Pas De Deux

Part 1

The moon shone high in the cool evening, as the wind blew swiftly across the Scottish trees.

The main street was still busy with the comings and goings of carriages and pedestrians still wrapped in their long jackets despite the start of the spring season.

The street further South the town centre was absolutely quiet, though. The local theatre was not as frequented as the primary one that stood proudly in the heart of the city.

Most of the lights inside had been turned off, except for the ones along the hall that led straight to the main room. The air smelt of burning wax and the lingering dust garnered under the seats, and other concealed areas where the cleaner had not bothered to commit fully.

The small orchestra had long been dismissed but it didn't stop the prima ballerina of the venue to rehearse on stage. She swirled, glided, jumped across the stage with the notes of the symphony playing in her head without fault. She knew the entire soundtrack by heart and didn't need actual music to immerse herself in the exercise. The wooden floor creaked under her, as always, and she didn't allow it to pull her out of character.

She stood still in the corner of the stage and took a deep breath. It was the climax, the moment when all the instruments would collide and blend together as one sound. It was when her character, lost in the woods, attempts to escape the sorcerer's spell.

She sprang forward, one, two, three brisk steps until she leapt high across, her toned legs beautifully splitting apart in the air. Next, she landed on the floor and her heel hit the floor.

She let out a groan of frustration. The long day, on top of the late hour, was beginning to strain. Her breathing, heavier than normal, also indicated her body needed a rest.

She was determined to practise again, though. The sound of the main door opening with its familiar screech caught her attention.

She frowned and walked over to the side, grabbed a towel and wiped it over her sweaty forehead, pulling the red locks of her hair that had fallen loose out of her face in the process.

The silhouette walking in the dim light became clearer as it stepped into the main alley. A slight rush of anger rose at the pit of her stomach and she furrowed her brows in response.

"I'm surprised to see you here," she commented coolly before walking back to her belongings to pick them up. The visitor walked up closer to the stage, her heavy and velvety dress sweeping elegantly across the worn parquet. "I thought you said you would never step a foot in this forsaken place," she continued.

"I have not come here to argue with you, Natasha," the woman answered collectedly.

A smirk came to Natasha's lips as she turned to face the visitor. Her gaze lingered on her fair and smooth skin hardly affected by the passing of time, her almond-shaped dark brown eyes and her beautiful silky hazel hair nicely wrapped in an intricate updo. In truth, she looked as beautiful and regal as the last time she had seen her eleven months ago.

"Then, what are you here for Melina?" she asked. She received a reproachful frown in response.

"I am still your mother, Natasha, whether you like it or not. You owe me respect."

Natasha swallowed a sigh and came down the stage to face her matriarch.

"My apologies," she answered in Russian with the shadow of an ironic grin. "I suppose one loses all manners when shunned from one own's family."

The woman cleared her throat, one of her most distinct signs of reprobation.

"I would personally blame your lack of manner on your new...work environment and the company that comes with it," she slurred the word 'work' like it was an insult. Becoming a ballet dancer, and so far from the family estate, was the definition of dishonour. It easily beat the scandal of an elopement and being with child outside marriage in London society. Melina looked around the forlorn-looking theatre with unconcealed judgment then down at her flimsy apparel. "The entirety of this place reeks of depravity."