Chapter 8
The Ballerina's Dream
A vision of graceful pirouettes in the ballroom. A young woman dances with ethereal grace, her dreams of the stage palpable but unfulfilled.
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.
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