I could smell whatever made his glossy black hair wave so perfectly across his forehead and feel his breath across the part on my scalp. I felt his heart beneath his shirt. The moment was dreamlike, separate from my fruitless days in the washhouse, and I could not turn away from the gentle frame of his arms, the promise of my first pas de deux—a partner dance that, for once in my life, included a partner.

Yet the minute we stepped into the muffled rhythm, moving through the familiar paces—relevé, attitude leg lift, cambré to the right—my defenses melted in the cool moonlight. This was not carnal—it was art, and it was sacred. My feet arched easily into tiny pas de bourreé steps forward, propelling me into a spin with foreign hands bracing my waist. He was self-assured but in an easy, gentle way. I became aware of my every curve in a manner that made me feel more alive, more comely, than I ever had before.

We danced through discarded scarves, thick cobwebs, and broken chairs, then he spun me with a lavish release, and the distant music of the second act twirled me up in its magic. I arched my back and glided into the familiar precision of ballet, feeling that glorious stretch again in my calves. I lifted the warm air with my arms, and I was off, spinning and gliding, my patched skirt flipping against my legs.

I twirled over and over, the world fading easily away around the face that held my focus with each turn. As the music below crescendoed and faded in its finale, I finished with a small spring, folded down, and rose with a gentle curved back, chest high, arms overhead. When my vision centered on his painted face, the astonishment there was absolute.

And utterly gratifying.

His clap split the silence as I caught my breath. A giant smile broke over his face and he stepped toward me, glancing at the shoes. “Perhaps they are enchanted.”

I pushed stray hair away from my eyes. “As I told you, sir, I am a dancer.”

That gaze was back on my face, studying. Assessing. “Indeed.” His reply sank into the silence.

I sat to remove the slippers and replaced them with my well-worn work boots, wondering how I could possibly return to the washhouse at five the next morning.

He crouched before me, face vivid as if wanting to say more but not possessing the right words. I wasn’t about to offer any information—he’d already gotten more out of me than most anyone ever had.

“You’re quite blue.” I nodded toward his costume, desperate to divert the focus.

“As the North Wind should be. Come to think of it, they’ll be expecting me onstage with the third act, so I should take my leave. Such is the life of a dancer. It’s a terrible flurry of—”