The night of the party is unremarkable. She fears for an irrational moment that she might see a member of the Corps panel who would easily recognize her—not her face, but her movement. Dance is the only language in which she has never learned to lie. She manages to make enough—more than enough, even though the stupid heels turn the small bones of her feet into a piercing mass of pins and needles. She is happy because now she can throw it all away—shoes, clothes, makeup, and character—into the anonymous bin at the City Shelter. She takes her pay, changes into something more suitable for the night air, and slips out of a back door, wondering if she can hope to find a taxi at this hour.

Then a car pulls up. The driver looks at her. She is covered modestly from top to toe, and a brimmed hat hides her face. Only the shoes betray her. She recognizes him as one of the quiet, embarrassed ones from the party.

“It’s very late,” he says. “Would you like a ride home?”

She ponders, then accepts. She slides gracefully into the car and, not yet abandoning caution, gives him the address of a friend who lives near her lodgings. Her heart is still singing. Besides, he looks harmless.

“No!” Miranda cried out, trying to lift herself out of the dream, to become more than an unheeded voice struggling to scream a warning. “I can’t believe it. Not him.”

He is harmless. He is surprised at her reaction. Why should she become abusive merely because he decides to park the car for a moment? It is a clear avenue with lanterns and trees alternating light and shade. It is only for a moment. Surely she is used to this, working as she does. But instead she slashes at him, nails out like a cat. He catches her wrist and grips it tightly—purely in self-defense, of course. She winces, but then she lashes out at him again.

“You can’t hurt me. I’m a dancer with the City Corps.”

He gives a short, cynical laugh. “City Corps dancers don’t do private parties. Please, just—”

Dancers, whether they are members of the City Corps or not, have strong legs. She plants her heels in his chest to shove him back, lands a kick in his belly, then pushes open the door at her back, tumbling onto the road. He curls over and wheezes, trying to find his breath, as she scrambles to her feet and runs off. The clatter of her shoes on the paving stones gradually fades away.

He straightens slowly and looks out of the door, but she has disappeared, no doubt already halfway down one of the small, dim side streets. He feels scared for a moment, then ashamed, and finally furious.

“She thinks I’ll follow her. Forget that. She can find her own way home.”