The assistant held the hem of Batya’s dress off the dust as she led her through an alley to the back entrance of the dance hall.

Upon seeing her, Sergio’s eyes lit up with a sparkle of approval. “We’re going to win,” he said, a rare smile on his face. He looked dashing in his matador costume. The epaulettes of the short black jacket were embroidered in elaborate gold stitching that swirled into leaves on the rest of the jacket. His tight black pants emphasized the manhood he never let her glimpse.

All around them, backstage, couples were marking dance moves; women were checking themselves in the mirror and silently evaluating one another’s sparkling dresses. Under their heavy makeup, Batya couldn’t tell who they were—prostitutes or daughters of rich families. They all looked beautiful, and they had to be fabulous dancers. Why was Sergio so confident that the two of them would win? He could be equally wrong in assessing the outcome of the investigation.

Batya touched his arm. “Win or lose, there will be no more. I want out of Buenos Aires.”

He looked at her silently, then said, “Let’s not talk about it now.”

“There’s nothing more to say about it,” she replied.

Half an hour later, waiting on one side of the stage while Sergio was on the other, Batya took in the audience. Men chatted and women rearranged their dresses in the seats. Sergio hadn’t warned her about the stage lights, which nearly blinded her when they burst on. Shielding her eyes, she could see that the large crowd wasn’t distracted by drinking or card playing, as they were in the pavilion. Everyone was looking at her! Nothing in her rehearsals had prepared her for this.

Then she remembered her mask. No one saw her, Batya-Esperanza—except Moskowitz. She felt him somewhere in the hall, his gaze slithering in her veins. This competition, she reminded herself, was a sham—a cover-up of her treachery meant to bring him down.

The band broke into the first song. Batya thrust one hip forward as she stepped to meet Sergio halfway, and he arched his arm high and took hold of her opposite hand. Resting her head on his shoulder, she heard a murmur ripple through the crowd. Swirling in her magnificent dress, she fought the attraction and romance of the caballero Sergio portrayed, while she danced her lament for a love she would never have. Together, she and Sergio finished the first round in a double turn.

Triumph coursed through her with the applause and the shouts of “Bravo! Brava!” She curtsied, feeling more feminine and desired than she’d ever felt when naked.