She leaves the laptop and goes back to the window, tries to take in the whole view. Allows herself, momentarily, to put aside all the baggage she brought with her: a divorce that left her with nothing, a body that feels like a traitor. She can see the outline of her face, a shadow reflection in the glass. Maeve Martin, principal dancer. Who she used to be.

Her last true chance at a career is the grant that paid for this retreat—a transition grant for professional dancers making the leap to directing a company, with a cutoff age of thirty-five.

Maeve is thirty-four.

Put it in a box, she tells herself. Stick a pin in it. Focus instead on the world stretched before you.

But even the heavy glass feels like a barrier. Maeve wrestles with the latch, then throws the window open, pops the screen, and leans right out. Her face and shoulders meet the cold air, the snow still falling, steady and gentle, and she has to stop herself from pitching too far; her feet almost leave the safety of the floor. Four stories up, a bird’s-eye view. A queen in her castle.

Below, the new snow sweeps off, endless, into the trees. Like a bolt of white cloth spooling out at her feet. Like a blank page set down just for Maeve. She flexes a little higher, up on her toes.

All that white. A new future, just waiting for her to write it.

The director’s office is tucked in a corner of the center’s wide lobby, giving its occupant a sweeping view of backcountry slope, the tree line ceding to snowcap only a little higher up. The director herself—Karolina Rhys—is struggling with the window blind when Maeve arrives. She knocks on the door frame so as not to surprise her, but it turns out Karolina is not the kind to startle easily.

“You’re here!” she says, calling over her shoulder. She’s got the look and demeanor of a younger woman, her silver-blond hair cut blunt below her shoulders, jeans tucked into a pair of cowboy boots. She’s in her late forties—Maeve has looked her up—the kind of enviable woman who is equally at home on an Oklahoma ranch or at an Oxford riding club. A Czech-born Saskatchewan farm girl; a painter who was once married to a famous playwright.

She gives the blind one more adjustment and turns. “You must be Maeve. My dancing queen!” A quick glance down at the paperwork on her desk. “Maeve Martin Dance Project?” She springs forward, arms outstretched. The greeting is warm and professional: she doesn’t shake but closes both hands over Maeve’s and looks her right in the eye.