The Ballerina's Dream

The scent of dust and old paper was usually the most potent perfume in the Vance mansion, a comforting blanket woven from the lives lived within its walls. But tonight, as I wandered aimlessly, a different aroma began to unfurl, delicate and sweet, like crushed petals after a spring rain. It led me, as so many paths in this house did, towards the grand ballroom, its vastness usually cloaked in shadow and silence.

Tonight, however, was different. A soft, pearly light, not of moon or lamp, seeped from the very air, coalescing into a shimmering haze near the centre of the polished wooden floor. And within that haze, a figure began to form. It was a girl, perhaps no older than I, her form impossibly graceful, clad in a swirl of pale, gauzy fabric that seemed to catch and hold the ethereal light. Her hair, a cascade of dark curls, was swept up in a delicate knot, a single white rose tucked behind one ear.

She was dancing.