Just Warming Up
Drip.
...Drip.
Drip.
...Drip.
Apple winced at the erratic sound of the pipes dripping as she waited for Rotbart to meet her in the depths of the school catacombs.
Who in their right mind would do ANYTHING in a school catacomb?! Apple thought to herself. But she understood Rotbart's rationale regarding this place; there was little chance of anyone running into them there. No one need ever know that Apple was indebted to the baddest of them all.
Apple tried to assure herself that this would all be worth it in the end, but whatever optimism she had was dampened by her creepy surroundings. That, and the thought of the cooking lesson she'd have to provide after this...
"Good evening, princess."A baritone voice said smoothly behind her.
"YIPE!" Apple nearly jumped straight out of her ballet slippers at the sound of Rotbart's unexpected entrance.
Rotbart smirked. "Good." He said. "Better than I thought."
Apple stared at him in confusion. "Huh?"
Rotbart didn't elaborate. "Have you warmed up?" He asked.
"No, not yet."
Rotbart frowned. "Rule one: warm-up on your own time. "
Apple blinked in surprise. Warm-ups were always part of dance classes and rehearsals. "But..." She began.
"No. We're here to work. We're not wasting time with warm-ups." He said sternly.
"But we HAVE to!" She protested.
"Why?" He challenged.
"What if we get hurt?!" Apple knew enough about ballet to know that doing so without warming-up was a bad idea.
"What do you mean WE, princess? I'm not dancing. You are. And whether you get hurt...well, that's not really my problem is it?" Rotbart grinned wickedly.
Apple frowned at him. "What kind of a dance teacher doesn't have warm-ups?" She challenged.
Rotbart drew himself up a couple more inches. "The kind that expects his student to be ready." He said dangerously. He leaned in towards Apple, his ice blue eyes stared angrily into her own and his mouth was a thin, stern line. The fairytale princess couldn't help gulping nervously at the change in his demeanor. And feeling a bit ashamed of herself. Apple couldn't have known it, but at that moment Rotbart was deliberately channeling his father; in two seconds, he had changed from the smart-alecky young villain Apple was used to into an imposing (and very offended) ballet master.
"Sorry." She said meekly.
"Don't be sorry. Do better." Rotbart said brusquely. "We'll do a quick warm up this time." He announced. "Go to the barre."
"What barre?"
"THAT one."
Apple balked at the sight of the rusty pipe he was pointing to. "You don't mean..."
"DO IT." He said.
Apple went to the "barre."
Somehow Rotbart managed to guide Apple through an hour-long warm-up routine in just twenty minutes. And in those twenty minutes, Apple felt like she was going through boot camp instead of ballet!
Rotbart's methods of stretching out the body before dancing were far more rigorous than anything Justine did for her coaching sessions. And after guiding her through stretches she didn't even know she was capable of, Rotbart made her go through all of the five positions, the carriage of the arms, plies, and tendus, in rapid succession. Multiple times.
"Are we done yet?!" Apple huffed as she struggled to demi-plie for what felt like the umpteen-hundredth time.
Rotbart frowned. "Not until you give me a proper diamond."
"What?!"
He pointed at her plie. "A diamond. Let me see a diamond shape down there."
Apple tried again. Rotbart snorted in disgust.
"That's not a diamond, that's poverty. Again." Apple tried once more.
"Exhaustion is no excuse for lack of precision." Rotbart said sternly. "Again."
As Apple quietly plotted to strangle Faybelle the next time she saw her, she made a perfect plie.
"Fine. Now we can get on with the lesson," Rotbart said as he pulled out a largish bag he had attached to his belt.
"The lesson?" Apple asked nervously. She didn't know if she had it in her for the lesson. Or if she wanted to know what was in that wriggling bag.
"Yes." Rotbart said with a grin. "Now here is lesson number one of ballet: always stay on your toes."
With that, he released the spiders.