Petals on the Wind (Dollanganger 2)

"Twelve."

"Wonderful!" she cried. "I never put girls on full pointe until they are thirteen, unless they are excellent. Then she frowned suspiciously. "Are you excellent, or only mediocre?"

"I don't know."

"You mean no one has ever told you?"

"No."

"Then you must be only mediocre." She halfsneered, turned toward her husband and waved her hand arrogantly to dismiss us.

"Now you wait a minute!" flared Chris, looking red and very angry. "There's not a dancer on that stage tonight who is as good as Cathy! Not one! That girl out there, playing the lead role of Clara--sometimes she is out of time with the music--Cathy is never out of time. Her timing is perfect; her ear is perfect. Even when Cathy dances to the same melody, each time she varies it just a little, so she never duplicates, always improvises to make it better, and more beautiful, and more touching. You'd be lucky to get a dancer like Cathy in your company!"

T

hose slanted, jet eyes turned to him, savoring the intensity of his report. "You are an authority on the subject of ballet?" she asked with some scorn. "You know how to separate the gifted dancers from the horde?"

Chris stood as if in a dream, and spoke as if his feet were firmly rooted there, and even his voice had a huskiness to betray his feelings. "I only know what I see, and what emotions Cathy makes me feel when she dances. I know when the music turns on, and she begins to move with it, my heart stands still, and when her dance is over, I know I am left aching because such beauty has gone. She doesn't just dance a role, she is that character; she makes you believe--because she believes--and there's not a girl in your company who reaches out and grabs my heart and squeezes it until it throbs. So go on and turn her away, and let some other dance company benefit from your stupidity."

The Madame's jet eyes fixed on Chris long and penetratingly, as did our doctor's eyes. Then slowly Madame Rosencoff turned to me, and from head to toe I was assessed, weighed, measured. "Tomorrow, one o'clock sharp. At my studio you will audition for me." It was not a request, but a command--not to be disobeyed--and for some reason when I should have been happy, I was angry.

"Tomorrow is too soon," I said. "I have no costumes, no leotards, no palates." All of those things had been left behind in the attic of Foxworth Hall.

"Trifles," she dismissed, with an arrogant wave of her shapely hand. "We will supply what you need-- just be there--and don't be late, for we demand that our dancers be disciplined in all things, including punctuality!" With a queenly gesture we were dismissed, and gracefully she drifted off with her husband in tow, leaving me stunned. Mouth agape, speechless, I caught the strong study of the dancer, Julian Marquet, who must have overheard every word. His dark eyes shone with a glow of interest and admiration. "Feel flattered, Catherine," he said to me. "Customarily she and Georges won't take anyone unless they've waited months, or sometimes years, for an audition."

I cried that night in Chris's embrace. "I'm out of practice," I sobbed. "I know I'm going to make a fool of myself tomorrow. It isn't fair that she won't let me have more time to prepare! I need to limber up. I'm going to be stiff, clumsy, and they won't want me, I know they won't!"

"Aw, come off it, Cathy," he said, tightening his arms about me. "I've seen you in here holding to the bedpost, and doing your plies and tendus. You are not out of practice, or stiff, or clumsy--you're just scared. You've got a great big case of stage fright, that's all. And you don't need to worry, you're terrific. I know it, you know it."

He brushed a light good-night kiss on my lips, dropped his arms and backed toward the door. "Tonight I'll go down on my knees and pray for you. I'll ask God to let you wow them tomorrow. And I'll be there to gloat when I see their stunned expressions-- for no one is gonna believe the dancing wonder of you."

With that he was gone. And I was left aching and wanting. I crawled under my covers to lie wide awake and full of trepidations.

Tomorrow was my big day, my chance to prove what I was and if I had that special something you had to have if you were to reach the top. I had to be the best, nothing else would do. I had to show Momma, the grandmother, Paul, Chris, everybody! I wasn't evil, or corrupt, or the Devil's issue. I was only me--the best ballerina in the world!

I tossed, turned, fretted in and out of nightmares while Carrie slept on peacefully. In my dreams I did everything wrong at the audition, and, what was worse, I did everything wrong throughout my whole lifetime! I ended up a withered old lady begging on the streets of some huge city. In the dark I passed by my mother and begged for alms. She was still young and beautiful, richly gowned, bejeweled and furred, and escorted by forever-young and faithful Bart Winslow.

I awoke. It was still night. What a long night. I stole down the stairs to find the Christmas tree lights burning, and on the floor, Chris was lying and staring up into the tree branches. It was what the two of us used to do when we were children. Though I should have known better, I was irresistibly drawn toward him, and I lay down beside him I gazed up into the sparkling other-worldliness of the Christmas tree.

"I thought you'd forgotten," Chris murmured without looking my way. "Remember when we were in Foxworth Hall, the tree was so small and it was on a table and we couldn't lie under it like this--and look what happened. Let's never forget again. Even if our future trees are only one foot high, we will hang it up high, so we can lie underneath.'

It worried me the way he said that. Slowly I turned my head to stare at his profile. He was so beautiful, lying there with his fair hair changing colors. Each strand seemed to catch a different rainbowed hue, and when he turned his head to meet my eyes his eyes were glowing too. "You look . . . so divine," I said in a tight voice. "I see candy in your eyes and the crown jewels of England too."

"No--that's what I am seeing in your eyes, Cathy. You're so very beautiful in that white nightgown. I love you in white nightgowns with blue satin ribbons. I love the way your hair spreads like a fan, and you turn your cheek so it rests on a satin pillow." He moved closer, so his head was on my hair too. Even closer he inclined his head until our foreheads met. His warm breath was on my face. I moved so my head tilted backward and my neck arched. I didn't feel quite real when his warm lips kissed the hollow of my throat and stayed there. My breath caught. For long, long moments I waited for him to move away. I wanted to pull back myself, but somehow I couldn't. A sweet peace stole over me, quivering my flesh with a tingling sensation. "Don't kiss me again," I whispered, clinging harder to him and pressing his head to my throat.

"I love you," he choked. "There will never be anyone for me but you. When I'm an old, old man, I'll look back to this night with you under the Christmas tree, and remember how sweet it was of you to let me hold you like this."

"Chris, do you have to go away and be a doctor? Couldn't you stay on here and decide on something else?"

He lifted his head to stare down into my eyes. "Cathy--do you have to ask? All my life it's been the only thing I've wanted, but you . .

Again I sobbed. I didn't want him to go! I tickled his face with a tress of my hair, until he cried out and kissed my lips. Such a soft kiss, wanting to grow bolder, and afraid I'd turn away if he did. He began to say wild and crazy things when our kiss was over, about how much I looked like an angel. "Cathy--look at me! Don't turn your head and pretend you don't know what I'm doing, what I'm saying! Look and see the torment you've put me in! How can I find anyone else, when you've been bred into my bones-- and are part of my flesh? Your blood runs fast when mine does! Your eyes burn when mine do--don't deny it!" His trembling hands began to fumble with the tiny, lace-covered buttons that opened my nightgown to the waist. I closed my eyes and was again in the attic, when he'd accidentally stabbed me in the side with the scissors, so now I was hurting, bleeding, and I needed his lips to kiss and take away the pain.

"How beautiful your breasts are," he said with a low sigh, leaning to nuzzle them. "I remember when you were flat, and then when you began to grow. You were so shy about them, always wanting to wear loose sweaters so I couldn't see. Why were you ashamed?"

Somewhere above I hovered, watching him tenderly kiss my breasts, and somewhere deep inside me I shivered. Why was I letting him do this? My arms drew his body tighter against me, and when my lips again met his, maybe it was my fingers that had unbuttoned his pajama jacket so his bare chest was against mine We melded in a hot blend of unsatisfied desire--before I suddenly cried out, "No--it would be sinful!"

"Then let us sin!"