She leaps high in the air, disguising strength with grace, and lands gently. She is sure the judges will miss the tremor of feet wearied by constant walking on uneven roads in bad shoes as long as she keeps moving lightly, swiftly, free of care and pain. After the last pirouette, she holds her posture with consummate control, then comes back to first position and stares bravely at the emotionless faces behind the long desk. They look back with blank, almost cruel gazes, giving nothing away. One of them glances down and pencils a mark on the sheet before her.

“Your file is incomplete,” the head of the review panel notes.

“Yes,” she admits. “The work permit is being processed. You can see the—”

“—temporary permit, yes. But we require all necessary documentation to be in order before we can finalize your contract.”

Her breathing, which was running quick and strong after her activity, halts, then resumes unevenly, shaken by the suddenly increased pulse of her heart. “I . . . I will try my best to expedite the matter.”

“Do so. We will be waiting to welcome you into the Corps.”

Faces relax; there is even a faint smile or two and one odd look, nearer to pity than kindness. She feels her heart change beat again, this time singing, but she admits to feeling a slight irritation at their lack of reaction. She chides herself for expecting . . . what? Congratulations? They will see hundreds like her during audition season. It is hard to win admission to the Corps, harder yet to stay in. But first she needs to get in. She needs that permit.

As she walks home on the hard roads in her ruined shoes—dancing shoes cost money that should not be wasted on ordinary footwear—she thinks about the official bribe that the Employment Bureau calls the facilitation fee. Of course she cannot afford it. It is not priced for ordinary people to afford. There are semiprofessional, barely legal lenders everywhere in the City, but she refuses to sell her future to them. It will be a risk, but she may have to work a private party again.

She was careful. She is careful, and she will be careful again. She did private parties when she first came to the City and everything cost money, from securing the small room that she shares with three other women to obtaining the temporary permit. She made up another persona for those parties, a woman with bold makeup, wild hair, and six centimeters of added height from ridiculous secondhand heels. That persona could never be associated with the clean-scrubbed face and pulled-back hair that is the mask of a sober shopgirl and aspiring Corps dancer. She knows that. She served the wife of a Club member once; he stood bored beside her at the register, and he did not once blink or show the hesitation of uncertain recognition.