・C H A P T E R 1・

There's a lot an audience doesn't see.

Crooked toes. Protruding ribs. Bruised feet. 

If they did, they'd never watch another ballet again.

But there's more they don't see. Things no one ever sees.

Pain. Anger. Struggle. Discipline. Failures. Fear.

But these are words that have been hammered into Asya's bones until she knew them like her own name, until they had sunk into every part of her being and she understood nothing but ambition, had a taste for nothing but perfection. 

One other word echoes through her, a distant, soft promise, usually indiscernible, but enticing enough that it lures her deeper into her art every time she hears it calling. 

Prima.

Prima, Asya thinks as she pushes herself off the floor.  She pulls her legs into a grand jeté and angles her head over her hand, feeling gravity cut her loose for a few fleeting moments. With a gentle thud of her pointe shoes she lands and steps cleanly into piqué arabesque, clenching the muscle in her ankle to hold her balance.

Spotting to the corner of the stage, she flicked her leg to retiré whipped her head around for her ending triple pirouette. She clung to the rotations as the turns spilled out of her with seemingly effortless grace, before ending the solo in a kneeling position. 

Near-perfect. 

Near.

The orchestral music faded off gradually and the lights in the auditorium came on. Her stage smile dissipated as she relaxed out of her character and got up to roll her aching ankles. 

'Good!' her coach, Debbie, called from the front of the stage. 'But you need pacing, Nastasia. Pacing and control.'

Asya nodded, pushing a loose strand of hair out of her face and trying to steady her heavy breathing. Debbie was running a final solo rehearsal with her before the evening's Sleeping Beauty performance to iron out any remaining uncertainties. As a newly-promoted soloist, Asya was lucky to get the part of the Lilac Fairy on opening night and had been rehearsing the choreography as if her life depended on it. 

It was just so important. 

The role had been given to her to prove herself capable, and she knew all too well who would be watching her that evening: the artistic director, photographers, choreographers, the board, the people to impress. Along with over two thousand audience members, of-course. Her stomach churned at the mere thought of it. 

'You're done for today.' Debbie called. 'Grab some water and come back for notes.'

Asya did a quick curtsy and left the main stage, hobbling to the corridor that led to the dressing rooms. Once in the safety of the passage she slumped into the carpeted floor and began undoing the ribbons on her pointe shoes. 

She pulled her throbbing feet out of the shoes carefully, fingering some nasty-looking welts on her ankle bone. She'd have to ice her feet before the show, and by the looks of things she'd need some gel squares too.  

She tucked her pointe shoes into the side-pocket of her bag, stepped out of her tutu and pulled on some wool shorts to keep her legs warm. Using the wall to pull herself up, she flung her tutu and bag over her shoulder and padded back to the stage. Under the harsh lights she could only just make out some movement in the front of the auditorium. Strange, she thought. There weren't usually people watching the afternoon rehearsals. 

Debbie waved her down, beckoning to the chair next to her. Asya took out her notebook and pen, titling a new page with the date and part. Writing down her corrections probably seemed like a stupid teacher's pet habit, but it was one her mother had insisted wasn't optional, and once she joined the company she learned why. 

Keeping track of her faults paved the way toward abolishing them, and her coaches always seemed more attentive with corrections because they knew she was taking notes. Debbie pulled out her own notepad and combed through the routine from top to bottom.

Making eye-contact, listening to the music, maintaining the Lilac Fairy poise and pacing herself toward the end.

Asya wrote down her notes, watching attentively as her coach explained which parts of the tricky solo she needed to pay careful attention to that evening. 

'Good luck out there tonight, Radzevich.' Debbie smiled, dismissing her with a nod of her head. 

Asya thanked her coach again and disappeared off stage, all the while unaware of an additional set of eyes on her.

・・・

Roman Zharnov lounged lazily in one of the auditorium chairs, watching the on-stage rehearsal with mild curiosity. Coaches were running some final drills with the soloists and principals to make sure everything ran smoothly for that evening's Sleeping Beauty performance.

He'd arrived in London that morning, jet-lagged and exhausted from the hectic days since leaving Russia. Having been off stage for six months to sort out his personal life, he'd hoped the press would have forgotten about him. 

But no dice, when the news broke that he'd resigned from the Bolshoi he was harassed around every corner by some journalist hoping to get a titbit on his turbulent lifestyle. The media had been a head-splitting nightmare, but mercifully they had yet to find out that he'd signed as a guest artist with the Royal Ballet in London. 

Their artistic director had made him a very generous offer a few weeks ago, with a promise that the arrangement would be kept discreet for the time being. At least until the press inevitably found out about it. 

He got invited to come watch the afternoon rehearsals in the theatre, and despite craving sleep and solitude, Roman figured the sooner he got a feel for the English ballet, the better. He'd picked up the keys to his new apartment in Covent Garden, dumped what little he'd packed in the foyer and taken a cold shower to wake himself up. Not that the icy water had really helped, it seemed.

One of the coaches called the Lilac Fairy on, and moments later a lanky girl in a grey leotard and white rehearsal tutu emerged from backstage. She walked with a dainty grace, her feet quick and precise as she placed herself on stage and waited for the music to begin. 

In the precious seconds before she started dancing Roman assessed her features, squinting into the harsh lights to get a look at her.

Delicately-boned, dark hair, pretty. A good fit for the role, he supposed. 

The ballerina sunk into a preparatory forward bend, then a quick flick of her feet, and a graceful step into her first line. Her leg floated through the air, her eyes following the path of her hands as she dragged the movement out. She stayed suspended between notes and counts, savouring every last fragment of music before lowering herself off pointe. She slid into another exquisite arabesque, rising off the floor like she was utterly weightless. 

Mildly intrigued by her, he sat up in his seat and tilted his head critically. The Royal Ballet was an extremely reputable company, probably topping world rankings in the eyes of many. Their dancers were all impeccably trained and held to the highest of standards when it came to their performances. Not to mention that he'd watched and worked with some of the most prestige ballerinas in the world, danced on numerous historic stages, and hailed from an elite company as well. 

But there was something about her, something that... Unsettled him.  

He kept watching, utterly transfixed by her stage presence and still unable to pinpoint what exactly he found fascinating. Her long limbs turned to liquid as she moved, strength pouring out of her fingertips as she sliced through the variation and fell into a heavenly harmony with the music. She drifted through the solo with less effort than a sigh, completely in love with the stage and lost in concentration. 

'Stunning, isn't she?' a voice asked from behind him, startling him slightly. 

Roman turned to see the artistic director, Bastian Acton, smiling at him. So far he'd been the only contact the Russian dancer had with the company, having met Bastian once backstage at the Bolshoi and stayed in touch if future offers were to emerge. 

'We have high hopes for her.' Bastian said, turning his attention back to the stage. 

The ballerina stepped into her final turns, her body gliding neatly through the air as the rotations built up momentum. Her dancing was clear-cut, coordinated, sustained and precise, but somehow spontaneous and coltish. She ended the variation with a tentative smile out to the auditorium and waited for the last of the music to fade before relaxing out of her character. 

'Good.' one of the coaches called from the front of the stage. 'But you need pacing, Nastasia. Pacing and control.'

The ballerina nodded and pushed a strand of hair out of her face, listening attentively while her coach spoke. 

'Name?' Roman asked, turning to Bastian. The artistic director raised his eyebrows at the Russian dancer. 

'Nastasia Radzevich.' Bastian stated. 'Graduated from the Upper School last year, and naturally we scooped her up right away.'

'Only a year ago?' Roman frowned, a little surprised at her youth. She'd looked young, her long limbs still a little disproportionate to her lean frame, but that would make her, what? Barely nineteen?

'Oh yes, she was quite something even at White Lodge.' the director affirmed with a nod of his head. 'I used her in my Nutcrackers a few times, and promoted her to soloist at the end of last season.'

Nastasia emerged from backstage again, sat down with her coach and took out a notebook.

God, she was beautiful. The stage had mostly washed out her striking features, but in the dim auditorium light every inch of her was in focus. Her whisky-coloured hair was swept into a neat bun, some loose tendrils framing her face. The definition of her abs showed through her grey leotard, her toned shoulders peeking out from under a shrug she had put on. She stretched out her long legs in front of her, nodding intently at her coach's feedback. 

She hadn't seemed to notice him, but he couldn't take his eyes off her.