In time, the drawn-out, blinding flashes fade away and give in to the fire of Calore Industries.
Maven's tux-clad arm stays linked through mine, and he wears an amused, delighted smile. He looks like somebody told him the funniest joke, but really, we just paraded across a red carpet at an embarrassingly slow pace while paparazzi assaulted our vision. The people here don't walk as they do in Midtown, all in a rush. Here, it's as though they have all of the time in the world.
I wear my smile along with Maven, wondering where my photo will end up in the morning.
The gentle pressure that his elbow has on mine and the soft fabric of my dress calm me enough, enough to block out the paralyzing fear of tripping in my heels. But regardless of Maven, regardless of my dress, and regardless of my extra height, the massive two-story doors, glass and framed in gold, inevitably arrive. At the sight of more big men wearing black suits—as opposed to black tuxedos—the guests clustered in front of us pull out driver's licenses and ID cards. Similar things happen at the other two sets of doors to our left and right, with women decked-out in jewels and men wearing thousand-dollar cufflinks exchanging cards with security.
Even now, standing feet from them and in finery of my own, I'm struck with awe at the opulence, the decadence. Everything's too much. The flashes behind me, the behemoths of doors and security guards. The lush beauty of everything and everyone in sight. I hear the echoes of Mister Calore in my head, as photographers called out Maven's name. Miss Barrow followed it, as soon as they realized who Maven was with. The stares are still going on, as other attendees turn around to regard me and Maven at the sound of our last names.
Yet I manage to keep moving, reminding myself that I am a Principal dancer at the Manhattan Dance Academy.
The guards remind of it too, recognizing the two of us as Principal dancers and making sweeping motions for us to go inside without ID checks.
So without further ado, Maven and I step past the guards. The camera flashes leave altogether. Air leaves my throat, my lungs, and my blood, and I take in what I see.
I might've stepped inside, but it doesn't feel like it. The floors stretch hundreds of feet in either direction, and the ceiling stands fifty feet high. In Calore Industries' lobby-turned-ballroom, the serpentine design of the plaza floor transitions into the sunset marble that the Academy has laid across its halls. The blue-black of night vanishes as golden light thoroughly takes over. Enormous empire chandeliers hang from far above, and more light comes from the walls, where tablets of limestone protrude from others to make sconces.
Golden elevators stand off to one wall, and starting at the third story, golden-rimmed balconies with glass railings stack on top of one another until they meet the ceiling. They wrap around the ballroom as the one in Blonos's studio does, and supported by massive sunset pillars, wide bridges span the air of the cavern-like lobby to connect balconies on opposite walls. Across from the row of elevators, an artificial waterfall turned electric red by lights runs from the ceiling, past the balconies, and to the ground, where water pools in a koi pond before trickling away into a man-made river. Wrought-iron tables and chairs trace the shape of it.
The amplified music of some faraway string ensemble carries throughout the ballroom, and an amalgamation of perfume and wine wafts through the air. The clicks of my heels are drowned out ten times over by crowd murmurs, coming from ahead and behind, to my left and right, from the balconies and overhead bridges. Though I would never put a bet on it, I imagine there's close to two-thousand guests here tonight.
Every one of them is beautiful, confident in the way that they move and talk and how they look. They surround me from every angle in sweeping dresses and fancy suits, throw their heads back in laughter and sip from their glasses of wine. Eyes shift as Maven and I walk by, and I do my best to smile.
Tonight is a different sort of performance. I've exchanged my pointe shoes for heels but wear the same face I'd wear on stage. I try to convince myself that it's the same, that I've done this before.
I only remember that Maven and I are walking deeper into Calore Industries when we approach a gallery of photographs on black easels, forming a pathway between which to walk.
Printed onto sheets of glossy paper, eight sets of black and white headshots—the heads in the photos slightly larger than real-life heads—watch and smile at the guests. Aligned in two rows, the male Principal dancers to my left face the female Principal dancers at my right. By now, I know them all, have talked to most of them to some extent at some point. In the photos, the women wear their hair in ballet buns and have leotard straps over their collarbones, and the men wear plain black T-shirts.
Maven and I walk further, and I find Evangeline's picture, proud and magnificent as ever. Like she knows something that she shouldn't, she wears a smirk, and her head's twisted so that her eyes seem to meet mine before I get to her easel. On the other side stands Cal's headshot. His black shirt and charming smile aren't anything new, but his bright eyes are dulled by the black and white effect of the photograph. He doesn't look toward Evangeline, but off to her side, toward the left.
After Cal comes Maven, who's photo looks better than the one in his ID card that Will once showed me. My own headshot is across from his, ours the two at the end before Calore Industries gives into open space with only glass and stone walkways above.
With my shoulders caved the slightest bit inward, my collarbones jut out the slightest bit outward. The pristine bun that I wear at the nape of my neck is too perfect, and despite wearing no makeup the day I had my photo taken, my skin comes across as flawless. They had to have airbrushed that. Like Cal's, my head's angled to reveal part of my profile, though my smile is certainly different than his. It's more subtle, and not conniving like Evangeline's either. It seems to suit me.
As Maven and I pass our own headshots, I manage to convince myself that none of the photos are something out of a funeral service.
"Having fun yet?" Maven mutters down into my ear sarcastically. Over the din of everybody, I barely hear him.
Nobody would ever know how out of place I am here. I'm as glamorous as anybody. I have diamonds at my throat and Maven Calore at my arm. I have nothing to be afraid of.
Nothing to be afraid of for a full three hours.
"Sure," I mutter back, the only answer I can give.
I have the sense that Maven laughs a little, judging by the slight shake of his elbow in mine. I don't know why he's so much better at this, at pretending than I am.
"There's Grandma," he says a beat later and nods up towards one of the bridges.
Raising a plucked brow—another of the things those stylists did to me—I follow Maven's nod to the bridge at the third story. At first, I only see passing through tuxedos and dresses, panes of glass and gilded railings. Maven and I stop in place, and more guests move past my vision, deeper and further into Calore Industries, closer to the music and closer to all of the fun.
Then I notice Elara's pale hair, down in waves for perhaps the first time since I've met her. In a dove grey gown, she has her back to us and speaks with another woman.
The woman wears an orange pantsuit with a red blazer that can be seen from miles away, and that alone tells me that she's important. She isn't tall, probably no taller than me, but she stands with a confident, honed posture that I'm too familiar with. Her hair is thoroughly grey, and she has it pinned up in a bun. But from here, I can't discern much else. She doesn't look especially old, though.
"Grandma?" I echo. She can't be Elara's mother, which means she must be Tiberias Senior's.
"Yup," Maven replies. "She was a great dancer at the Academy back in the early Seventies. Then Anabel had my father, and then she danced some more in the Eighties. From my understanding, she was somewhat of a legend."
Damn. Dance really does run deep with the Calores.
I'm about to make an attempt at a joke and ask if Maven and Cal's grandma ever bakes cookies for them, but I see two sets of black hair appear from the balcony, heading across the bridge toward Elara and Grandma Anabel.
Despite his title as Executive Director of the Manhattan Dance Academy, Tiberias Calore hasn't made an appearance at his own building since auditions. When it's been so long, I've forgotten how similar he looks to his eldest son, with their matching eyes, matching shoulders, and matching heights.
Disgust curls in my stomach as I look at him. I've been told so little, and yet it's enough for me to focus on Cal, even as I realize that I hate how similar he looks to his father.
Cal. The golden child.
I wish I could say that I'm surprised to see that he made it on time after his shoe debacle.
He's wearing a black tux and bowtie just like his father and brother. He's the tallest on the bridge, and people turn and smile at him and his father as they pass. His hair is slicked back with too much gel, but it's Cal and nobody cares when his grin can send women fainting. In fact, I watch as a few of the girls up there turn away from him, blushes etched into their faces.
For all that he is, I've never seen him that way. Maybe it's because he got me here or maybe it's because of all that he is, but I've never seen him that way. I don't think that I ever will.
Anabel notices that Cal and Mister Calore are approaching the center of the bridge, and she starts past Elara until she's face-to-face with Cal.
I can't quite bring myself to blink as I watch Anabel, a woman no taller than me, wrap her arms around Cal's midriff and give him the fondest, most tender hug I've ever seen in my life. His arms go around to her back, but Anabel's already pushing on his shoulders, forcing him to come down to eye-level.
So that she can give him a great big kiss on each of his cheeks.
"Shouldn't you be up there?" I ask Maven, if only to distract myself from the strange scene unfolding above.
"Not right now," Maven says, shaking his head a bit. "I'll see Grandma later."
That's all he says.
But it's enough for me to understand that like his father, Anabel has a favorite. With another look, I find Cal and his grandmother chatting it up about something that I'm too far away to hear, Mister Calore with a hand on Cal's shoulder. They wear smiles as big as Anabel's kisses.
I tighten my own arm around Maven's, seeing something so similar above as I've felt with my parents and Gee.
I realize that from Midtown to this very spot on the floor of Calore Industries, Maven's been shoving me along. Maybe I need to return the favor, help him forget about his family as much as he can while he's in the same room as them.
Without another word, I tug him forward until we're beneath the bridge that the Calore family stands upon, and then, deciding it's not far enough, I tug him farther.
Farther and farther, until we're in the depths of Calore Industries and the doors are out of sight.
"Of course, the Manhattan Dance Academy would be nothing without its Ballet Masters and Mistresses. For the last twenty years, my institution has had the pleasure of hosting Bess Blonos, Rane Arven, and Carmadon Green as instructors, all of whom could work at any ballet company in the world. So it's my greatest pleasure to say that year after year, they choose to bring their expertise right to my Academy in Midtown Manhattan."
Along a second-story balcony at the far end of the Calore Industries ballroom, stands Tiberias Calore, glass of champagne in hand and smiling with the whitest teeth I've ever seen. Elara stands inches away from her husband, and Cal and Maven are at his other side. In spite of the fact that Mister Calore's been talking for the last fifteen minutes, the three of them are smiling as wide as they were when he began his speech. Together, they're the picture of the perfect, affluent, monarchical Wall Street family.
"My wife, Elara Merandus, is also a steadfast part of the Academy that we are blessed to have. I met her when we became ballet partners so many years ago, and she's been with me ever since. I'm hardly surprised that she's become one of the finest Ballet Mistresses in New York."
I would expect a kiss or at least something affectionate to follow Mister Calore's words, but he and Elara simply stand in their places, smiling and smiling.
Yet it's interesting to hear that they were once partners at the Academy. I can't help but wonder where Cal's mom fit in.
I also can't help but zone out at Tiberias Calore, whose charisma can only carry a speech so far. My eyes drift away from the family.
The back half of the Calore Industries ballroom is entirely open, with the glass bridges behind me and closer to the doors at the front. The air stretches upward with nothing in its way aside from chandeliers that lead to a gold-textured ceiling, and only a crowd occupies the expanse of floor in front of me. More elevators line one wall, and across the way—embedded into another wall—stands a glittering bar hosting guests crammed shoulder to shoulder.
There are an infinite number of details to this building, from the servers in grey vests with platters of drinks and tiny foods to the vases of fiery daylilies that perch upon the balcony railings to the black marble footbridges that cross the little river running the length of the building. More red waterfalls pour down from the ceiling, splash into the river, and ultimately flow to another koi pond at the spot right beneath Tiberias Calore's feet. Despite itself, despite the details that might as well make my head spin, the ballroom of Calore Industries is the most beautiful place I've ever been.
"Aren't you popular tonight?"
I glance at Iris, sporting a ruffled dress of a similar shade to mine. Her hair's down, flat-ironed and nearly reaching her butt, and in her heels, Iris is just about six-foot. She looks as glamorous as everybody else, probably more so with her bluish-black lipstick and matching eyeshadow to compliment her dark skin. The two of us, plus a couple of the Academy Soloists and Corps girls who elected to come, stand a few feet from the river, mostly silent as Tiberias Calore continues speaking.
Maven had to leave a while ago to go stand alongside his family, and much to my surprise, I've been fine without him. The other dancers from the Academy are happy to talk to me, happy as they were when I wanted to play Monopoly with them, and that's only when random guests aren't attempting to speak to me.
"Apparently," I mutter back with a slight chuckle. It seems silly to think that any of these people think anything of me at all.
Beside the elevators and across the footbridges, rest several rectangle-shaped tables, adorned with silky black and gold cloth. Attendants with laptops and stacks of papers sit behind them, and in front of them wait dozens of guests, money and checkbooks and credit cards in hand. The table to the farthest left has another set of my and Maven's headshots atop it, albeit smaller, but the line for it is long.
Longer than the lines for the other pairs of Principal dancers who will perform as Giselle and Albrecht at different showings. When Maven and I replaced Cal and Evangeline, we also replaced who would be starring on opening night. And apparently, everybody wants to see two seventeen-year-olds dance the leads at a world-famous ballet company.
Perhaps that's why they want to see us, though. We're seventeen, and we're Principal dancers.
For the first time this evening, my stomach feels the good sort of butterflies.
I don't, however, get the good sort of butterflies whenever they approach me. Two of my headshots are inside of Calore Industries, and even though I barely look like that photograph of myself tonight, plenty of tonight's guests have tracked me down in the forty-five minutes I've been here.
In their fine clothes and Upper East Side smiles, they congratulate me on the early success I've had in my ballet career, tell me that they think Maven and I will make wonderful partners for years to come, and ask me where I received my education in ballet.
In return, I thank them, tell them that my partner and I have become the best of friends and that I think the same, and explain to them that I received a rather unconventional ballet education at a small dance studio near my family's home, and it was nothing like a traditional school. I have the last line memorized, and by now, I feel like I've had the same conversation a dozen times.
After that, a new somebody or other usually comes along to ask me new questions, before the old somebody can ask me questions that I can't half-truth my way out of.
"It goes without saying that this evening is one of my favorite nights of the entire year. Tonight, I host dozens of the finest dancers that this city has ever seen, along with its finest citizens. As always, I thank you for attending the Manhattan Dance Academy's annual gala. I can only hope that you might enjoy tonight as much as I do."
Tiberias Calore delivers another line to his speech, raising his glass of champagne to the guests below him. I tune back in.
"And if you are interested in attending Giselle's opening night, I would advise that you buy your tickets tonight." Mister Calore swirls his liquor in his glass lazily, resting a hand on the balcony railing in front of him. He looks towards the tables, where conversations about views and seating take place between the attendants and guests. "Because it appears that the first performance featuring our youngest Principal dancers has become highly sought after in the past half hour."
Though it isn't obvious to the crowd, Maven glances my way, a smirk playing at his lips.
I have the sense to brighten my smile from the placid face I've fallen into wearing these last minutes, but before he might use any names or point any dreaded fingers, Mister Calore turns away from the balcony, glass still raised in his hand. When I'm shorter than most and surrounded by other dancers, it isn't the easiest thing to spot me, and no more people look at me than before.
Thankfully.
The orchestral music coming from a location I have yet to identify resumes, and dresses and tuxes begin shuffling around. A jumble of laughter rises out of a group of women nearby, and three of the Corps girls murmur about how they should go over to the bar since Calore Industries isn't ID'ing. Over at the ticket tables, men and women silently shift from the waiting lines further over to my own, and other guests from the crowd add on until they're backed up to the footbridges.
"Miss Barrow," a voice that I don't recognize says from behind me, and I have to contain my eye roll.
Here it goes again. I don't even have to move, and they'll come. I thought that I'd be able to get in another sip of the sparkling water in my hand, but I suppose not.
At least the constant conversations, the parade of questions and compliments keep me on my toes, even if they're beyond strange and shouldn't be happening. At least the stress that they cause keeps me distracted.
Donning my smile, I turn around again, heels lightly clicking as I do somewhat of a ballet move. My skirts swoosh, smacking into my legs at the movement, and—
Two faces loom over me, vaguely familiar for a moment before I recognize exactly where they're from.
The man and woman are married, arms hooked together. The woman's head is tilted towards the man's, and in her heels, she's slightly taller. They both have caramel skin, the woman's hair long and dark like Iris's and the man's grey and cropped to his scalp. He has Iris's grey eyes. If I were to venture a guess, I would imagine that the two of them are in their fifties, though the woman has aged better than her husband, considering the differences in their hair colors.
A girl who can only be their daughter stands slightly behind them, and her face and stature are Iris's, but five years older.
My smile falters as I remember the day that I went to the New York Public Library and read about the Street Fighter's attack on Cygnet Hydrotech.
Iris, who was never far from me, reappears in the periphery of my vision.
I swallow, realizing what the last name of my friend is.
"Mare," Iris says, coming around me to settle at her mother's side. The resemblance is uncanny, something I would've noticed weeks ago had I seen a second time the photo of Orrec Cygnet and his wife Cenra from the news articles that I researched online.
I met Iris not a week after my trip to the library, and yet I only swallow again, finding the details of Iris's face in both Orrec and Cenra as they smile back at me.
"These are my parents. Orrec and Cenra Cygnet," Iris continues. "And my big sister, Tiora."
I remember that day on Wall Street when everything stopped in place, when people ran from the streets as they discovered what had happened to Cygnet Hydrotech and who had done it.
The Scarlet Street Fighters, Farley and my brother included, attacked the company of the people that I stand in front of. And I've unwittingly become friends with the younger daughter of Orrec Cygnet.
After I remember Wall Street, a place not far from this building, I remember myself and I remember to smile.
"Oh," I say, acting pleasantly surprised. "So nice to meet the three of you."
My hand reaches out on instinct, and I shake all three of the Cygnets' hands.
Eight o'clock comes and goes, and time ticks forward along with my dully-thudding heartbeat.
I find the stairs that Shade warned me of, where under the shadow of the bridges, limestone wall comes apart to reveal a shallow hallway. It leads to winding flights of steps. They're made of thick slabs of carved orange marble, long as a town car and silhouetted by dim lights inside of the stairwell. I have no idea how many stories they go up or down, but as Maven and I make the journey upstairs, my skirts skimming the floor, I don't miss how easily the shadows make murmuring guests blend into the walls.
We turn a corner, those murmurs echoing the way my voice sometimes does in the Academy's auditorium. Guests greet me and Maven, and we greet them in return, saying hellos and goodbyes as we climb the last flight of steps.
"I have to give it to Cal. He tried pretty hard this time to keep me away from the wine," Maven comments to me, raising his wine glass to his lips. "He blacklisted me from the bar by giving the bartenders a copy of my headshot—he wrote "do not serve this minor" on it. Then he told the servers this morning when they were setting up to stay away from me. And after that, he threatened that if he caught me with wine tonight, he'd drag me out of here and throw me onto the streets without my wallet or phone. Unfortunately for Cal, I figured out that his threats are empty years ago."
Sideways, I eye Maven. On our way up here, he managed to snag a glass off the plate of a server who was explaining the origins of some drink to another guest.
"It's a game we've been playing since I was fourteen and he was sixteen." Maven tilts his head, and his lips turn up. "Well, it's a game to me. Cal just gets annoyed. I'm always bored at these sorts of functions, and then I end up getting interested in drinking. Worried big-brother Cal tries to stop me and usually ends up failing miserably."
Though I'm somewhat concerned that Maven drank his first drink at fourteen, I can't help but snort. Aside from in the studios, I don't see Maven and Cal together often, but a confrontation between the brothers and a glass of wine in Maven's hand sounds highly interesting.
We ascend the last of the steps, and exiting the hallway, emerge onto one of the balconies I've seen from below. It's the lowest one, only twenty, twenty-five feet above everything that's going on, but I'm glad for the panes of glass and golden steel bars that separate me from the dropoff.
Most are downstairs, but no shortage of people to meet linger up here, too close for comfort along this wide strip of marble that doesn't seem to go much of anywhere but around itself.
"I've never had alcohol before," I murmur to Maven.
My partner gives me a look. "Never?" He sounds almost offended.
"Never," I echo. "I was too busy training to become a professional ballerina."
Maven scoffs as we walk along the balcony, weaving between groups of guests. I'm not sure what we're doing up here other than making rounds and finding new people to discuss our achievements with, but maybe Maven just wanted to show me where the stairs were. He hasn't forgotten what Shade said at the Loeb Boathouse either. "Today's your lucky day." He extends the wine glass in his hand towards me. "Just a sip or two though."
It wouldn't take much to get me legally drunk. I'm a one hundred and ten-pound teenage girl who's never tried wine before.
But I know what he's doing. We're less than two hours out from the Street Fighters' attack-and-or warning, and he thinks that a tiny bit of alcohol might help me out.
On top of that, I just discovered that I'm friends with a Cygnet. I'm going to have to talk to Shade about that one.
My hand stays slack at my side. I gaze at him, questions in my eyes.
"It's the best thing you'll ever drink, I promise," Maven only says, even as his eyes say a thousand assurances, a thousand empty promises.
"One sip?" He asks, raising the glass closer to me.
But then the glass is gone from his hand, paused in midair near my shoulder.
"How about no sips?"
Cal's figure appears at my other side, having shot out an arm in front of me to confiscate his brother's glass.
"Well," Maven says. "That was fast, brother."
"Yeah, well, when I'm dealing with you, I kind of have to be."
I glance to my side at Cal, who matches my and Maven's strides pace for pace. When I'm not looking at him from so far away, I notice the smaller details to his ensemble. The raven black tux he wears fits him well, the sleek fabric of it contouring over his muscled arms and tall legs. His shoes, which catch light from every angle, don't look out of place. His slicked-back hair's still too shiny, though. Just beneath a bowtie that destroys any chance Cal has of looking threatening, sits a buttery-yellow pocket square, nearly invisible when tucked behind one of his lapels.
He's cleanly shaven, smelling of sandalwood. His eyes glimmer as he looks between me and Maven.
"I figured it would be about time to check in on you, Maven. And when no one knew where you were, I just asked where Mare Barrow was, and everybody seemed to know."
"Typical," Maven says, grinning at me.
I roll my eyes and shake my head at my partner, but I have to pinch my lips together to avoiding grinning back. When it makes no sense, I don't have much to say about my newfound popularity. So instead, I turn my head to Cal. "Are you still planning on throwing Maven out onto the street for drinking? Because I'd love to see that."
Cal beams back at me. "It would be entertaining, wouldn't it?"
Maven mutters something incoherent about me being a bad friend and Cal being a bad person, but it's drowned out by somebody else.
"Miss Barrow," another strange, random voice calls from behind me. "Oh! And the Calore brothers. Please, a moment, if you all will."
In dancers' sync, we turn around on our heels, only to be faced with a woman wearing broad-framed glasses and a lime-green cocktail dress. She carries a bulky camera in her hands, its strap around her neck along with an identification card. The woman's not paparazzi, but an actual reporter.
"I'm a photographer with The New York Times," she explains, glancing between us but especially focusing on me. "Of course, we'd love an interview, Miss Barrow, but perhaps we can schedule one for a later date. You're all so young and talented. Very few can imagine what it's like to be where you are at seventeen, nineteen years old, playing the leading dancers for one of the world's finest ballet institutions." She rattles off words, then blinks as though she's forgetting herself. "We'd love a photo of Tiberias Calore's sons and Mare Barrow for tomorrow's paper."
I blink.
Vaguely, I note that Maven and Cal nod at the woman and tell her that they'd love to have their photograph taken for The New York Times. I'm not sure if they'd do it if I weren't here.
But for me, this is the moment where I decide if this is the kind of ballet dancer I'm going to be.
If I'm going to be the ballet dancer that enjoys having her picture flashed around, the dancer who jumps at the chance to make her name known.
Other guests have paused their conversations to watch my exchange with the photographer, whose bright red lips smile at me, coax me to say yes.
"You look badass," Cal whispers into my ear, breath tickling my skin.
"You look stunning," Maven says into my other ear, breath doing the same.
It's not about how I look, because I know how I look and I haven't forgotten the chain of diamonds that rest at my throat.
Yet I can think of no real reason that isn't foolish to deny this woman a photograph.
"Of course," I say after a moment, my voice calm as though I just zoned-out.
The photographer nods, taking the cap off her camera. Her smile goes a little bigger.
And so, Maven's arm slips around my back, hand resting at my hip. On my other side, Cal's arm does the same, hand settling at my hip. The material of their tuxes brushes at my bare back, and my own arms skim their tux jackets as each of my hands finds their waists. I feel the lean muscles of Maven's obliques and the hard muscles of Cal's through their shirt fabrics. Cal still holds Maven's wine glass in his other hand, and he raises it to his chest. He and Maven already have on their signature Calore smiles.
So after licking my teeth to rid them of any lipstick, I put on a smile of my own. I swear it's real.
Just like the paparazzi, the lady snaps her camera again and again, flash after flash sending stars into my vision.