Donkeyskin - ON HOLD

Of Changes

*Of Changes*

        The queen's memorial took place a week later, but Elodie, sick in bed with a light fever, didn't attend. She heard it was spectacular, though, that it seemed like the entire kingdom attended. Adrienne told her she was probably the only person in the capital who didn't attend. Elodie, plagued by a terrible headache and aching body, didn't care.

        The Nurse fretted and fussed over her, cooing and clucking like a worried mother hen, and Elodie, feeling suffocated by her ministrations, fled to her ballet lessons as soon as she was strong enough. M. Beaufort, thankfully, unlike the rest of the mourning court, was just as brusk and straightforward as always.

        "No, no, no! The arms go out and back, not just back," he scolded, roughly repositioning her wrists. "It is like a man is helping you into a coat. Like so." He pulled back gently on her shoulders and lifted her chin. "And then step, step, step, turn."

        Elodie did as he said-or at least she thought she did but- "No, no! It is in threes! Not step, step, turn, but step, step, step, turn!" He circled her, his critical gaze never wavering. "And then the swan jump, like so. Perfection!"

        Elodie landed, and hovered, poised for flight, on her toes. And then she lifted one leg, in a graceful arabesque, lowered onto her feet, and bent her knee. M. Beaufort, acting the part of her partner in this pas-de-deux, placed his hands on her waist and spun her in a slow pirouette.

        "Good, and jeté, and the battements-remember, it is a series of three in this dance-and the fouetté. Three! Always three! Magnificent!"

        Elodie followed his every barked order, reveling in the rare praise, so focused she thought she could feel the very blood stir in her fingertips. She stepped to the side, and kicked one leg out in a new series of battements. M. Beaufort stepped in and lifted her in a delicate pas de chat. Then, he stepped away and resumed his critical circling.

        The world fell away, the heavy pall of grief that had fallen over the court melted away with each step, with each bar of piano accompaniment. M. Beaufort's tutting and correcting washed over her and subconsciously her movements corrected themselves.

        Finally M. Beaufort called an end to their lessons, and Elodie lowered herself to her feet, slowly becoming aware of a hot ache radiating up her spine. Bending over to take off her dancing slippers, she stumbled and fell to her knees.

        M. Beaufort knelt beside her, taking her hand in his, and feeling her forehead with his free hand. "You are feverish," he accused, helping her to her feet. "You should be tucked up, warm in bed." When Elodie shook her head, he gently pointed out, "You are shivering, child. Go, sleep, rest. I will come to you tomorrow, and we can do some theory."

        Elodie almost groaned, but refrained, just barely, from doing so. She was pretty sure no student in their right mind would like theory. "I don't like theory," she muttered, grimacing. M. Beaufort barked a laugh and stood, supporting her quaking frame, his arm around her shoulders.

        "I don't either," M. Beaufort said coolly. "But nevertheless it is necessary. Now, let us return you to your chambers."

        The days passed, and Elodie's life held little alteration. The death of the queen completely wiped away any remembrance of the young princess. Winter set in in earnest, and Elodie's twelfth name-day came.

        The day would have passed with little notice, if not for an envoy from one of the other northern kingdoms. Elodie had planned on spending the day as she usually did, reading, singing, and dancing.