chapter 4

I’m up in the wings fifteen minutes before my cue, which isn’t allowed, but

I’m worried that I’ll be late again. Also, I really love this scene. This is a

production of Amarantha, a modern fairy tale with witches and heroes and

fairies. I’m a woodcutter, along with five other girls, and we wear brown

shorts and shirts and carry little axes. I’ve got my hair tucked up under my

peaked cap and I’m watching the pretty fairies onstage in their floating tulle

and silver wings, my lower lip caught between my teeth with envy.

There’s a movement out of the corner of my eye. A man has appeared by

my side in the dim light and folded his arms. I glance up and instantly quail.

It’s Mr. Kingsolver. I straighten, my hands by my sides, trying to look

professional and not like a dancer who’s disobeying rules. What was I

thinking? Being up here more than five minutes early is enough to get me

fired. My heart starts hammering against my ribs.

He steps closer. His face is handsome in a steely way, like he’s been

stamped out of metal. Because it’s late, there’s a dark pattern of stubble

over the hard lines of his jaw.

“Look at me.” He’s speaking softly but I can hear the command in his

deep voice. I turn toward him and he puts his hand under my chin, forcing it

up so I meet his eyes. They’re gunmetal gray in the dim light. “You’re not

going to make any mistakes tonight. Is that clear?”

My throat is too tight to speak. I’m burning up.

“Well?” There’s an edge to his voice. His knuckles push against my

throat. Does he know he’s pressing on my windpipe?

I swallow and just manage, “Yes.”

“Yes what?” His voice is quiet and insistent and demands to be obeyed.

“Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”

He forces my chin a little higher. He’s standing so close I catch the scent

of him, a rich, piney scent that makes my knees tremble.

“When you’re out there,” he murmurs, “don’t think about the audience.

Think about me. You’re only dancing for me.”

For him? I only ever danced for the audience and for myself. I’m proud

when I know I’ve done a good job, and happy when I see the rapt faces in

the stalls and hear the applause from the house. Resentment blazes in my

chest that this terrifying figure has swept down into the wings to tell me I’m

dancing for him. Is all he can think about the reputation of his theater?

But when I look again, his eyes hold nothing of the raw fury that they did

the previous day. He’s looking at me like he’s actually seeing me and not

just a dancer he can order about. His hand holding my chin is firm but

gentle. It’s a heady feeling, being singled out by Mr. Kingsolver, and

something golden spreads through me. He’s demanding something of me

that he knows I can do, and he wants me to do it for him.

“Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”

His eyes blaze into mine a moment longer. “Good girl.”

Then he’s gone, but I can feel the ghost of his knuckles against my throat.

A few minutes later the other woodcutters appear and we stand silently,

waiting for our cue. My heart should be racing and there should be tears in

my eyes after the encounter with Mr. Kingsolver, but I hear only the soft,

growling warmth of that good girl. I’m grounded. I’m calm. The knowledge

that Mr. Kingsolver will be watching makes me feel safe, not afraid.

When our cue comes, I step out onto the stage and begin the dance, the

others in my wake. I move like I’ve danced this dance my whole life.

Everything is perfectly in place and I am at the center of things, like a

clockwork doll within a great machine.

I lift my eyes and see the outline of a large man standing right at the back

of the theater, watching me. Somehow I know he’s watching only me.

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