Chapter Text
She can hear her heartbeat thundering in her ears as they stand, silent, waiting, in the dark, behind the screen on the stage as the orchestra takes up the opening movement of the Second Act. His hand is heavy and warm on her waist, even through the thick layers of her elaborate costume. His other hand is closed about her wrist, fingers delicate against her pulse and she’s certain he can feel it racing. He confirms her suspicions when she feels the heat of his breath against the shell of her ear.
“Just breathe,” he murmurs over the music. “And remember to smile.”
She nods, adding “smile” to her list of ten thousand things she must remember while she goes through the steps one last time in her head. She thinks she might be sick. Or faint. But it’s too late now, because a shaft of light is creeping across the stage as the curtain rises. His hand on her waist gives a little squeeze and she draws herself up into the starting pose and smiles the brightest she can possibly smile as she is bathed in limelight and anticipatory applause.
*
Alina really thinks she might be sick. Or faint. But she won’t give Madame Baghra the satisfaction.
Three days on from the Morning Class incident and she thought she had gotten away with just the hour’s humiliation. But that morning the ballet mistress had singled her out again.
“You. Starkova,” she had snapped. “Balakirev Studio. Two o’clock.”
And so that’s where she had found herself, at two o’clock sharp, stepping into the Balakirev Studio just as Zoya Nazyalenskya breezes out. They had been auditioning Soloists for Nutcracker all morning, and Zoya was apparently the last. And Madame Baghra, it seemed, had chosen Alina as her post-audition snack, to chew up and spit out.
She dances for two hours straight, following every barked order, responding to every sharp tap of Baghra’s cane against her shin, hip, stomach, bum, perfecting and perfecting until sweat soaks her leotard, her legs shake every time she rises up onto Pointe and bile rises in her throat.
Finally Baghra seems to satisfy whatever sadistic urge inspired this strange torture, giving Alina a half nod as she says “Well it’s a start I suppose,” and heading for the door without any further word.
Alina watches her go, slack jawed at what she’s just been put through. But then she’s always heard rumours of the punishing regime and mind games that came with being a Company member. This was no longer The Little Palace after all. No coddling of little dancers here.
When the door slams shut behind the ballet mistress Alina lets herself crumple gracefully to the floor, or at least as gracefully as she can after two hours of intensive dancing. From there she flops onto her back, letting her bun cushion her head and then she starfishes out on the cool studio floor and tries to will her heart back to a regular tempo and the pounding in her head to stop.
She regrets lying down almost instantly. Because now, in order to get to her water bottle on the other side of the room she will have to get up. And she simply doesn’t have the strength.
“I guess I live here now,” she says to the room.
A few minutes later, though not long enough at all for her to feel strong again, she hears the studio door open and she squeezes her eyes shut, praying that it’s not Baghra returned for some reason to witness Alina’s weakness. She’d been so proud of herself keeping it together until the old bat had left the room.
“Just a minute,” she calls out, “I’m just doing cool down.”
“Take all the time you need,” a rich, deep voice replies, one that’s familiar enough that Alina internally cringes. Turns out there’s something worse than Baghra walking in on her sprawled on the floor, wrecked after a session.
She hears footsteps approaching, then a metallic clunk beside her head, and then feels a shadow over her face. Forcing her eyes open she can see him stood over her, in a dark hoodie and grey sweatpants, hair falling in his eyes thanks to the angle he has to look down on her from.
“I’d offer to help you up,” he says, but I’m more than familiar with Baghra’s methods so I think right now, the floor is the safer option.” He nods at something beside her before adding “You should drink something though.”
Alina turns her head and discovers that he has placed her Hydroflask beside her head, faded and peeling stickers covering the blue metal. She grasps it gratefully and flicks it open, lying on her back still as she sticks the straw in her mouth and drinks, not caring how desperately thirsty she looks.
She doesn’t know what she expects from him, but it’s not for him to easily fold himself to the floor, effortless and elegant where she feels sweaty and ungainly. She watches him, watching her as she drinks maybe three quarters of her water bottle. He’s got an intense gaze, like he’s waiting for her to do something, but she doesn’t feel any discomfort being so closely scrutinized by him. She puts that down to exhaustion perhaps, or Baghra’s hypercritical teaching style.
She forces herself to sit up, crossing her legs and settling her bottle within them before she locks her fingers and stretches her arms up above her head. She exhales, a deep, slow breath, before letting her arms drop back down into her lap and properly looking at him, Aleksander Morozov, Principal Dancer for the Ravkan Imperial Ballet, the man several people have called the greatest danseur of his generation, including Alina herself, simply sitting opposite her, almost within touching distance, hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie as he lets himself be examined with a strange, gentle amusement.
“Your mum’s a real bitch you know,” Alina says, only half meaning it, really more interested in how he reacts to it.
He laughs.
“Yes,” he says, “It may have been mentioned once or twice.” He rummages through his hoodie and pulls out a snack bar. Some sort of flapjack thing, covered in chocolate.
“I mean really - oh, no thank you.” Alina says, smiling her refusal as he snaps off a piece of the bar and offers it out to her. “-what is her problem?”
“She’s a perfectionist,” he shrugs, tossing the morsel into his mouth. “You get used to it.”
“I don’t know if I want to get used to it,” Alina says, picking at one of the stickers on her bottle.
When he scoffs, the noise surprises her, and she looks up, offended that he’s seemingly doubting her.
“Bullshit,” he says. “Of course you want to get used to it. You’re not going to quit just because some grumpy old woman was a little bit mean to you. You’ve dreamed about this your whole life! We all have. Every little girl in the world wants to be sat where you are right now, with the chances you have. You want this. Grab it with both hands.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she says, but try as she might, she can’t make the words come out angry, just soft, resigned.
“I know everything about you that I need to know,” Aleksander says, standing up, offering out a hand to her. “I’ve seen you dance.”
*
She doesn’t tell anyone about the conversation with Morozov. She locks it away inside her like a secret. Part of her is afraid she might be told off for it, but they’re both Company members, even if he is a Principal and she’s just a lowly Artist. He is right, she does want to succeed, to be the very best, but she’s also painfully aware that this is her first Season. No one likes the pushy new kid who thinks they’re too good for Corps roles and hasn’t earned their dues. Best for her to keep her head down and not rock the boat she thinks. At least for now.
So it’s a surprise when the afternoon before cast announcements for Nutcracker are due to be made while Alina is sitting in the canteen, picking at a chicken salad while she waits for Marie and Nadia to turn up, that Nikolai Lantsov takes the seat opposite her.
“Anyone sitting here?” he asks.
“Well, ye-” Alina starts, but he’s already tucking into his own food.
“No? Good!” He winks at her, “How’s your day going?”
“Fine?” Alina says, looking around to see if this is some sort of strange hazing. But other people in the room are focused on their own food and conversation. “Sorry, do you think I’m someone else?”
“No!” Nikolai says cheerfully, “You’re Aline Starky! You’re new!”
“Alina Starkova,” Alina corrects. “And, yes, technically I’m new. But I’ve been here a couple of months now so I think the welcoming committee is a tad late.”
Nikolai puts his fork down, bridges his fingers over his chicken and rice.
“Can I be honest with you Alina?” he asks.
“I don’t really think I have a choice,” Alina says, although a small part of her expects that this conversation will be far less truth filled than the one she had with Morozov a couple of days ago.
Nikolai snorts.
“You’re funny,” he says. “I like that.”
“What’s this about, Nikolai?” Alina asks.
“You know parts are getting announced after lunch?” he says.
“No,” Alina says sarcastically, “I live under a rock.”
“Alright!” Nikolai says, raising his hands in submission, “No need to get testy!” He looks around the room, as if he’s nervous of being overheard. “Thing is, it’s pretty much a dead cert that Zoya’s getting paired with Morozov. Which means I need to start cultivating a new partner.”
“And you think that should be me?” Alina scoffs.
“Why not?” Nikolai shrugs.
“Like you said,” Alina says, “I’m new. I’m just an Artist. Shouldn’t you be looking at other Soloists?”
“Maybe,” he says, “But you’ve got… something. I don’t know what it is, but I saw it the other day when Baghra made you dance for us all.”
Alina goes to speak, but he’s standing up, grabbing his cup and his barely touched plate of food.
“Just think about it, yeah?” he says, and off he goes.
Seconds later Marie sits down beside her and Nadia opposite her. The reason for his departure, Alina suspects. Both girls are grinning conspiratorially at her.
“What did Nikolai want?” Marie asks.
“You know Zoya’s gonna break your kneecaps if he starts hitting on you,” Nadia says with far too much glee.
“He wasn’t hitting on me!” Alina sighs, rolling her eyes. “He’s considering his professional options apparently. He’s pretty sure Zoya’s getting paired with Morozov for Nutcracker .”
“I hope not,” Marie sighs, “She’ll be insufferable if she does.”
“So he’s interested in doing stuff with you if that happens?” Nadia asks.
“Apparently,” Alina shrugs, trying to downplay the whole thing as she finally makes a start on her lunch.
“That would be really big for you,” Nadia says, “You’d deserve it.”
Alina can’t help the flush of pride she feels at Nadia’s words, and Marie’s earnest little nod too. She thinks about it all through lunch as Marie relates her horribly embarrassing story of nearly setting her crush on fire while trying to light her cigarette during a break.
“It’s his own fault for not tying that hair back” Nadia decrees and it’s Alina’s turn to give a sincere nod as they pick up their things and head for the main studio with the rest of the company.
Alina likes these full Company meetings, they have a school yard camaraderie about them. Everyone gathers together in their little cliques, chatting with their friends. It’s nice to see some of the giants of the ballet world at their most relaxed and intimate with each other, everyone just in sweats and legwarmers and trainers, rather than pointe shoes and practice tutus. She basks in the warmth of the ambient noise until there’s a short, sharp whistle that cuts through it all and the group falls to silence.
Ivan Kaminsky, Principal Character Artist and the Company’s Grandfather of the House, who has begun the slow transition to retirement by playing the company’s more comic expressive roles is stood at the front of the room, beside him is Botkin Yul-Erdene, the company’s choreographer and Madame Baghra.
Botkin is holding a piece of paper in his hand that Alina knows holds the fate of many of her friends and co-workers. And though she knows that this year she will be a snowflake she can’t help but get caught up in the low buzz of excitement around her.
“Right,” Ivan says, his loud voice carrying over the room with very little effort. “We’re already fifteen minutes behind, so everyone keep your mouths shut and we can all be out of here in about twenty minutes.”
“You’re really capturing the spirit of the Festive season my love,” Ivan’s husband Fedyor heckles from the back of the crowd.
“It’s October,” Ivan deadpans, not looking up from his page. “And you’re playing the Mouse King by the way.”
There’s a smattering of applause as Fedyor yells out a joke about Ivan not wanting people to see how handsome his husband is. Ivan glares at the room as he joins Fedyor, returning everyone to silent attention for Botkin who gives a small smile.
“Thank you Ivan,” he says. “I’ll try and keep this as quick and painless as I can, please remember that the second floor bathroom is the traditional spot for crying if you didn’t get the part you wanted.”
The company laughs, tension eased a little as Botkin rattles through the lesser roles: Clara’s parents, party guests, The Ravkan Dancers, one of whom is Marie’s flammable crush Sergei the Shu Dancers, the Zemeni dancers. Alina reaches across and squeezes Marie’s hand at the announcement that she has won herself the role of DewDrop in the Waltz of the Flowers, a sign that the instructors have been watching her and are ready to move her up from First Artist to Soloist if this run goes well. Alina let’s herself imagine that maybe next year that could be her. She’s always loved that part, and she knows she’s at least as good as Marie is. Nadia gets a part as a Mirliton which she is absolutely giddy with, bouncing in her seat so much that Alina has to put a gentle warning hand on her leg.
Now it’s the big guns. The top billings.
“As Ivan has already revealed Fedyor will reprise his role as the Mouse King” Botkin says, and Fedyor stands up to take a little bow. “And it will also come as no surprise to anyone that Ivan will be reprising his role as Herr Drosselmeyer. Ivan, I hope you’ve been practicing your magic tricks.”
“That’s what we pay the props department for,” Ivan says. Alina has no idea if he’s joking or not but the rest of the room is laughing so she laughs too.
“Quite right,” Botkin smiles. “Right, it’s the home straight now everyone!”
They all cheer.
“Making his triumphant return to the stage after that nasty knee injury, Aleksander Morozov will be playing The Prince,” Botkin announces, to wolf whistles and cheers. From his spot by the wall, Morozov raises a hand in modest acknowledgement, which settles people down enough that Botkin can carry on, “And this year for the first time in the role of the eponymous Nutcracker, Hans-Peter will be played by Nikolai Lantsov.”
There is more clapping, though not as raucous for Nikolai as it had been for Aleksander. Not that the younger man seems to mind, leaping up to take an elaborate bow.
“And so that leaves our Clara,” Botkin says. Alina frowns. And beside her Nadia sighs.
“He does this every year,” she whispers, leaning right into Alina. “Usually with Clara though because Genya’s been Sugar Plum the last few years.”
“-Zoya Nazyalenskya!” Botkin declares.
And at first Alina thinks she must have missed the announcement of Clara. Because Nikolai said Zoya was being partnered with Morozov. But the murmuring among the clapping and Zoya’s look of slightly muted surprise tells her that she hasn’t missed anything. Zoya is playing Clara.
“And I think that’s everyone,” Botkin says.
“No!” the Company choruses, like children at a pantomime.
Botkin feigns shock.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes!” the Company yells back, some laughing. Alina keeps her eyes on Zoya, who stays silent, clearly brooding on her loss of the role she wanted.
“Who are we missing?” Botkin asks.
“Sugar Plum!” the Company calls back, their loudest response yet.
“Oh!” Botkin thwaps himself on the forehead and Alina knows that choreography’s gain was comedy’s loss. “Of course! Well I am very pleased to announce that the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy, this year, will be filled by…”
He stops for a long pause and the Company all stamp their feet in an approximation of a drumroll, even their pianist Alexei joins in, thrumming two low notes in time with everyone as they speed up to a crescendo and then cease in expectant silence.
Botkin waits a beat longer, and then looks directly at Alina, and smiles.
“Alina Starkova, congratulations my dear.”
*
She’s shaking as they rush off stage at the end of the opening of the Second Half. Her body coursing with adrenaline at the fact she’s actually here, she’s actually doing this, it’s not a dream.
He keeps her hand tightly in his as they weave through the Corps gathered in the wings, waiting to go on for the Waltz of the Flowers. He keeps hold of her until they reach the little corner he has staked out as their own for the Second Act. He grabs the blue bottle covered in stickers from the little shelf and takes a long drink before offering it out to her. She takes it, sips slow, small sips, a little afraid of what happens if she takes too much before the Pas De Deux.
She risks a look up at him and finds he’s already grinning down at her, and her heart flutters in time with the music, wafting towards them from the stage.