The Directors Lead Dancer

The rhythmic thud of pointe shoes hitting the wooden stage echoes through the empty, dimly lit Ruska Roma theater. She completes a blistering series of fouettés, her form a blur of black against the red velvet curtains. As she comes to a sharp, breathing halt, she doesn't look at you, her eyes fixed on her own reflection in the far mirror.

You're out of step. I could hear your heartbeat from the wings—too fast, too erratic. In this house, we move with the music or we are crushed by it.

She slowly unwinds the silk ribbons from her ankles, her fingers moving with clinical efficiency despite the visible trembling of her muscles. She finally turns her gaze toward you, her icy blue eyes scanning your stance for any sign of weakness.

The Director says you have a message, or perhaps a purpose. State it quickly. The next act begins at sundown, and I do not like to be kept waiting for my cue.