For Norah, who has the constitution of an angel, the patience of a saint, and a strange fascination with gold teeth.
All due apologies to Baz, ballerinas, and Johnny Depp.
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Photographs, Ceciliane's parents liked to believe, never lied. They kept a table for their own, glossed and glassy and neatly placed in gilded frames. There the gold-rimmed pictures sat complacently, showing the whole world they were representative of good, upright people—a dignified couple and their three sweet daughters. It remained an idyllic addition to the sitting room until the first sweet daughter upset the table because the second sweet daughter was chasing her and the third sweet daughter had caught her around one ankle with a hair ribbon. Julienne had groaned, Ceciliane had apologized, and Aveline had fixed her replaced her ribbons and tripped off to play. All three of them were sent to their rooms to squabble behind closed doors under the housemaids' supervision.
Anything could spark an altercation. Later that same day, there was music in rain, and Ceciliane, abandoning her book, went prancing through it like a street urchin, fancying she could twirl between the raindrops themselves. Baby-faced Aveline, clasping fleshy hands together as if in prayer, watched her with narrowed eyes. "Maman doesn't like it when you dance like that."
Ceciliane ignored her for several blissful seconds before replying, "Why should it bother her?" and accidentally beginning the age-old argument for the umpteenth time.
"It reflects badly on the family," the cherubic girl parroted. "You aren't a peasant."
"Leave off on it." Hatless, hair plastered into dark-gold rivulets down her cheeks, Ceciliane sought an amnesty. "You try it and then tell me it's not wonderful."
She was almost too surprised to smile when Aveline, her face assuming a childish expression of wonder, stepped outside. "That's it," she urged, collecting herself. "Now try a turn, like they teach at your lessons…" There was a solitary sweetwater moment in which Aveline's chubby fingers clasped Ceciliane's fine-boned hand and the two of them twirled together in a careless waltz, skirts dripping, curls drooping, and Ceciliane was laughing inside her head and wondering how she could ever have hated her younger sister. Then Aveline kicked her in the shin and darted back indoors, calling for Maman.
So it went. Taken in every time. "Why believe the brat?" Julienne demanded, flouncing into their room as Ceciliane sat shivering in a dressing gown. "You know she'll make trouble whenever there's an opportunity, no matter how much you may hope for her to act differently. And you with your dancing again. Don't you know by now that nothing but ill will comes of that? Wise up, do."
Ceciliane lifted one small shoulder, not looking at her sister. "I'm aware that hope can be futile, but that's no reason to forsake it. It's in everything, if you have the patience to seek it out." Julienne left in sneering exasperation, muttering about how candy-coated rationality never did a thing for anyone and sounding for all the world like their father. Ceciliane stayed behind watching the rain on the windowpanes, liquid sapphires on crystallized cobwebs.
She had not danced from the day she was born, but, to the despair of her family, it certainly appeared otherwise. Maman in particular was adamant on this front; as a result, Ceciliane had learned long ago what was expected of her. She was, as Papa was proud of stating, a girl of good standing. Girls of good standing learned their geography and mathematics and Latin without so much as a whisper of apathy. They played drizzly melodies on their varnished pianos and memorized the kings of France while smiling behind lacy fans. They learned enough of dancing in order to fulfill their societal role, but no more. Girls of good standing did not devote themselves to unsuitable pastimes, of which dance was one. Ceciliane did well at her lessons, but fell short via a dedication to feeding her passion rather than tamping it down. Maman considered it vulgar. Too much of an interest in dance was improper; it was what made showgirls and circus performers of otherwise decent young women. She had threatened many times to put an end to Ceciliane's lessons, and each time Ceciliane had cried and pleaded her into changing her mind.
It wasn't so much the lessons, but the fact that no one could scold her there, that she clung to. Music came to her unbidden, and her body reacted as if there was no other possible option—dancing to the tune of the clock chimes, to Julienne's piano sessions, to the rhymes Aveline sang to her dolls—but only in the studio was she free from disapproving words and glances. When the hatchet-faced dancing master did snap a criticism from between his rusty teeth, it hurt and frightened her more deeply than the other students. They danced because it was required of them; a few sharp words here or there meant nothing. But for Ceciliane, they meant the possibility of disaster. If even the dancing master started viewing her with a disapproving eye, there would truly be no haven left for her. When it happened, she took to running into the dressing room under the pretense of having forgotten a scarf, then taking a few moments to compose herself and returning to her lesson with such a vengeance that, by the time it was over, the world itself seemed to be made of music.
Too passionate to be the icy and dignified older sister, too sensitive to be the enfant terrible—not that she could ever beat out Aveline for the position—it was difficult for Ceciliane to place herself. More well-read than most young women her age, she occasionally found solace by thinking of life as though it was a book, dreamily curling up in bed and viewing her own life as if she were reading it. But after a time, events came to a head and her mental mythology came crashing down at reality's feet. Crashing much in the same manner as her favorite music box, when Aveline, all spiteful smiles and strawberry ringlets, hurled it against a wall. In hindsight, Ceciliane considered it symbolic of the end of that particular phase in her life. At the time, she had shrieked like a demon and refused to leave her room until her sister apologized. She had seen it as a practical response: shy Ceciliane finally taking a stand. Her parents had seen it as melodramatics brought on by too much time on her own, and, in spite of her protestations, had sent her to boarding school in the hope she would become more sensible in a different environment.
Ceciliane, never an extrovert, was miserable and hated herself for it. She weighed matters in her mind over and over again. Her family had sent her away, it was true, but only because they hoped to better her. They could have heard her out, it was true, but at least she had the opportunity to attend an affluent school many others could never afford. "Everyone," she concluded at length, addressing her lacy fan, "is entitled to misery, just as everyone is entitled to hope. The rich can feel awful, as long as they recognize the privileges they have."
That doctrine firmly in mind, she took nothing for granted and cried in her sleep. She kept up with her studies and lost herself in dance lessons once again. The dancers there primarily trundled halfheartedly about, preferring to gossip. Some, however, were different, and noticed Ceciliane just enough to form their own opinions of her. Harsh-faced Marie-Louise took to laughing at her for continuing to dance once the music had stopped, and gray-eyed Jacinthe would bare star-white teeth at her when the dancing master gave her praise. Ceciliane "forgot" a scarf only once, and never did so again once she saw the triumphant look her flight brought to Jacinthe's face. Half retaliatory, half timidly, she stepped out of herself, offering aid to the younger girls. Finding it welcome, she mustered up the courage to ask after the elder and was snubbed for being uppity and trying to weasel her way into the dancing master's good grace. When passed over completely for a part in the ballet, she saw Marie-Louise share a knowing smile with Jacinthe, and knew then for certain that the world was as cruel and ugly as Julienne had always told her. Face white and eyes red, she packed her bags and left the school without a word.
She never knew what she was looking for. Flying through the city on the adrenaline of adolescent wrath, waiting for the ground to swallow her whole, unconsciously walking in time to the street musicians' songs. At one point, she flung down her suitcases in sheer frustration and danced like a mad dervish, not caring a scintilla who saw her or, when a small crowd of onlookers gathered, what they said. If he had not found her, maybe she would have returned the school and learned whatever place the rest of the world was so determined to provide for her. Maybe she would have written her parents and learned to live under the almighty thumb that ruled over all girls of good standing. Maybe she would have done neither. As it was, he did find her, and from then on nothing at all was under her control.
A tear was making its way from one already raw eye when she prepared to gather her things again. The crowd dispersed on whispered wings. A single man remained, wearing a suit any gentleman would envy with an air any king would envy, and a peculiar cloak that seemed to be made of all the scarves Ceciliane had never forgotten When she ventured a glance, her first thought was that such a face seemed too striking to ever be concerned with her. But his attention was directed at her alone, dark eyes free of mockery, curved lips free of scorn, one lithe bronze hand holding out a handkerchief, the other gesturing for her to follow. "Here, love," he said quietly, and no one had ever called her love before. She followed.
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"You're very skilled." His was a soft voice, laced with an unfamiliar conglomeration of accents. His name was Raejs and he seemed to be from everywhere. "I see great potential in you, and believe me when I say I'm no idle spectator. Will you come with me to Hungary and train for my aunt's company?"
Somehow, Ceciliane had unthinkingly agreed to dine at the inn where the stranger was lodging. He had spoken little, mildly introducing himself as a factory owner who was taking leave in order to tend to family affairs, and she had remained too amazed to speak much herself. His question did little to change her state.
Raejs seemed to be wondering if he had made a mistake. "You do dance, correct?"
"Yes!" Ceciliane burst out, a little too quickly. "I mean, I do. I'm," she sat up a little straighter, "a ballet dancer. I have been for years."
The full lips curved into a smile and Ceciliane decided it was indeed possible for her to love something other than the dance.
Raejs had a story for every occasion and more confidence than she could ever hope for in herself. His tales made her laugh, made her think, and she never once stopped to wonder how many were true. He in turn listened to all she said as if there was nothing more interesting in the entire world. She was never ill at ease with him, although she remained in awe that someone so charming had any reason to care about her at all. Yet, he did, and not once did he ever seem to wish she were different. He appreciated her as she was, and she would have given her soul to keep the feeling that evoked in her. "My name is Ceciliane," she told him when he asked, feeling very silly for not having introduced herself before.
He laughed, amiably enough for her to smile back and richly enough for her to shiver, and took another sip of wine. "A suitably beautiful name. Greek, isn't it? Means 'blind'," he said, and she had no idea if it was Greek or not, but was unreasonably delighted that he had known the meaning. She felt herself falling in love all over again at that, a marked change from than the stabbing pain she had always felt when pretty, barb-tongued Julienne would say, as a joke, that even though Ceciliane wasn't blind she might as well be, given the way she dreamed so much, always reading or writing, dancing through the corridors with her eyes on something unseen.
"So you will come with me?" he asked again. "There are those can make you great."
Ceciliane nearly fainted when he pressed her hand. "Yes," she said. He grinned, and gold flashed before her eyes.
Throughout the encounter she would hear her mother's voice in her head and rejoice in being safely out of her range. It was easy to mock Maman from afar. She could imagine the disapproving words perfectly: Girls of good standing aren't meant to run off with gypsies they meet on the streets. Look out for men whose teeth shine when they bare them in the night, whose kisses taste of danger and wine, when it's impossible to tell which one is headier than the other…
When strong, elegant hands began tangling through the ribbons at her waist, she forgot about her mother altogether. Ceciliane had never so much as shown her ankles outside of the studio, but hardly thought of it. Life was a book again, an epic with a new character and not enough adjectives to do him justice…beautiful, exotic, fascinating, like India ink and Chinese silk and the spice-scented dust of all the roads in the world.
//Girls of good standing aren't meant to love men old enough to be their fathers, even if they don't look it, men with eyes that gleam knowingly, men who bow and wink and kiss your cheek as they rob you blind, leaving you in Budapest with stained skirts and empty hands…//
They stayed the night at the inn and she boarded the train with the buoyancy of the newlywed she wasn't. When he gave her a kiss on the train, she swore again she was in love, and fell asleep with her arm threaded through his. She woke up alone, destitute, and far from home. They threw her off in Budapest, where the rain played a doleful aria in a minor key.
Initially, Ceciliane played by her strengths and tried to find work as a ballet dancer, but to no avail. Eyes dry, head high, she then did what necessity required of her. Alone and penniless in a foreign land, there was little else to be done. Inside her head, the broken music box creaked out its final notes.
When she could, she would sneak onto trains, carriages, anything to take her closer to France. More often than not, she gained more bruises than miles from the ventures. She learned how to strut and swagger, and she danced when she had the chance, sneaking into bars and nightclubs to look and listen, then striding in the next day, claiming she knew every dance under the sun and then picking up fast enough to fool everyone. She had vaudeville parts on occasion, assuming role after mediocre role in mismatched pantheons that mixed onstage—Aphrodite, Bacchus, Diana, and Hestia interacting improbably and being corrected in her mind as she mutely danced in the chorus on countless splintery stages. All the same, the classical plays were her favorites, so close to the childish epics she had once fashioned. When Raejs crossed her mind, she channeled her anger into the dance until she could hardly breathe. His face remained behind her eyes nonetheless, seeming to taint the country with false smiles and conniving eyes that were impossible to escape no matter how vehemently she moved. Ceciliane felt she was going mad.
The taunting face was finally vanquished one night when she was drunk on its shame and mockery. Ceciliane broke into the leading lady's dressing room in a fit of boldness and stole enough costumes to clothe herself and enough jewelry to pawn her way into France. And, with what was left over combined with a month or two of working the Paris streets, to pass herself off as the well-bred ballerina she had once been. Roles at high-class theatres followed, and the corps de ballet was enough to satisfy her. Raejs's visage by than had faded with those of her family, appearing only on moonlight-soaked nights when she could hardly move.
Silence became her greatest asset. When the other dancers talked to her, she would blush and smile and rarely answer with words.
"You can be incredibly naïve," one dancer told her. Ceciliane winced and turned away.
"You're so sweet, so good," another said, after Ceciliane assisted her during rehearsal. Ceciliane remembered Marie-Louise and lowered her eyes.
"You don't meet many people as nice as you in a world like this," a final girl announced. Ceciliane readjusted the scarf around her neck and tried to remember what Julienne looked like.
For the most part, her success made Ceciliane snicker inside her head, smile shyly, and go back to reading Aeschylus. The epics kept her concentration from wavering. Of all the goddesses, she liked Juno the best: a vengeful queen with the power to drive even Hercules mad, keeping her wits about her while her husband ran amok all over heaven and earth. She was strong, and reminded Ceciliane she was just as strong, even when she felt like the weakest person in the world. The others sometimes chided her for staying curled in bed with a book instead of going out to the cafés with them, but she preferred it. And in truth, it was safer that way. The old, cautious Ceciliane couldn't help worrying that someone incriminating might remember her if she dipped into the underworld again. When a former client did approach her, she collapsed into herself, terrified of exposure, not venturing anywhere other than the theatre. Her time was spent in her mind and onstage; she felt fearless only when she danced; food became secondary, sleep only welcome when it was dreamless.
Backstage once, Nicolette, who fancied herself something of a philosopher, turned to the quiet girl: "Everyone has a role in life," she was saying, lacing blood-smeared satin around her ankles. "What is yours? Are you an ingénue? A villainess? A shrew?"
Ceciliane pliéd, green eyes fixed attentively on the way her fingers grasped the barre, and spoke for the first time in days. "I am a walk-on. I am the muddle-headed knight who chooses the wrong side and dies with the sickening realization of it reflected in his eyes. I am the princess's look-alike serving girl whom the soldiers kill by mistake. I am the messenger who runs his errand and then falls on his sword. I make my mark and go quietly."
The unfamiliar sound of her voice rang true. She did go quietly, then. Juno, just and harsh, unhappy in the heavens. This was not the place for her. It had been once, long ago, but that time had passed. The other dancers found her things piled neatly in the dressing room without so much as a note. A few streets and a lifetime of difference away, Ceciliane began a new dance with nothing but a small smile and the sensation of coming home.