I inch down and then up, trying to see around the edge of the door, but I can’t see the other person. You can’t even answer a simple question when someone asks you. My heir… Can anything come out of that fucking mouth of yours? All you’ve gotta say is ‘Hello’ and ‘Thank you for coming’. “Jesus Christ,” he spits out with disdain. He stands, breathing hard with his jaw set, as he looks down at whoever is on the other side. Torrance, cross into my view from behind his desk. But then I shift to the left, my pulse hammering in my chest, as I see Madame’s husband, Mr. The golden glow of the golden lamp shining onto the golden desk set. Leaning into the door frame, I peer into the crack, trying to see who’s in the room.Īt first, all I can make out is gold. “What is going on in that head of yours?” the man bellows. I spot a sliver of light peeking through a cracked doorway and creep closer. “All you do is stand there! We talked about this.” “Everyone is uncomfortable around you,” the man continues. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” someone yells. “Mom?” I call again, itching at the tights on my legs as the costume I’d been wearing since this morning chafes my skin. She’ll get mad that I followed her anyway. The lights, voices, and music fade, and the silent darkness of the hallway slowly swallows me up. I clench my jaw harder with every step away from the party I take.
Why would she come up here? Everyone is downstairs. I think there’s a third floor, too, but I’m not sure where the next stairwell is to get to it. I step softly, not sure where I am or how I get back to the party, but I know I saw my mom come upstairs.
I press my lips together, pausing before I call out, “Mom?” I suppose it’s Madame’s way of making everything look like a dream the way she kind of looks herself: surreal, too perfect, and porcelain. Even worse today with the house only lit by candlelight. I feel like I’ll break something every time I turn around.Īnd it’s too dark. The house is so big that I don’t think I’ll ever see all of it, and it’s filled with things that everyone is always gushing over and whispering about, but it makes me nervous. Madame Delova loves ballet, and as my school’s benefactress she considers it a ‘gift to the masses to descend from her tower once in a while to entertain the villagers and allow us into her home.’ I’ve never liked it here.īut at least the parties are only twice a year-after summer recitals in June and following the premiere of the annual Nutcracker performance in December. The glow of the candles on their pedestals line the dark walls, and I fidget with my fingers as I glance left to right at every closed door I pass. My ballet slipper brushes the hardwood floor as I slowly step down the long hallway.
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