Read Online The Dark Arts of Blood by Freda Warrington - Free Book Online
Authors: Freda Warrington
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every last shred of passion. Prince Ivan stole a feather from the Firebird and released her, in exchange for her promise to help him later… Then he met the thirteen princesses, imprisoned in an enchanted forest by the sorcerer, King Kastchei.
A performer must act as well as they dance. Emil wondered why Ivan would fall in love with an insipid white-clad princess, Tsarevna, rather than with the Firebird herself… but it was a folk tale. Of course the prince must have a human princess to rescue. For him to fall in love with a bird, enchanted or not, would not make sense.
Still, he played Ivan as if he adored the Firebird. Couldn’t do otherwise.
Exhilarating music masked the thud of ballet shoes on wooden boards. The audience little guessed the months of gruelling rehearsal that went to create an illusion of mythical creatures flowing weightlessly in a treasure-box of golden light.
Violette’s shoes made hardly a whisper. She always smelled cool and delicate, like lilies, and never seemed to break a sweat as did ordinary mortals. This was part of her mystique, of course: one of the qualities that made her a true star, a goddess.
Now King Kastchei prowled the stage, hunched and evil in his skull mask. By this point, Emil was so caught up in the narrative that he forgot it was Mikhail in the costume. He felt a shiver of true fear. Kastchei’s black cloak dragged like funeral cloth, and the bone staff in his hand wielded terrible powers…
Then the Firebird returned to help the Prince. She cast her spell over Kastchei’s magical creatures, making them dance like puppets to exhaustion, sending all the princesses into enchanted sleep, finally guiding Prince Ivan to destroy Kastchei the Immortal and set free his captives. Violette leapt and whirled as if she would dance herself to death in a tumult of blood-red. All other characters onstage were secondary.
The story belonged to the Firebird.
Of all ballet heroines, she was the least sympathetic. She inspired awe, not affection. Aloof and magical, the Firebird was not of this world. That was her power.
Watching her, Emil went light-headed. The world changed. This was no drama but
real
, as if he’d entered another reality where the Firebird was a terrifying goddess of blood and fire. All the other dancers were ghosts, while Kastchei stalked mankind like the grim reaper…
So horrific was this vision that Emil nearly collapsed. The stage became a frozen tableau full of horror. His sight darkened with panic…
“
Emil!
”
Mikhail’s whisper shocked him back to reality. He’d nearly missed his cue. The audience didn’t notice – but Violette would, of course. He flung himself back into the performance, but his heart was pounding, sweat soaking his costume. Stravinsky’s music carried him like a flood, through the grand wedding scene of Prince Ivan to Princess Tsarevna, to the end.
All too soon, they were taking their curtain calls to an ecstatic audience.
Relief and triumph eclipsed his anxiety attack. Violette made no comment about his lapse – it had never happened before – yet the unease lingered in the pit of his stomach.
It was nothing
, he told himself.
Last-night nerves, if there is such a thing. A warning against overconfidence.
When they finally left the stage, Emil was laughing with the rest. He prayed that no one noticed how violently he was trembling.
* * *
At the stage door, Emil found himself mobbed. Dozens of women of all ages surrounded him with shining eyes, wide excited smiles – he’d experienced nothing like it before. There were always fans after a performance, clamouring for Violette. Now he realised in amazement that this crowd was waiting for
him
.
They called his name. He heard sighs, gasps, exclamations – every voice telling him how wonderful he was. He couldn’t help but laugh with sheer pleasure.
They all looked so beautiful, young and old alike made radiant by happiness. He smiled as he signed their programmes and
A performer must act as well as they dance. Emil wondered why Ivan would fall in love with an insipid white-clad princess, Tsarevna, rather than with the Firebird herself… but it was a folk tale. Of course the prince must have a human princess to rescue. For him to fall in love with a bird, enchanted or not, would not make sense.
Still, he played Ivan as if he adored the Firebird. Couldn’t do otherwise.
Exhilarating music masked the thud of ballet shoes on wooden boards. The audience little guessed the months of gruelling rehearsal that went to create an illusion of mythical creatures flowing weightlessly in a treasure-box of golden light.
Violette’s shoes made hardly a whisper. She always smelled cool and delicate, like lilies, and never seemed to break a sweat as did ordinary mortals. This was part of her mystique, of course: one of the qualities that made her a true star, a goddess.
Now King Kastchei prowled the stage, hunched and evil in his skull mask. By this point, Emil was so caught up in the narrative that he forgot it was Mikhail in the costume. He felt a shiver of true fear. Kastchei’s black cloak dragged like funeral cloth, and the bone staff in his hand wielded terrible powers…
Then the Firebird returned to help the Prince. She cast her spell over Kastchei’s magical creatures, making them dance like puppets to exhaustion, sending all the princesses into enchanted sleep, finally guiding Prince Ivan to destroy Kastchei the Immortal and set free his captives. Violette leapt and whirled as if she would dance herself to death in a tumult of blood-red. All other characters onstage were secondary.
The story belonged to the Firebird.
Of all ballet heroines, she was the least sympathetic. She inspired awe, not affection. Aloof and magical, the Firebird was not of this world. That was her power.
Watching her, Emil went light-headed. The world changed. This was no drama but
real
, as if he’d entered another reality where the Firebird was a terrifying goddess of blood and fire. All the other dancers were ghosts, while Kastchei stalked mankind like the grim reaper…
So horrific was this vision that Emil nearly collapsed. The stage became a frozen tableau full of horror. His sight darkened with panic…
“
Emil!
”
Mikhail’s whisper shocked him back to reality. He’d nearly missed his cue. The audience didn’t notice – but Violette would, of course. He flung himself back into the performance, but his heart was pounding, sweat soaking his costume. Stravinsky’s music carried him like a flood, through the grand wedding scene of Prince Ivan to Princess Tsarevna, to the end.
All too soon, they were taking their curtain calls to an ecstatic audience.
Relief and triumph eclipsed his anxiety attack. Violette made no comment about his lapse – it had never happened before – yet the unease lingered in the pit of his stomach.
It was nothing
, he told himself.
Last-night nerves, if there is such a thing. A warning against overconfidence.
When they finally left the stage, Emil was laughing with the rest. He prayed that no one noticed how violently he was trembling.
* * *
At the stage door, Emil found himself mobbed. Dozens of women of all ages surrounded him with shining eyes, wide excited smiles – he’d experienced nothing like it before. There were always fans after a performance, clamouring for Violette. Now he realised in amazement that this crowd was waiting for
him
.
They called his name. He heard sighs, gasps, exclamations – every voice telling him how wonderful he was. He couldn’t help but laugh with sheer pleasure.
They all looked so beautiful, young and old alike made radiant by happiness. He smiled as he signed their programmes and
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