Page 1 of Of Might and Mettle

Chapter one

Under the Spotlight

Lorelle let out a breath through her clenched teeth as she tied the last ribbon on her right shoe. She could have done with a second hand to cinch the crisscrossing ribbons around her ankle, but she would not be defeated by a strip of fabric.

With the knot tight, she let the ribbon free from her mouth, tucked the knot away, and straightened, stretching out her neck in relief. That was one thing done. Now, she was ready for rehearsal . . . but she wasn’t quite ready to leave her refuge. While the other girls could preen each other for dress rehearsal—with easy chatter and laughter that carried through the wall in the shared chamber beyond—that was a familiar comfort Lorelle was denied. What should be a task done among friends, she had to do on her own, sitting on the cold tile of the washroom.

Longing clenched her chest in a vice grip, but she pushed it away. Soon, it would be shoved to the wings of the stage with the rest of her worries. The spotlight would transform her into someone else, someone who was accepted and loved, if only for a few hours. Even if she would be tormented by whispers and jeers the rest of the night.

She stepped from the washroom and offered a smile to Isabel, who had guarded the entrance lest one of the newer girls ignore the unspoken, yet unbreakable, rule: don’t get close. Now that Lorelle was in sight, Isabel took a wide step back, as if to help a corps girl with her snowflake costume, but Lorelle knew better.

The easy chatter dimmed, and though there were a few pitying glances not quite aimed at her, two pairs of eyes examined her with a sneer. To Vanesa and Sara, the newest girls promoted to soloists this year, she stood out. Lorelle, Vanesa, and Sara wore the startling red of cardinals—as opposed to the ice-blue snowflake costume of the corps. But unlike the other two, Lorelle had red silk gloves that tied at her elbows, and a bodice with delicate pearl buttons down her front—making it a much easier feat to dress than she had been afforded in her early years within the company.

The accommodations ate away a significant portion of her meager income, but at least she had a costume and a role. With that, she was one step closer to her dream. She just had to hold on a little longer.

“Look,” said Vanesa, sneering. “Someone thinks she’s special enough to get the prince’s attention.”

“Maybe even a proposal,” Sara smirked.

Their words stung, and their jealousy only stabbed the vulnerable part of her heart where she imagined a sister or a mother might have shielded her.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The world could speak what they wished, but she would try to hold on to what God said of her: fearfully and wonderfully made.

But that didn’t mean their words didn’t sting.

She angled her head their way in a polite nod, not trusting herself to speak, and turned to leave. La directora had asked to speak with her before the rehearsal, probably to remind her of the importance of keeping her arm a secret.

As if she could forget that discovery would mean the death of her career.

Attitudes were changing, as Lorelle had experienced in the small ballet academy on the northern coast of Monte Rico, but there were always those who held to old ways. La directora was one of them, and she’d only accepted Lorelle into the company under false pretenses, after Lorelle’s instructor had told her to hide her hand with a glove during auditions. Lorelle suspected la directora still hadn’t forgiven her for the lie, but she would do all she could to remain in the company. It was her only chance.

In the hallway, her ballet slippers scuffed softly against checkered marble tile, the cool breeze blowing through wide arched windows the only respite from the insufferable summer heat. She padded to la directora’s assigned room and knocked. When there was no reply, she knocked again.

Perhaps she wasn’t here, but preparing the stage. There was still much to be done, though they had gotten to the castle two days ago.

They hadn’t traveled far. With the mountain roads that allowed caravans to cross the hundred-mile-wide island in the span of less than a week, they’d passed from the northwest corner of the island to the capital on the east coast in just four days. But this was their biggest performance yet, and la directora would have had the company cross an ocean if needed.

The dance was in one week, on the princess’s birthday, and there was much to do with painting the larger backdrops, sewing final details onto new costumes, and refining the choreography. Though their performances had been the talk of the kingdom of Monte Rico for years, they would need to dazzle the princess and the royals. Maybe then the company would get the renown la directora thought it deserved, and Lorelle the protection she needed from the sneers so she could finally be herself. After all, one could hardly speak against a ballerina favored by the princess—even if she did have a tin arm.

She exited the palace and crossed the courtyard through the covered walkway. Passionflower vines hung down on either side, shielding the walkway from the tropical heat that suffocated even hours after the sun had set. Thorny hedges guarded the pathways that wove through the rest of the courtyard, interspersed with red hibiscus flowers in full bloom. The fragrant petals made the heavy summer air almost pleasant as Lorelle neared the theater.

The large theater was the grandest stage of the entire kingdom, though its mossy facade wouldn’t show it. Within the historical building—erected three hundred years ago when Monte Rico had first been a colony under the Empire—was a stage to take the breath away from even the most experienced performer. Plush velvet chairs guests could sink into, gas lamps to set the sky ablaze, and a stage with generations of history, sturdy enough to weather even the largest storm—which Lorelle’s life often was. At times she felt like she was dancing on a ship tossed at sea as she kept a careful balance between pursuing her dream and keeping her secret.

She’d been ten when she joined the academy. Her aunt and uncle had sent her off two years after her parents’ deaths, and she had clung to the barre during practice like it had been her lifeline. The only contact she’d had with them had been five years ago, when she’d graduated from the academy and gotten accepted into the company, and they’d sent her the most recent version of her arm—one that was lined and didn’t chafe her skin, even if it was hollow and the fingers slightly thin, so that without the glove it almost looked like a skeleton’s hand.

In the deeper shadows just outside the theater, she adjusted her arm. The tin portion was half-way down her forearm, where she lacked not just her right hand but her right wrist. But even though her arm was outfitted with gears at her wrist and weighted fingers that tilted with finesse at her deliberate movements, her immobility was of much contention with the newest ballerinas. They only knew her infirmity as a brace worn to hold her hand in place from nerve damage, also explaining the frail fingers, but even if all the rest of her form was perfect, to la directora she would always be lacking. A point of pity and weakness, not pride and perseverance.

At last, she entered the theater. As she walked down the sloping aisle, she spotted la directora on the stage, arguing with the conductor of the royal orchestra while the musicians sat. They were the king’s favorite orchestra, but to bring the two groups together would require much practice—and patience.

The Wooden Soldier was a favorite ballet of the princess, a winter fairytale of a wooden figure come to life to defend the toy kingdom. And though the company performed it annually, they had never done so on a stage so grand and enchanting that it demanded changes to perfect the choreography. With only one week for practice, it seemed an impossible feat, but Lorelle would memorize the changes to her part tonight, practice it in her head every hour of the day, until she knew it forward and backward so that not one mistake would be her downfall.

La directora waved her over. “Are you ready?”

“As always, directora,” Lorelle said with a deferential nod of her head. She grimaced as la directora looked her up and down, looking for any glint of tin, as was her custom for every performance.

“Look grateful, Lorelle,” she snapped. “We don’t want people to think I’m not charitable con tus . . . atributos.”

“Sí, directora,” she mumbled. Her atributos, or traits, being her arm. Lorelle was sure that if it wasn’t for her impeccable technique, la directora wouldn’t have been willing to overlook her arm. But she would only turn a blind eye as long as Lorelle was perfect, and Lorelle couldn’t afford to lose her spot here, among these dancers.