“S-Seventeen. Almost e-eighteen.”
Liam spun on his heel. “She will dance. I want her dressed and ready for rehearsal tomorrow.” He moved to the center of the classroom. “Now. What about male dancers? Do we have any?”
“No,” Madam Benée said, her mouth tight. “None.”
“Then I’ll see if I can bring some over from the Bolshoi. I have some connections there.”
Liam continued speaking as Red slunk toward the exit. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. As did the rest of the girls. Except for Jane. The small dark-haired girl stared at Red, wide-eyed and ghostlike as Red slipped out the door.
Chapter Six
Unnamed
* * *
The inside of Red’s old room had never seemed more dark and dusty. She walked into the space—the space that had been hers since her father died—and wondered why everything seemed so foreign. The bed in the corner, the metal costume rack that used to hang her clothes, and the barre Nathan had carved for her when she was ten.
Most young girls would have thought it an adventure to live in an attic above the rafters of an old theater, but it was only a reminder of her solitude. A reminder of her loneliness. A place of pity for two young children who had nowhere else to go.
Light filtered through the stained-glass window near the top of the ceiling, reflecting in the tall ornate mirror at the far end of the room. The wood floors creaked under her feet as she moved to the window next to her bed. She ripped off the blanket that she had used to block out the sun. Pillars of light flooded the area, brightening everything a shade.
She peered out the window. From here, she could see her entire home.
White sidewalks cut through brown grass, a corroded fountain adorning the center section. Four buildings sat in a quadrangle—the studio, the dorms, and the old chapel—all churchlike in architecture, but none more so than the theater she was standing in. It resembled a haunted opera house with its stone gargoyles and archways. A wrought iron fence encased the whole campus, all set in the middle of Halifax, Nova Scotia.
The ballet company there wasn’t big or well-known, but it was a treasure tucked into the pocket of the city—like the rare major chord in one of Stravinsky’s ballets.
Red looked over her room, her gaze traveling over a pile of used pointe shoes in the corner, along with several pairs of leotards and tights, knit leggings and warm-ups. Old makeup and clothes were tossed about the space, including a few rusted pieces of climbing gear.
That was it.
She dropped her bag on the bed, and dust flew up in puffs. She plunked down on the squeaky mattress and started rummaging. Red took her father’s scarf out of the duffel bag, always on top of clothes and other gear. The blue material was coarse and worn—it wouldn’t even sell for five dollars. Not that she would ever sell it. She brought it close to her nose and inhaled. The cologne had long since faded, but she still remembered the musky lilac scent. Red sighed and stuffed it back into the bag.
Comparing what was in the room to what she had in her bag, there was no way she would be able to sell this junk and make enough to salvage her climbing career, let alone make it back to the States. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking. She was a fool to come back here.
She should’ve begged Coach to stay with her. She should’ve called her sponsors one more time—in addition to the dozens of calls she’d already made—and pleaded for them to continue their sponsorships so she had the money to keep living down there. But maybe a part of her believed Coach. Maybe her climbing career was over, and she had nowhere else to go.
Shoving her bag away, she threw herself down on her bed. This wasn’t happening. Sobs threatened to escape, but she wouldn’t allow them. She held them in as if she were at a climbing comp where she had to put on a brave face. She blinked back her tears as if she were out bouldering with the boys and she had to be tough.
She hadn’t even cried at her father’s funeral, nor shed a tear the one and only time she visited her mother at…
Her thoughts broke off.
She’d failed. She was only seventeen, and she’d failed.
Red snatched her flat pillow and beat her fists into it over and over and over again. She hadn’t known she was weak like this. She thought she was strong. She thought nothing could break her. And now, her entire life was ruined. She had nowhere to go.
The floor creaked from the corner.
Red sat upright.
“Hello?” she called out softly.
Red squinted through the sunlight into the dark corner across the room. She tucked her feet up underneath her on the bed, glanced at the door, then back to the corner. This was the attic—it creaked all the time, but Red knew her room. She knew the difference between the natural creaks of the building and the weight of someone on the floor.
“Hello?” Red called out again, voice stronger. “How long have you been in here?”
The floor creaked a second time.
Red inched backward on the bed. She stuck a hand inside her bag and pulled out a carabiner. It was the heaviest thing she had.
Red had always felt safe in this room. All the murders and strange happenings at the theater had occurred before her father’s death—before she came to live here. Nothing bad had ever happened during her five-year stay at the theater, but Red gripped the carabiner tight, her hands sweaty on the cold metal.
Something moved in the corner.
Red tightened her grip. She rose off the bed, pressing one foot against the frame in case she needed momentum either to attack or run. She may be small, but her years on the rock had made her much stronger than she looked.
“Tick tock, goes the clock.”
Red froze.
That voice.
Those words.
The carabiner slipped from her hand and clanked onto the floor.
“You. From the cliff,” she said. “When I fell.”
How?
She had convinced herself the shadow man had been a dream. Or a hallucination. The blood on her tank top was real, but after she had woken up from the fall, he was gone. There was no reason to believe he existed.
His figure emerged from behind the mirror. With the sunlight bright in her eyes, she couldn’t see him fully. But standing face to face with him, she could take in more detail. He was only an inch taller than her—five foot six, maybe five foot seven. Wild dark hair. Light highlighted only half of his face, but his deep inset cheekbones were evident, along with his lean frame. He wore black slacks and a simple black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his skin pale in the dark room.
His hands rested casually in his pockets as he leaned against the dusty standup mirror. He cocked his head to the side. Red found herself imitating him, her head also bending, following his.
“Are you mocking me?” he asked.
“What? No.”
“Seems to me that you’re mocking me.”
He pushed himself from the mirror.
Red followed, straightening.
His mouth quirked up to the side, but he kept his expression mostly hidden. Red marveled at how lovely the dim lighting played off the grooves and bones of his face.
“Sorry. I’m just—I’m trying to see your face.” When she had first met him, she was convinced he wasn’t familiar—but now, he was. There was an uncontrollable—almost uncanny—familiarity about him. Like she had known him long before now.