The lead ballerina in bright red twirled into the center, her skirts whirling into a filigree flower around her. Amalia Brugnoli, favorite of the great choreographer Armand Vestris, had captivated my imagination since I’d glimpsed her through a window one day in the rehearsal room. Now here she was, dancing before me with acrobatic bursts and the most complex footwork I’d ever seen. I squinted at her tiny slippers—how was she doing this?

Everything about her was strength and perfection, from her smooth chestnut hair to her paces. Astonishment and jealousy wound in equal parts through my veins, thick with angst. With desire. When she landed in an arabesque and tilted to the right, the music rose to dizzying crescendos, and suddenly there he was—leaping with bold precision onto the stage, springing forth and spinning in the air, his powerful legs propelling him across the stage again and again.

His legs scissored above the other dancers, and he landed with a double spin on one knee, arms overhead, and swept back into the air with an effortless leap. I sucked in my breath. If ever I’d imagined that ballet damaged a man’s masculinity, he disproved that notion in three beats of my heart. He was all muscle and control, skill and artistry—and such power. It oozed from him as he overtook the entire stage, the other dancers merely a background to his stunning performance.

And to think, I’d been in his presence—dancing alongside him.

I withered to the floor when the curtain shut, siphoning off my view of the most magical sight I’d ever witnessed, its intensity still sitting hard against my chest. Ballet was so much more real, more stirring and magnificent, than I’d ever realized. I was alight with more happiness than any devout member of St. Luke’s Church had any right to feel inside a theater, but I couldn’t help it. I straddled two worlds, my heart evenly divided.

I danced my way home through Covent Garden’s crowded streets and up the Strand, clutching the soggy program I’d managed to rescue from the gutter outside Craven. When I reached our home on dirty old St. Giles, I paused amidst distant shouts and banging doors to look through the paper for the name I desperately had to know.

North Wind . . . . . . principal dancer, Mr. Philippe Rousseau

I gasped, cold fingers over my mouth, and read it over and over. Principal dancer. I had danced with the principal dancer.