February 1830, London

A single girl was standing on the stage. Her feet were hurting, but she went on. Piqué, piqué, tombé, pas de bouré…

'I need you to be more opened up, sweetheart,' a voice said from the audience. 'Do it again.'

The girl sighed and walked back to the corner to do the whole dance again. When she was done, she looked hopeful to the dark audience.

'Better. Still not good enough,' her ballet-master said. 'Take a break, but be back in ten minutes.'

She didn't go off stage. She sat down and loosened the strings of her pointes. She gave her feet a look: They were red and a little swollen, but not worse than normally.

One of her fellow dancers ran up to her and gave her some water.

'You're okay?' he asked.

'I'm fine,' she said. 'A little dizzy, maybe, but fine.'

He looked at her, a little worried. 'Are you sure? You don't look fine. Maybe you should stop. I'll ask monsieur Givant if-'

'I said I'm fine, Michael, really,' she interrupted him. 'I should go on.'

She got up and tightened her pointes. 'I'm ready, monsieur,' she said, walking to her place.

'Let's start then,' she heard him say. 'In five, six, seven, eight…'

The music started to play and she started to dance. But it didn't feel good. She was a little light-headed, and her legs weren't able to do what she wanted them to do. But she went on.

The hardest part: a assamblé, ending en pointe. She tried not to look down when she landed, but if she had, she'd seen it coming. Her ankle wasn't able to hold her weight anyomore, so it twisted, and she fell. Almost immediately a few friends of hers ran up the stage.

'You're okay?' one of them asked.

'That didn't look good,' another said.

She slowly took her pointe off, and looked at her ankle.

'It's not that bad,' she said. The girls looked at her in shock.

'Are you kidding me?' Alexandra, one of the girls, said. 'It looks terrible! We have to get you to the doctor's.'

She didn't complain. As soon as the doctor had told her everything was fine, the girls would leave her alone.

Ten minutes later she sat in the doctor's office. Michael had insisted on carrying her, so she wouldn't have to force her ankle. Now, surrounded by girls in short ballet dresses, she made quite an appearance. A few of the older ladies in the room looked at her in disgust, but she didn't mind.

'Elizabeth Lewis?'

She looked up when she heard her name. 'Yes?' she said, not knowing who'd spoken.

A man, obviously a doctor, walked up to her. He was young, tall and handsome, not like any other doctor she'd ever seen before.

'I'm Dr. Watson,' he said. 'I heard something went wrong while dancing?'

Elizabeth sighed. 'Nothing's wrong,' she said. 'It happens all the time. It barely hurts.'

'Then why are you here?' the doctor asked, surprised.

Elizabeth lowered her voice. 'It's the others. They always think something's wrong. Could you please tell them I'm okay, doctor?' She gave him a hopeful smile.

The doctor chuckled. 'I'm afraid I'll have to take a look at it first, miss,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'

Half an hour later Elizabeth stood on the street. The doctor had checked everything. Unfortunately, there were some things wrong. He'd given her the advice to rest a few weeks; she'd begged him to say she could dance.

Now, walking home, she tried to come up with things she could do now she didn't have to work. Her father would probably start complaining about her not moving out again.

Then it hit her. She could move out, find herself a new home. It couldn't be that hard, could it?

With a smile on her face and some fresh ideas she got home.