Red masquerade, p.1
Red Masquerade, page 1
Red Masquerade
R. Saint Claire
Copyright © 2022 by R. Saint Claire
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
*Cover art: Consuelo Parra Model: Magikstock.deviantart
*Red Masquerade was previously published as a serial story on Wattpad and Kindle Vella.
For my mother, who dreamed of being a dancer.
Contents
Rowan
Decision
Flight
La Luna
Missy
Pas de Deux
Volkov
A Taste of Freedom
Mads
The Dark Path
The Forest
Distant Waltz
Decision
Giselle
The Audition
Pas Seul
The Wolf
Feelings
Old Town
Confusion
Release
The Chase
Empty Hallways
Art
First Snow
A Lonely Holiday
A Yuletide Celebration
The Tower Room
Dawn’s Revelation
A Message
Lupescu
Hyde Park
Trapped
Unbroken
Kronid’s Tale
A Dubious Ride
The Secret History of the Volkovs
Surrender
Brothers
Confrontations
Places
Opening Night
The Abyss
Blood Moon
Curtain
Love Park
Second Act
Dear Reader
About the Author
Also by R. Saint Claire
Rowan
What I remember now is the sound of the wolves, the eerie echo bouncing off trees so tall their tops would disappear in the soft gray mist. From a distance, it sounded like the flute solo in Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf. Haunting, yes, but so beautiful. But when the sound got closer, the mist, like a feathery soft kiss on my throat, would turn to ice, and I would feel the fangs descend into my flesh like cold daggers. Then I would awake from my nightmare, still trembling, still terrified, searching again for the soothing comfort of that soft kiss.
A year ago, I was an ordinary girl, if you can call being seventeen and obsessed with ballet ordinary. It's corny to say dance was my life, but in my case, it was true. Maybe it was because the rest of my life wasn't much worth living.
My mom, Lillian McClary—green-eyed and slim like me—was once a prima ballerina at the Pennsylvania Ballet, where I trained since I could walk. There is a faded photograph of her in the theater's lobby from when she danced the lead in Cinderella. Her eyes were bright with hope before the painkillers she used to ease the agony of a career cut short by an unwanted pregnancy did their job. I knew part of her never forgave me.
Over the years, we struggled. Our apartments got sleazier, and so did the men my mother invited home. When we landed in a two-room flat in Kensington—Philadelphia’s opioid central—I knew I had to get out. I hated how Mom’s most recent boyfriend and partner in oblivion, Chad, looked at me when he was stoned.
I never knew my father, only that he had been a European dancer on tour in the States and dashingly handsome. But it had been a bad idea, she told me once, a one-night stand that never should have happened.
Thanks, Mom.
My salvation came in the form of a flyer pinned to the bulletin board outside the ballet company school, the place where I trained, worked, and practically lived. I would often sleep under the Rat King's velvet cape in the costume shop, steal a quick shower in the girls' dressing room before the janitor opened the doors in the morning, and start the routine all over again the next day. My lifestyle, if you want to call it that, suited me just fine, but I knew it wasn't sustainable. If my mom didn't notice I was gone all night, the company would eventually discover my ruse, and then where would I be?
Auditions!
The flyer’s bold type announced a chance to win a scholarship to the renowned La Luna Dance Academy in Romania, of all places.
From my poor education at inner-city schools (dance training excluded), I wasn't sure I could even locate Romania on a map. The name alone conjured up images of Vlad the Impaler, Dracula's castle, primeval forests.
I'm in!
I ripped the bright pink flyer from the bulletin board before any other girl had a chance to see it. Lousy form, I know, but I was desperate. For the next week, I spent extra hours at the barre preparing for the audition, even forfeiting my weekly visit to South Street.
You see, aside from being obsessed with ballet, I am also a bit of a goth. On my rare days off, when I wasn't working my ass off in technique class or cleaning bathrooms at the school, I was hanging out on South Street, Philadelphia's goth capital. I would treat myself to a cheesesteak (with onions and Whiz), knowing I would work off the calories in class, and then spend a bit of my hard-earned cash at my favorite shop buying a chiffon top or lace gloves. But only in black. My naturally pale skin looked even paler from being indoors most of the time; I brightened the red in my hair with a henna rinse purchased at the herb shop.
My look got attention, sometimes the wrong kind, and every day while riding the rickety El train clasping the pepper spray I kept on a key chain, I would gaze out the grimy windows and dream of a different life.
I could stay on at the company. I was already dancing in the junior corps de ballet—the lowest rank, but it was a start. But remaining in Philly meant dealing with my mom, and I could no longer watch her deteriorate before my eyes and fly into a rage whenever I suggested rehab.
I had to get away. I had to nail that audition.
I had heard the European companies were strictly old school, so I made sure I looked the part when I entered the rehearsal space at the old Academy of Music on Broad Street. With my hair in a tight bun and wearing a black leotard with long sleeves and a scoop neck (plus the pink tights I plucked from the lost and found), I was the picture-perfect Pavlova.
Suddenly I was dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy variation to a pounding, out-of-tune piano in front of a stone-faced lady in a Chanel-style suit.
When I completed the routine, the lady conducting the audition—I immediately forgot her name—peered through her bifocals at my resume and asked me how I became a dancer. Between panted breaths, I told her I was from a long line of ballerinas. The lady’s red-lipsticked mouth cracked into a slanted smile, and then she asked in a heavily-accented voice how long this “line of ballerinas” went back.
I squared my shoulders, looked her straight in her cold gray eyes, and told the truth. "It goes back to Galina Danilova. She was my great-grandmother.”
The lady’s smoky gaze flickered ever so slightly. She tightly thanked me, and then I was dismissed.
Well, I blew that.
Slinging my dance bag over my shoulder, I filed the experience under my recent resolution to take more risks in life, as if I wasn't already one dance injury away from living on the streets.
Decision
Weeks went by, and I put the unpleasant experience out of my mind. It was a long shot, I knew. Mentioning Galina, the Great Galina as she was known, was a ballsy and bratty move on my part, even if it were true. My great-grandmother rose to fame as a prima ballerina in the 1950s and had been one of Balanchine's most touted protégées.
Her mysterious death was still a source of intrigue among ballet aficionados. It was a freezing February night in 1961 when Galina abruptly left the stage at the old Metropolitan Opera House, bringing the curtain down on a sold-out performance of Swan Lake. She was found at dawn the following morning, still wearing her Black Swan costume, floating facedown in Central Park Lake. It was never determined whether it was an accidental drowning, suicide—or murder.
And people wonder why I'm attracted to the dark side.
One afternoon, a company secretary showed up at my pointe class and told me to report immediately to the Artistic Director.
The jig's up, I thought in a panic. He knows I've been sleeping here at night. I wrapped my sweater around my waist and walked duckfooted in my toes shoes down the hall to the administration offices.
Benjamin Skye, a brilliant man when he wasn't tearing someone in the company a new one, cocked an eyebrow at me when I entered his office. A tall, barrel-chested man in his mid-forties, Benjamin would never be confused for a dancer. But he was a brilliant director and a shrewd administrator.
Before my butt hit the seat facing his cluttered desk, he asked, "Did you audition for La Luna Academy?" The tone of his voice broadcasted his disapproval.
"Yes," I mumbled, wiping my sweaty palms on the front of my tights. "Why?"
"Well, according to this letter," he slid a creamy envelope emblazoned with a gold insignia and an airmail stamp toward me, "you have been given a full scholarship to study there."
"What?" I reopened the letter addressed to Benjamin, and a pre-paid airline voucher floated onto my lap. I quickly scanned the letter. "All expenses paid!” I cried, barely containing my delight.
"Not so fast, Rowan." Benjamin gazed at me skeptically through his thick-framed eyeglasses. He brushed a lock of graying brown hair from his face. "La Luna is the
"God, yes!" I sighed. The Broad Street traffic noise penetrated the grimy window behind Benjamin's desk. I was sick of Philly, sick of my life.
"You've been doing a fine job in the corps." He leaned forward on his elbows. “Aren't you happy here?"
Something about Benjamin's paternal tone penetrated my cool veneer; the floodgates opened.
Failing miserably at holding back the tears, I sobbed as I explained the horrible situation with my mom and how I longed to escape.
He cleared his throat as he pointed at a Kleenex box on the corner of his desk. I'm sure he'd witnessed many dancers' tears in his tenure. "I understand, Rowan,” he said gently, “but you're still a minor. Despite La Luna's generous offer, you'll need your mother's permission to study abroad. In another year, perhaps." He shrugged.
I nodded, slipping the airline voucher into the envelope with the acceptance letter. One year in a dancer's career is ten for the average person. If I missed this chance to train at the top level, I'd never know if I have what it takes to be a prima ballerina.
My fate hung in the balance of this decision.
Swallowing my tears, I asked him point-blank. “Am I good enough to be a principal dancer?"
Benjamin sat back in his chair; his eyes drifted to the wall of posters from past productions and then back to me. "Honestly, Rowan, I don't know."
"You said La Luna is the best classical ballet training in the world. If I study there for a year and come back, will you give me a shot at being a principal?"
"You will always have a home here," he replied, not answering my question. "And yes, La Luna has produced some of the world's finest dancers. But the training there is rigorous, and the academy is isolated in the Romanian forest. I don't think it's the best environment for you."
"Why not?"
He shifted his bulky frame in his chair and ran a finger over the tarnished bronze Tony Award occupying a place of honor on his desk. "May I be frank?"
"Yes,” I said with a hitch in my throat, knowing the words I was about to hear would sting.
"La Luna is for serious dancers. Training at that level requires complete dedication. I'm not sure if the fire I see in your eyes is anything more than teenage rebellion. Are you sure this isn't about some boy? Listen, at your age, emotional attachments—"
"There's no boy," I mumbled, cutting him off.
That much was true. I had tried dating during my first year at Franklin High. It ended with a video of me passed out drunk at a party wearing just my underwear, making the rounds to every kid's cell phone. The boy I was "dating" denied he was the one who took the video, but I knew the truth. The risks I took that night haunted me, making me swear off all activities except for dancing and occasionally trawling South Street for bargain goth threads. The thought of ending up like my mom terrified me.
The telephone on Benjamin’s desk blared, making us both jump a little. He rolled his eyes and mouthed, "Sorry."
My cue to go. I stood and left his office, clutching my acceptance letter to my pounding chest. I was determined to prove him wrong and show—if only to myself—that I had what it takes to be a principal dancer.
When my classes were over for the day, I headed back to our apartment, thinking I'd make dinner for a change and maybe broach the idea of Romania to my mom. She had been a dancer once and a good one before her life went to shit because of me.
I stopped by the Italian market and picked up some hot sausages, peppers, onions, and those fantastic rolls that are crusty on the outside and soft in the center.
Mom wasn't at the apartment when I got home, but, unfortunately, Chad was.
Shirtless, smoking in the kitchen, Chad glanced up at me with hooded eyes. “Making something to eat.”
How I despised him.
"Yeah," I said, eyeing the sinkful of dirty dishes, the empty beers cans on the counter.
"That's cool," he said, leaning his chair back so I could pass to the sink. The tattoos covering this chest and shoulders were tacky and gross.
What the hell did she see in him?
"Where's Mom?" I turned my back on him to start tackling the dishes.
"Oh, out and about." He stood with a yawn.
I looked out the dirty kitchen window for any sign of Mom coming down the street. The September sky looked grim; a soft patter of rain stirred the grime on the window ledge.
Running the tap water, I squirted some pink dish soap over last night’s dinner dishes.
Chad blew out of cloud of smoke and inched toward me.
"Do you mind?" I asked, bristling.
"Huh?"
"You're kind of invading my space here." It was the first time I had ever voiced my annoyance at him, an emotion I'm sure my eyes had expressed many times before.
"Invading your space, eh?" I could feel him behind me now as the steam rose in the kitchen sink, filming my cheeks with moisture. The deodorant he wore did little to mask his stench.
His cigarette sizzled in a dirty plate as his arm reached around me. He pressed his hips into my backside, pushing me against the edge of the sink.
"Am I invading your space now?"
As his hot breath singed the back of my neck, my wet fingers gripped the handle of the steak knife I'd been washing. I did a quick spin and held the knife to his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed beneath the point.
"Back off, asshole!" I shouted in his face.
My mom walked in with a bag from the liquor store.
I barely recall the fight that followed, just Mom screaming that I was a “selfish, stuck-up brat” while Chad retreated to the bathroom to put a Band-Aid on the tiny scratch I gave him.
“Crazy bitches!” Chad shouted as he headed out the door, petulant beneath a gray hoodie, a cigarette dangling from his lip. “I’ve had it wit the two of youse.”
"Chad, wait!" cried Mom, running after him into the now-torrential rainstorm.
I sank to the buckled linoleum floor, dappled with grease, and cried my heart out. I couldn’t live like this, not with Mom taking some stupid stoner's side over mine.
"But where can I go?" I sobbed.
In a sudden sobering moment, I realized my decision had already been made. I had the airline ticket voucher, and in the bottom of my dresser drawer was a valid passport from when the company toured Canada the previous year.
I just needed a little bit of cash. I knew Chad had nothing, but Mom's purse was there on the kitchen counter next to the cheap bottles of wine she had purchased.
Did I feel guilty for opening her wallet?
No.
She had just cashed the welfare check intended for my "care" that she only always spent on booze and boyfriends. I rolled up the bills ($220 in all) and ran to my room to quickly pack my bags before she returned.
I was going to Romania!
Flight
I packed my leotards, tights, toe shoes, black goth threads—all the clothes I owned—into tights balls and shoved everything into my dance bag. I had no proper luggage. Figuring it would be cold in Romania, I threw the ugly down coat Mom had bought at a thrift store during that winter when we had no heat over my shoulders and headed out. I figure Mom and Chad were at Murphy’s. The corner bar—every Philly neighborhood had one—was their favorite “make-up” spot. I wondered how she would feel when she realized I had robbed her blind.
Doing my best to stay dry beneath the bent umbrella I found in the lobby of our building, I took a trolley to Thirtieth Street Station and hopped on the first Septa train en route to the airport.
