The music swelled louder and Maeve, dazed, tried to get her bearings on the floor. She could taste blood already; her tooth tearing through her lip as she fell. She could still feel herself spinning. For a moment, her eyes focused on the mirror and she saw someone else there. A woman. Another dancer, stretched out on the ground.

She should get up, Maeve thought. She needs to stand up now, get up and save herself.

The image blurred and then came back before Maeve realized what she was looking at. The woman was just herself. Her own reflection.

By that time, it was too late. He’d shut the door behind him. Not some other dancer but Maeve who was on the floor. She got up, and he knocked her down again. And again. But she’d had that spotlight moment, the clarity of seeing herself, finally, from outside. When he kicked the mirror in and it shattered, she grabbed her shard of glass and held on, even as he ripped it from her hand.

She didn’t save herself. The studio manager heard the noise of the fight from the hall, came in and pulled Iain out of the room. Talked him down.

They were old friends. He was used to it.

Without that interruption, Maeve is sure he would have killed her. Just lucky? The broken bit of mirror, bloodied, lying on the ground beside her. She picked it up and saved it, a reminder, a promise to herself that she would never allow anyone to do that to her again.

Like beach glass, a souvenir, locked safe in her childhood jewelry box. Wedged beneath the tiny dancer who pirouettes on cue whenever the box is opened.

“I’m all right on my own,” she says when they’re back in the warmth of the lobby. “If you want to stay in there. If you want to work.”

She’s trying to buy time, but Sim’s eyes change and she stumbles on, too quick to grasp at an opportunity.

“What if we both do? What if we run this retreat ourselves—come on, you said it—” She’s bright and airy, as though none of this matters, as though she is simply trying to please him, that’s all. “Complete seclusion, right? You do your thing and I’ll do mine, and I’ll meet you back here later.”

She can feel herself flushing with relief. The studio cabin is still there, the key in her coat pocket; if she can get out to the studio, she can lock the door. Her mind is moving fast. There’s still days’ worth of food in the kitchenette. No power, but that cast-iron pot could be made into a kind of heater, a firepit, a stove. There are blankets and a first-aid kit in the cupboard. She can be safe out there, alone, waiting for help to arrive.

“Work? You mean out there, in the cabins? It’s the middle of the night.”

“It must be almost morning.”