In performance, it was all about the sell.
“Am I sure? Hmm, I don’t know.” I pulled a thoughtful face, touching my chin. “It’s only been a decade in the making. Let me think… Of course I’m bloody sure. That bastard thinks he got away with it. It’s about time his past caught up with him.” My smile was stiff and sharp—it might’ve looked more like a snarl.
Eric’s jaw flexed as he searched my eyes and finally inclined his head.
Below, the jugglers—a dozen brothers and sisters who lit up the stage with constant movement—took their marks, ready to form a pyramid for their frenetic finale.
That was my cue to get ready.
Heart keeping constant time despite the speeding music, I rose into a crouch. “Aren’t you going to tell me to break a leg?”
“You don’t need luck,” he muttered, eyes still on the Lightning Siblings and their leaping flame.
With a scoff, I pecked his cheek. Then, on impulse, instead of heading to my mark, I cupped his jaw and pulled him to face me. His dark eyes widened, glinting in the light spilling from the stage.
I took my time kissing him—it might be my last, after all—and finished by nibbling his lower lip. His groan was soft, but the fact I’d drawn it from him made my resolve all the harder.
Before I could turn away and finally act upon that resolve, he gripped my arm. “I love you, Zita.”
I blinked at him, replaying the words.
If I’d been another girl in another life, in another place and time, my heart might’ve skipped in my chest. My stomach might’ve fluttered like butterflies on a summer afternoon. My skin might’ve warmed with happiness or pleasure or the simple rightness of a handsome young man telling me he loved me.
But ifs were not reality.
I was me, and this was my life.
Once upon a time, I’d loved him, perhaps.
Before.
I couldn’t really remember how that had felt, only the fleeting thoughts that went with it. The way I’d watched him practise on the trapeze. The way I’d look away when he caught me. The way I’d envied my sister when he watched her perform, while I skulked around helping backstage, unseen in the shadow cast by her brilliant light.
She might as well have been a different person for all I’d changed since then.
That girl would’ve giggled or smiled or sighed at his confession of love.
But me?
I felt nothing.
My chest was a cavern that could never be filled.
Only one thing would end that yawning emptiness.
And tonight, I’d have it.
2
A hush descended over the theatre as darkness filled the stage. My heart was a lead weight in my chest these days, but this anticipation was the closest I got to joy. The bated breath of a whole audience waiting for me.
With a deep inhale, I settled back against my hoop, thighs holding me as I curved along its inside edge like the crescent moon. It lowered into place, stopping smoothly, and the spotlight hit me.
The music hadn’t yet begun, so I heard the collective intake of breath as my skin-tight costume sent motes of light scattering around the auditorium.
One of the reasons the Gilded Suns was the most successful performance troupe in Albion and the only one invited to Elfhame was our fae-worked lights. The manager had paid a pretty penny for them—an investment, she’d called it. And gods, had she been right.
Oil lamps were nothing compared to the pure white glow lighting me now.
I blinked and turned my gaze to my audience. They were just shadows from up here, but each person would swear I was looking right into their eyes. Performance was a seduction, one I was very good at.
Below, the musicians began. A lone cello at first, joined by violins, a double bass, drums, and more as the sound grew.
I kept my lashes low and hinted at a smile before tipping from the hoop. Another gasp, harder this time as I fell for a fleeting second.
One leg extended, back arched, I caught myself and held the pose as the hoop spun slowly.
The music rose and swept. I was part of it, a creature of rhythm and movement. My pulse was its tempo. The rush of my blood was its hymn.
Through the hoop, under it, over it, holding by hand, elbow, the crook of my knee, and for one move, just the nape of my neck. I pushed harder into every single move than I ever had before. I needed the prince to believe this performance, to be captivated by it—to be captivated by me.
I’d heard swallows spent their life on the wing. My performance was like that. Not once did my feet touch the floor as I spun, sometimes fast, sometimes achingly slow, letting my audience get a good view of my body posed for their pleasure.