Chapter 1

“Elara, for the love of all that is graceful and good, are you still in your pajamas?” The voice, sharp and melodious like a perfectly tuned violin, cut through the morning’s quietude, slicing through Elara’s last vestiges of peaceful slumber. It belonged, of course, to her mother, Vivienne.

Elara groaned, burrowing deeper into the tangled mess of her duvet. The digital clock on her nightstand glowed a merciless 7:00 AM. Saturdays were supposed to be sacred. Saturdays were for sleeping in, for lingering over lukewarm mugs of tea and dog-eared fantasy novels, for the glorious, unfettered luxury of doing absolutely nothing. Saturdays, however, had become synonymous with one thing, one exquisitely torturous, pink-leotarded, bun-wearing thing: ballet.

“Elara Seraphina Vance! Do I need to come in there and personally unearth you from that nest?” Vivienne’s tone ratcheted up a notch, now bearing the unmistakable resonance of a prima ballerina commanding the stage. Elara sighed, a long, defeated sound that seemed to deflate her very soul. Resistance, she knew, was futile. Vivienne Vance had never lost a battle in her life, especially not when it came to her daughter’s “cultural enrichment.”

Slowly, agonizingly, Elara extricated herself from the warmth of her bed. Her feet hit the cold hardwood floor with a thud that felt less like a gentle awakening and more like a surrender. She shuffled towards the bathroom, catching a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. Her reflection stared back: a slender, albeit slightly rumpled, eighteen-year-old with a mop of unruly dark hair and eyes that, even half-closed with sleep, held a distinct spark of rebellion. She was the antithesis of everything her mother embodied. Vivienne was all lithe lines, elegant poise, and an aura of effortless refinement. Elara was ... Elara. Clumsy, prone to tripping over her own feet, happiest buried in a book or tinkering with the ancient, wheezing engine of her father’s forgotten lawnmower.

“Don’t forget your hairnet, darling! And those dreadful ripped jeans are absolutely not appropriate for a pre-ballet breakfast!” Vivienne’s voice, now closer, echoed from the kitchen. Elara rolled her eyes. The “pre-ballet breakfast” was a carefully curated affair: organic Greek yogurt with precisely five blueberries, a single slice of whole-wheat toast, and freshly squeezed orange juice – no pulp. It was designed, Elara suspected, to provide optimal energy for leaping and twirling, not for the more mundane pursuits of simply existing.

As she brushed her teeth, Elara’s mind drifted back to how this nightmare had begun. It was Vivienne’s fervent belief that every young woman should experience the “discipline and grace” of ballet. Elara, at the tender age of five, had been a squirming, reluctant participant, more interested in chasing butterflies in the studio garden than perfecting her pliés. As she grew, her aversion only intensified. While other girls blossomed into elegant swans, Elara remained an awkward duckling, her movements stiff, her enthusiasm non-existent. She preferred the dusty shelves of the library to the polished barres of the dance studio, the smell of engine oil to the sweet scent of rosin.

But Vivienne, a former principal dancer with a regional ballet company before an unfortunate ankle injury ended her professional career, saw only potential. Or, perhaps, she saw a second chance. A chance to live vicariously through her daughter the career she had lost. “You have the lines, Elara,” she would often say, tracing the length of Elara’s leg with a critical eye. “And such expressive hands. All you need is the dedication.” Dedication was something Elara had for obscure historical facts, for intricate mechanical puzzles, but never, ever, for ballet.

She stumbled into the kitchen, already feeling the familiar dread tightening in her chest. Vivienne sat at the gleaming quartz island, posture impeccable, sipping from a delicate teacup. Her blonde hair, meticulously styled, gleamed under the recessed lighting. She looked, as always, as if she had just stepped out of a high-fashion magazine.

“Good morning, darling,” Vivienne said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. It was the smile she reserved for situations where she was attempting to project calm while internally seething. “Your breakfast is ready. And do try to eat slowly. We don’t want any ... digestive distress during class. Or worse, a poor performance.”

Elara poked at her blueberries with a spoon. “Mom, do I really have to go today? It’s Saturday. And Ms. Dubois just makes me do tendus for an hour straight. My feet already hurt just thinking about it.”

Vivienne set her teacup down with a soft click. “Elara, we’ve had this conversation a thousand times. Ballet is good for you. It builds character. It teaches discipline. And frankly, darling, it’s an excellent way to maintain your figure.” She paused, her gaze sweeping over Elara with a dismissive air. “You’re eighteen, a woman mow. It’s time you embraced your feminine side. And remember the consequences of failure. We’ve discussed this.”

Elara bit back a retort. Her “feminine side” felt more aligned with a wrench than a leotard. “But Mom, I have that history project due on Monday. I really need to get to the library and research the socio-economic impact of the Industrial Revolution on Victorian working-class families.”

“Nonsense. An hour of ballet will clear your mind and sharpen your focus. Besides,” Vivienne added, her voice hardening almost imperceptibly, “we’ve paid for the full term. And I refuse to let my investment go to waste. Now, finish your breakfast. And put on something presentable before we leave. I expect you to be ready in ten minutes, or we’ll start your discipline early.”

Elara dragged herself back to her room, pulling on a pair of sensible black leggings and a plain t-shirt. She knew from bitter experience that if she attempted to wear anything more rebellious, Vivienne would simply drive her back home to change, delaying the inevitable and incurring further punishment. She located her worn ballet bag under a pile of textbooks, pulling out the infamous pink leotard – a size too small, perpetually riding up in awkward places – and the slightly-too-tight pink tights. Her pointe shoes, still stiff and unyielding despite years of use, sat like silent accusers in a corner. She hated them. She hated the way they squeezed her toes, the way they made her feel like she was walking on stilts.

The drive to the studio was filled with Vivienne’s usual pre-ballet pep talk, interspersed with pointed reminders of the disciplinary measures awaiting any perceived lack of effort. “Remember your turnout, darling. From the hips, not just the knees. And point your toes as if you’re reaching for the stars. Feel the music, Elara! Let it flow through you! And let’s not have a repeat of last week’s performance, shall we? You know what happens then.”

Elara stared out the window, watching the familiar suburban landscape blur by. The world outside seemed so much more interesting, so much more real, than the sterile, mirrored world of the ballet studio. She longed to be anywhere but there: in a dusty antique shop, sifting through forgotten treasures; in a bustling market, observing the ebb and flow of human interaction; even in her own backyard, dissecting a broken clock.

They arrived at the ‘Aurora Dance Academy,’ a building that, to Elara, felt more like a prison than a place of artistic expression. The aroma of sweat, rosin, and faint floral air freshener assaulted her nostrils. Girls, lithe and graceful, flitted through the reception area, their movements already fluid and elegant even off the dance floor. Elara felt a familiar wave of inadequacy wash over her, now compounded by a cold knot of fear in her stomach.

Vivienne, however, blossomed in this environment. She greeted Ms. Dubois, a stern-faced woman with an impossibly straight back and an air of quiet authority, with a warm embrace. “Margot, darling! So wonderful to see you. Elara’s just a bit ... sluggish this morning, but I’m sure your class will invigorate her. And if not, you have my full permission to ensure she understands the importance of effort.” A subtle glance passed between the two women, a silent agreement that made Elara’s blood run cold.

Ms. Dubois offered Elara a small, tight smile. “Good morning, Elara. I trust you’re ready to put in some serious work today?”

“Yes, Ms. Dubois,” Elara mumbled, her eyes fixed on the worn linoleum floor.

The changing room was a flurry of pink and black. Girls giggled and whispered, stretching their impossibly long legs, adjusting their perfect buns. Elara found a secluded corner, quickly changing into her ill-fitting uniform. She struggled with her bun, her unruly hair refusing to cooperate, strands escaping like defiant rebels. Finally, she managed a lopsided knot, secured with half a dozen bobby pins that constantly threatened to stab her scalp. She could feel the stares, the whispers, the knowing looks from the other girls who were well aware of Vivienne’s “methods.”

The studio was a vast, brightly lit space with mirrored walls and a polished wooden floor. The barre, a long, smooth wooden rail, stretched across one side. Ms. Dubois clapped her hands sharply, and the scattered dancers instantly straightened, arranging themselves along the barre. Elara, as usual, found herself at the very end, hoping to disappear into the periphery.

“Alright, ladies! Let’s begin with our warm-up,” Ms. Dubois announced, her voice resonating with authority. “Pliés, first position. And remember, grace, precision, and musicality! Breathe!”

Elara went through the motions. Her pliés felt stiff, her knees protesting with every bend. Her tendus were hesitant, her battements lacked the effortless height of the other girls. She watched her reflection in the mirror, a clumsy impostor surrounded by graceful swans. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind: “You have the lines, Elara.” But what good were lines if you couldn’t make them sing? And what would be the cost of not making them sing today?

Ms. Dubois, however, had eyes like a hawk. “Elara! Your turnout! From the hip! I can see you compensating with your knees. And point your foot through the floor, dear, as if you’re trying to touch the wall opposite!”

Elara tried, she really did. But her body felt heavy, uncooperative. Her mind drifted, escaping the confines of the studio. She imagined herself in a dusty archive, surrounded by ancient tomes, the scent of old paper a comforting balm. She pictured herself hunched over a workbench, her fingers deftly assembling intricate gears, the satisfying click of a perfectly aligned mechanism. This mental escape was her only solace, but it also made her movements even more detached.

“And now, across the floor!” Ms. Dubois commanded, launching into a series of grand jetés, her movements breathtakingly fluid and powerful. The other girls followed, leaping across the studio with an almost ethereal lightness. Elara watched, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach. Grand jetés were her nemesis. She always felt like an anvil trying to defy gravity.

When it was her turn, she took a deep breath, attempting to channel some semblance of the effortless grace she had just witnessed. She ran, she leaped, and then ... she landed with an unceremonious thud, her arms flailing, her balance betraying her. Not only did she land badly, but her left foot slipped on a patch of rosin, sending her sprawling onto the polished floor with a sickening crack. A few suppressed giggles rippled through the class, quickly turning into outright laughter from some of the younger, crueler girls. Several parents, including Vivienne, were observing from the viewing area through the large glass window. Elara’s face burned a fiery red. She could see smartphones being raised, capturing her humiliation.

Ms. Dubois, however, remained impassive, though a slight tightening around her mouth suggested her displeasure. “Again, Elara. But this time, remember to lift through your core. Imagine you are floating on air. And if you cannot execute this fundamental movement, then we will have to ensure you learn it properly.” She cast a significant glance towards the viewing window where Vivienne stood, now with her arms crossed, a stern expression on her face.

Elara tried again, and again, and again. Each attempt was a struggle, each landing a clumsy reminder of her inadequacy. Her muscles ached, a fine sheen of sweat coated her forehead, and a dull pain throbbed in her big toe. With each failure, the laughter from the other girls grew louder. She could hear whispers of “Klutz,” “Vivienne’s failure,” “Look at her, so pathetic.”

After an hour of excruciating barre work and even more agonizing centre practice, Ms. Dubois finally announced, “Alright, ladies, that’s enough for today. Excellent effort, most of you. Remember to stretch thoroughly, and I’ll see you next week.” Then, her gaze fell upon Elara, who was still struggling to catch her breath after another botched pirouette. “Elara. Please remain here. Vivienne, could you step inside for a moment?”

A hush fell over the studio. The other girls quickly gathered their bags, their eyes wide with a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity. They knew what was coming. The parents in the viewing area pressed closer to the glass.

Vivienne swept into the studio, her expression grim, a faint flush on her cheeks that spoke of barely suppressed fury. She walked directly to Elara, who stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs.