Giselle blurred with Anya’s memories of the visits Jerisavlja and the vilas had paid her. Now Anya confused the choreography of Hilarion’s death with the time the nymphs had brought a man with them to her riverbank, a murderer they’d caught in the act of disposing of a woman’s body. The queen of the vilas had called the dead girl’s spirit out to join them, and then they’d coaxed the man along for hundreds of miles to meet Anya.
By the time they’d reached her, it hadn’t taken long for the exhausted man to dance himself to death, enthralled by the siren songs of the vilas . Anya had watched the ghost of his victim, waiting to see if she would intervene as Giselle did for her Prince Albrecht. She had not. Had she hated the man as much as Anya hated Stas?
Giselle’s final scene was danced so beautifully. When the ballerina laid herself down for eternal rest, Anya shook with longing and envy. Would she ever find such peace?
The performance ended and another program began, about the life of a famous but uninteresting painter. Anya drifted over to the window and hovered, staring out over the tree-lined streets that seemed unchanged until she focused on small details--the shapes of the cars, the bright signs in doorways.
When Demyan had brought her to Odessa, she’d hoped the trip would be their honeymoon, but it had become just another time of endless striving. They’d often walked by this very hotel, her stomach grumbling as lovers passed, holding hands, and licking ice cream cones. She’d found herself staring at the gelato shop where one couple had come from, their pastel scoops already dripping in the heat. But she looked away before he could notice, controlling herself the way he required. And still, fifty years later, he was controlling her, leashing her to him with that damn slipper.
The hotel room’s curtains fluttered, her anger escaping her in gentle gusts. It felt so good to release it, the way stretching warmed and lengthened muscles, made one’s body feel more expansive.
Once, in the weeks between Anya’s heartbreak and her death, she’d tried to explain her despair to her mother, but Mama had said, “It’s just a broken heart, Anya. It will heal.”
So Anya had told her all the promises Stas had made, all the ways he’d controlled her. Mama’s mouth had fallen open, her head turning quickly from side to side, and for a moment, Anya had thought she might understand.
Then, shrill, Mama had said, “Why did you let him do that to you?”
Anya, already convinced she’d deserved his rejection, had heard her mother’s meaning loud and clear--she’d been a fool to try to win his love.
All these years later, the hotel room’s curtains flapped again, billowing like sails away from Anya, her hot ire beginning to churn round the room. The heat excited her ghostly particles, and she shivered with the pleasure of venting the emotions.
Her vila nature taught her to rage instead of despair, and Yuchenko’s outrage had assured her the anger was justified. She would be eternally grateful to the puppy for that. She let her fury pour off her in bursts of fierce, hot energy.
A binder of papers flapped in the quickening wind, one blew loose--the menu for the elegant restaurant plastered to the mirror over the vanity. The photo of a piece of chocolate cake made Anya’s ghost body echo with the memory of impossible sensation--hunger--and her mouth watered with longing.
Voices shouted in the hallway, loud enough to be heard over the wind, then a knock sounded on the door. “Hello? Inspector Yuchenko?”
She tried to dampen the energy pouring out of her in forceful tendrils, but another paper tore free of the binder, flapping across the room until it slapped against the door.
“Maybe someone left a window open,” shouted the man on the other side of the door.
“But there’s not even a breeze outside,” a different voice replied just as loudly. “Maybe someone opened a portal to another
By the time they’d reached her, it hadn’t taken long for the exhausted man to dance himself to death, enthralled by the siren songs of the vilas . Anya had watched the ghost of his victim, waiting to see if she would intervene as Giselle did for her Prince Albrecht. She had not. Had she hated the man as much as Anya hated Stas?
Giselle’s final scene was danced so beautifully. When the ballerina laid herself down for eternal rest, Anya shook with longing and envy. Would she ever find such peace?
The performance ended and another program began, about the life of a famous but uninteresting painter. Anya drifted over to the window and hovered, staring out over the tree-lined streets that seemed unchanged until she focused on small details--the shapes of the cars, the bright signs in doorways.
When Demyan had brought her to Odessa, she’d hoped the trip would be their honeymoon, but it had become just another time of endless striving. They’d often walked by this very hotel, her stomach grumbling as lovers passed, holding hands, and licking ice cream cones. She’d found herself staring at the gelato shop where one couple had come from, their pastel scoops already dripping in the heat. But she looked away before he could notice, controlling herself the way he required. And still, fifty years later, he was controlling her, leashing her to him with that damn slipper.
The hotel room’s curtains fluttered, her anger escaping her in gentle gusts. It felt so good to release it, the way stretching warmed and lengthened muscles, made one’s body feel more expansive.
Once, in the weeks between Anya’s heartbreak and her death, she’d tried to explain her despair to her mother, but Mama had said, “It’s just a broken heart, Anya. It will heal.”
So Anya had told her all the promises Stas had made, all the ways he’d controlled her. Mama’s mouth had fallen open, her head turning quickly from side to side, and for a moment, Anya had thought she might understand.
Then, shrill, Mama had said, “Why did you let him do that to you?”
Anya, already convinced she’d deserved his rejection, had heard her mother’s meaning loud and clear--she’d been a fool to try to win his love.
All these years later, the hotel room’s curtains flapped again, billowing like sails away from Anya, her hot ire beginning to churn round the room. The heat excited her ghostly particles, and she shivered with the pleasure of venting the emotions.
Her vila nature taught her to rage instead of despair, and Yuchenko’s outrage had assured her the anger was justified. She would be eternally grateful to the puppy for that. She let her fury pour off her in bursts of fierce, hot energy.
A binder of papers flapped in the quickening wind, one blew loose--the menu for the elegant restaurant plastered to the mirror over the vanity. The photo of a piece of chocolate cake made Anya’s ghost body echo with the memory of impossible sensation--hunger--and her mouth watered with longing.
Voices shouted in the hallway, loud enough to be heard over the wind, then a knock sounded on the door. “Hello? Inspector Yuchenko?”
She tried to dampen the energy pouring out of her in forceful tendrils, but another paper tore free of the binder, flapping across the room until it slapped against the door.
“Maybe someone left a window open,” shouted the man on the other side of the door.
“But there’s not even a breeze outside,” a different voice replied just as loudly. “Maybe someone opened a portal to another
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