The Prospect's Dance (Book 1, Land of Sweets)

1: The Tree (2 of 2)

I reach the top of the steps and tread the roof of Pine's store, bathed in blinding sun. Even if those on the street view their world through sunglasses, it will hurt to look at me because I wear the sun like a cloak around me. But no one watches. Who would search for a man on a roof, spinning like a fool with a young woman hanging limply in his grasp? The drivers in the cars keep their attention on the road and their minds turned in on themselves.

Would any sane mortal without a death wish spin while standing on a roof's edge? It requires a level of confidence and balance few can attain in a mortal span of years, even if they are as skilled as Claire dreams to be. She would not try it now. Claire Sutton has been dancing since she was four. Sixteen years. I have been dancing far longer.

I pirouette with her in my arms. If she were awake, what would she make of that? As I spin in neat circles, the sun flashes, flashes, flashes like the pulse of a firefly's light, making her face gold, then wan, over and over. It occurs to me that she has never before danced while sleeping.

Glitter made of sugar rises around us, from us, and swirls about us as I spin. It catches the light in piercing brightness; I duck my head to escape it, dots spattering my sight. The late November wind plays notes that sound like whispers and tiptoe feet.

The sugar cyclone becomes a storm that blocks out the sun—until we are one with the cyclone, gagging on its sweetness as dusk replaces afternoon bright. I clutch Claire against my chest as she coughs, willing her to hold out a moment longer as I tell her that it's almost over, that when she wakes, she will be in a world with beauty nearly matching her own. I do not tell her that at times, I wish my world had ugliness.

Outside my cocoon, I know the mortal streets are fading. As the flurry abates, I drop to my knees. White powder sprays skyward when I land. The last flakes flutter down, and I lay her in the snow beneath a mulberry-colored sky choked with stars. The bare, pallid branches of a fossilized birch tower behind us—the tree that marks the entrance to the Alley Between.

We are as alone here as in the alley soaked with sun, but the night brings a reverence that makes sharing it a spiritual affair. I do not like it. I am not allowed to share spiritual connections, or any connections, with my fellow human beings. The Queen has decreed I shall be forever alone. These are sham notions, my ideas that I share anything in common with the Prospects I bring from the mortal world. They are doors which I must slam firmly shut.

A low moan eeks from Claire's throat, and I know it will not be long now. Her mortal clothes appear drab against the peculiar snow in this alley that leads to the Land of Sweets. Our snow is not like mortal snow. It is warm and feathery like a flour haze. I breathe it in. It is an ever-present smell, the dusty sweet aroma of the snow, but I almost forget it's there until I go away and come back again.

We are in an empty city, a city with cathedrals stuccoed with frosting and desolate architecture that mimics a hundred Houses of Parliament built of purple gumdrops. The snow gathers in the courtyards and sprinkles itself over roads paved in quartz and amethyst. Now that she is mine, I give her a visual sweep, and I am once more confident in my choice. She is not built like a classical ballet dancer, for all her years in the art. Tall and slim, yes, with legs that stretch for miles, as they say, but she is too full in the hips and chest to ever fit the Land of Sweets' ideal—ironic, since in a land of sweets, hips ought to be wider than average. But she is pretty, and this will gratify the Queen. Her cheeks are high, her lips full and rosy. Velvety snow catches in her lashes, white against inky black.

She looks more forlorn in sleep than she did in all the days I observed her through the dance studio's window. Less melancholy than when she sits before her living room window eating tasteless health food alone. People wear many faces. Her dancing faces are determined and fevered with ambition, but her other faces are lonely. I wish I hadn't vowed to only take prospects whom no one loves, for my soul ever reaches out to them, wanting to bask in the glory which comes from having another soul who understands. But I shutter my light against them so they cannot see how alike I am. They are not allowed to know.

Her lashes flutter once, twice. They open, heavy-lidded with sleep. Blue, so bright. Bleary and befuddled, as if uncertain whether or not this is a dream.

"Welcome," I say, "to the Alley Between."

She startles. "You," she hisses. She scrambles to her feet, and even in a panic, she is so naturally graceful that I surge with hope that this will work, that I have chosen well this time around. Maybe choosing acceptable prospects for the Queen will not be so hard, after all. But my stomach sinks at the thought of doing this again, the stakes so much greater now than in the past. I remember my rats. I walk a precarious line.

Claire sweeps toward me with fists clenched, tilting ever slightly toward me. Tall she is, but I am taller, and I cannot help but smirk at her effort to stare me down. "What did you do to me?"

"Perhaps we should introduce ourselves first. You are Claire, of course, and I—"

Her gaze narrows. "How do you know my name?"

What a pedantic response. Why do they always ask that? "You didn't think I'd kidnap you before learning your name, did you?"

She grows taller; I glance down to find her on her toes. Those flawless cheeks flush. "I didn't think you'd kidnap me at all!"

"That was the idea."

"Listen. I don't know who you are or where I am..." Her voice does not peal like a bell, but resonates like a French horn. It is made to make men's ears perk up and cling to every word. A voice very unlike my Queen's.

The Queen. The Queen and her oppressive ways...A dream of old stretches toward me, but I swat it away, for its lessons are harsh and its hopes foolish. Now I only cling to modest dreams.

Claire pulls me from my reverie with an imperious demand. "What do you want from me?"

I do not smile with my mouth. I smile with my eyes. The corners crease, my lashes partly blurring my vision. Her throat works ever so slightly, and I know I at least have her attention, for I am equally as comely as she; everyone is beautiful in the Land of Sweets. I wet my lips before I answer.

"I want you to dance for me."

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider voting or leaving a comment. Also, if you have any thoughts in regards to the questions posted at the beginning of the book, I'd love to hear them. (To recap, the questions were: 1.) Accuracy in ballet terms, etc.; 2.) Smooth word flow and does it make sense; 3.) Any boring places?

Thanks!