a mouthful of algae and gives me a sassy look. Well, sassy for a swan. Her eyes flit to something over my shoulder, and I spin, causing spirals of water to encircle us. Lucie stretches her neck toward the walking path. “He’s here again.”
It’s the boy—the one who has run by the lake every day for the past two weeks and has caught my attention.
He collapses onto the ancient stone bench across from us and taps his watch.
“Who do you think he is?” I whisper.
Lucie swims to the edge of the willow branches and eyes the boy with indifference. “He’s American. Definitely not French. Probably a tourist like all the others.”
“I don’t think so.” I part the drooping branches to get a better look. “Most tourists don’t come back every day.”
“Madeleine, you rarely see a Frenchman—no, you rarely see a Parisian—running. It’s too undignified.”
She’s right, of course.
Across the lake, the boy stares at his watch before leaping to his feet. His damp hair mats to his forehead as he wiggles his shoulders and bobs his head to an unheard beat. The low-slung sun reflects off his light-brown hair, giving the effect of copper highlights.
“He’s adorable,” I say.
“Is he dancing?” Lucie sputters. “Is he really standing in the middle of the Bois dancing like that? Where’s the grace? Or at least his dignity.” She rolls her eyes. “Oh right. I forgot. He’s American. He has no dignity.”
Lucie hates all forms of modern dance. She calls it unrefined and thinks it looks like nothing more than uncoordinated jerks and twists. I, however, love bass-filled nightclubs where I can be free and not worry about Henri or think about the enchantment.
Lucie generally dislikes modernity, but she somewhat dislikes Americans more.
“He has rhythm,” I protest. His long, lean body sways in an uncoordinated way. He’s not muscular enough to be a danseur, and really his rhythm is nonexistent, but there’s something endearing about him. “See how he’s keeping an eight-count?” I ask. “He knows music.”
Lucie shakes her head in disgust. “He looks foolish.”
As suddenly as he started, the boy stops dancing, and with the bottom of his damp T-shirt, he wipes sweat from his forehead, giving Lucie and me a clear view of his toned stomach. We see many muscular men at the Ballet, but something about this boy is different. He doesn’t have as many sharp angles. Even more importantly, perhaps, unlike many danseurs, there’s a chance he notices women as much as we notice him.
I honk in appreciation, and Lucie flaps her wings to shush me. I laugh with a loud, long honk, and she ducks into the reeds. If the boy has noticed us, he doesn’t show it. That’s not unexpected. Most people don’t give us much thought. Sure, they stop to take pictures, usually of Lucie, but in general we’re little more than scenery. Just the famous black swan and white swan of Paris’s Bois de Boulogne.
“He’s definitely not a danseur,” I say before launching into my favorite game. “And you think he’s American, but where do you think he learned those stunning moves? At a cotillion? Or perhaps a cowboy ranch?”
Lucie shakes water from her wings. “This again? Someday, Madeleine, you’ll tire of inventing all these stories.”
“Too bad for you, someday hasn’t come yet.” My gaze wanders back toward the boy. For a hundred years, ever since Henri told me the only way to break the enchantment is by finding true love, I’ve tried to find one boy to fall in love with me. I’ll try a hundred more if it means I can be a normal teenage girl again.
“It always ends the same,” Lucie says, shaking her head. “You meet them, you like them, and they never return.”
“Maybe this time it could be different?” I whisper so the boy can’t hear me, which is ridiculous because even if he can, he wouldn’t understand Swan.
Lucie nudges me closer to the reeds. “An American won’t be any different than the Czech, or the Austrian, or even that Canadian you met a few years ago. They all go out with you for the night then disappear.” Her resignation is of someone who’s given up from being worn down. “Henri will never let you break the enchantment, haven’t you learned that by now?”
Love.
That’s the main difference between Lucie and me. Unlike my dearest friend, I haven’t lost hope that someday I will find true love and break this curse.
“I’m not ready to give up. Not yet.” I glance at the graying sky. In a few minutes, it will be dusk, and we will once again transform into teenage girls. “If he waits just a little longer, I could talk to him.”
Lucie points her beak in the boy’s direction and shakes her feathered head. “Not today.”
