“The room has been gutted and rebuilt, of course, but it used to be her private practice room, and was the place where she died. It’s where people have claimed to see her ghostly figure, which is why you’ll seldom find anyone in it.”

I shuddered. “How awful.” I knew the story, of course, but it still affected me with every telling. All but the brick shell had been pulled down and rebuilt throughout the entire theater, yet I could still sense the uniqueness that remained in this room. I always had.

“It’s said she’s looking for her famous red satin ballet shoes . . . and for poor Marcus de Silva.”

“Marcus who?”

“De Silva. The man who supposedly killed her, of course.”

My heart skittered, mind turning that name over. “How do you know all this?”

He laughed. “How do you not? Everyone in the ballet world, especially at Craven, has stories about being haunted by poor Delphine’s ghost. She is known for her tragic end, and for her red slippers.” He sobered, something odd flickering over his features.

He went back to studying me again in that terribly unnerving way. “Ones that look exactly like these.” His gaze dropped toward the shoes, then at me, head tilted in question. Our gazes tangled and held, and I couldn’t breathe. He lifted one hand as if to poke me. “I’ve never seen her, though. That is, until . . .” His fingertips brushed across my face, a whisper-soft movement.

I shivered again, then ducked away, flustered and speechless.

“Very well then, you’re not a ghost.” He continued to watch me, a sparkle of wonder dancing on the shiny blue surface of his face. “Care to try the shoes? I hear they’re special—the secret to her legendary success.”

Normally I’d refuse, but moonlight softened my reasoning. It cast an intoxicating glow over this man who saw the ballerina in me, melting my insecurities. He moved so close, his breath warm on my cheek, and I felt suddenly, for the first time, that I could not fail.

The evening’s encounter with this stranger was brief but significant, sinking deep into my memories to remain forever bottled there—a most precious experience that would never quite seem real once we left this place. “All right, then.” I took his hand and we moved toward an open space. He pulled me directly toward his solid frame, hands resting on my waist, and with a thrill I finally understood why the finer set of London declared dancing immoral.