Dare to Love by Jennifer Wilde

the empty stage to peer through the peekhole in the dusty velvet curtain. All of us were tense. The monthly ballet performances created a terrific strain on the nerves, but we realized they were invaluable experience. Madame Olga took only twenty students at a time, and only girls who had years of study behind them. Classes were held in the rehearsal hall of the theater that Madame owned, and each month she presented a new ballet, which she had choreographed herself, featuring her students. Every important producer in the world of English ballet attended these performances to scout for new talent, and over the years many of the girls had received contracts to appear with leading troupes. Half the corps de ballet at Convent Garden were graduates of Madame Olga’s school.
    Sarah looked up from the peekhole and motioned for me to join her. I hurried over, my red tulle skirt floating like gossamer petals. I knew what she was going to tell me.
    â€œHe’s out there,” she whispered.
    â€œAgain?”
    â€œSecond row, center aisle, the same seat he was sitting in last night. He doesn’t give up, does he?”
    I touched the curtain carefully and leaned forward to peer through the tiny hole invisible to the audience out front. Anthony Duke was there, all right, sitting in the seat Sarah had indicated. He wore formal attire, black satin lapels gleaming, white tie slightly awry. A half smile played on his full lips, and his dark blue eyes seemed to dance with mischief. He sat slumped down in his seat, toying with his program, completely at ease, exuding an aura of cocky self-confidence.
    The musicians were beginning to fill the pit. As Sarah and I rejoined the other dancers, I could see she wanted to question me, but fortunately Madame appeared and there was no time. Small, regal, wearing a long black gown that fell in a straight line, Madame Olga examined us with dark eyes that seemed to smoulder with criticism. Her hair was sleeked back over her skull and fastened in a tight bun. Her lips were a bright red. Diamonds and emeralds flashed at her eyes and throat. Not quite five feet tall, she was fierce and formidable, crackling with magnetism.
    â€œTonight, young ladies, you are roses,” she said in her thickly accented, guttural voice. “You are not fat dairy cows clumping around in a pasture. You are roses, delicate and fragile and airy.”
    â€œI feel more like a weed,” Theresa quipped.
    â€œWhat was that?” Madame growled.
    â€œNothing, Madame,” Theresa said sweetly.
    â€œYou are a garden of roses touched with dew, bathed in moonlight, and as the sun comes up you open your petals slowly and celebrate the new day with joy and elation.”
    Sarah sighed. Madame’s little talks always exasperated her.
    â€œYou are artists,” Madame continued. “You are creating an illusion of beauty. When the curtain rises, something mystical and magical will happen. You will be responsible for it. I might add that someone very important will be looking you over. One of you girls will be leaving me at the end of the week for Covent Garden. Which one has not yet been decided.”
    â€œMarvelous,” Sarah whispered. “Just what my nerves need.”
    â€œYou haven’t a prayer,” Theresa said.
    â€œBitch!” Sarah hissed.
    Madame’s eyes flashed menacingly as Regina came rushing toward us, pink skirt flying, soft blonde hair spilling from her carefully arranged topknot. Breathless, blushing, Regina smiled a nervous smile and blinked her large blue eyes. Madame threw her hands up and rolled her eyes heavenward. Regina giggled. Theresa kicked her. Jenny stepped over to pin up Regina’s topknot as Madame moved her lips in silent prayer, begging for patience.
    â€œI lost one of my slippers,” Regina explained. “I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
    Madame glared. “I expect perfection. Nothing less will do. You will be perfect. I will