“No, but that’s a dream of mine.”
“You would be amazing.”
A blush hit her. “The story within the ballet is based on a Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale about a pair of enchanted crimson ballet slippers.”
“And is there a princess? A queen or some form of royalty should be your next role.”
Remaining on one toe, she lowered her leg and then flatted her feet. “She’s a young socialite who loves ballet.”
I shrugged. “Not good enough for you.”
She grinned. “It’s still a great role.”
“You should have a crown on your head, Ava.”
“This is why I can’t get enough of you. I feel like a queen around you.”
“As you should. Always.” I left the wall and took two steps her way, unable to have so much distance between us. “But tell me more about this socialite.”
“She gets the attention of a famous director who wants her to dance for him. However, he makes her promise to allow him to control everything.”
“I don’t like the director.”
“Me either.” She spun a little and then tiptoed to me. An inch of space rested between us. “The heroine rises in fame and becomes the prima ballerina. During that time, she falls in love with the director’s talented composer.”
“Hmmm. So the director becomes enraged with jealousy?”
“He does and tells her to either give up her love for the composer or stop dancing.”
“She chooses ballet?”
Ava shook her head. “She went for love.”
I lifted my hand and brushed my fingertips along her chin. “That’s a sad choice to make.”
“Maybe not.” She closed her eyes.
I slipped my fingers along the curve of her neck. “Maybe not?”
“She loved him more.”
“But it wasn’t fair to make her choose.”
Ava opened her eyes. “Sometimes we must.”
“And what about the red shoes?”
Ava smiled. “Later, the director returns to her while she is married to the composer. At this point, she missed her dancing so much. While her husband, the composer, is out of town, the director lures her into coming with him and dancing the ballet The Red Shoes.”
“A ballet within a ballet.”
“Yes. Like I said The Red Shoes story is based on Hans Christian Andersen and it’s a tragic story. In that story, a woman puts on enchanted shoes and discovers that she can never stop dancing. In the end, she gets a saw and cuts her feet off. The ballet shoes dance away with her feet inside of them.”
“A tragic story indeed.” I slid my hand down to her waist and tried to wrap my arm around it.
She slipped away. “But back to the original story.”
“The torn ballerina, the angry husband, and the despicable director.” I closed the distance between us but didn’t touch her.
“The husband is enraged when he returns to his empty home. He goes to where the ballet is happening, storms into her dressing room, and demands an answer. She explains that she has missed her dancing. It’s her passion. At that moment, the director steps in and appears victorious. The husband argues she must choose between ballet or their marriage.”
“Another hard decision. It appears her husband didn’t love her at all either.”
Ava quirked her eyebrows. “You don’t think so?”
“Both men keep making her choose between her passions.” This time I captured Ava, drawing her body against mine. “What did she say to her husband?”
“She cried.”
I grimaced. “No. This isn’t your role. You’re too strong to play her.”
Ava laughed. “So, the husband leaves. The director gloats and goes off to the stage to introduce her.”
“And what does our tormented and crying ballerina do?”
“She puts on those red shoes, steps onto the balcony outside of her dressing room, and jumps off it, falling onto the train her husband was planning to take.”
“Suicide? I don’t know which ballet is more tragic—the one with the red shoes or the one about our heartbroken ballerina.”
“The ballet ends with her husband holding her dead body and her ghost performing the ballet on stage in those enchanted red shoes.”
“Why do you like this role?”
“I feel bad for her.”
“And you understand her too. The shoes. The inability to never stop dancing.”
“Maybe.” She bit her lip.
“But what about those choices?” I asked.
“I hated that the director and even her husband always made her choose.”
“It was wrong.”
She whispered, “It was.”
I ran my fingers through her hair. “I would never make you choose, Ava. Ballet is your passion.”
“I know, but I didn’t bring this up for me.” She lifted her arms, rested them on my shoulder, and wrapped them around my neck. “I wouldn’t make you choose either.”
I smirked. “Between my world and you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not necessary.” I picked her small frame up and carried her over to the mirrored wall with the barre.
“That’s not necessary?”
“There’s no contest. If it is you or the Brotherhood, I choose you. Always.”
“But. . .this is who you are.”
“And I still choose you.”
“I won’t make you choose, Misha.”