Miguel O'hara. Ballet XIX

At Duke Parker's request, I attended the Paris Opera. My brother used to do so, he patronized the arts and maintained the family prestige. I was indifferent.

From my box, I tried to converse with my colleague, who was watching the dance in fascination. I sighed, annoyed, until a feather fluttered across the stage. I grabbed my opera glasses and stood there spellbound.

That dancer moved with grace and passion. Her body stood out, her strong legs ending in points.

"Mon Dieu..." I sighed delightedly. Peter smiled mischievously.

I don't know how I got here. After the show, Peter led me through the dancers and the smell of tobacco and alcohol.

“Where are we going?” I asked. Peter smiled and opened a door.

"Enjoy, friend."

In front of me, the dancer was brushing her hair. She saw me through the mirror

"Madame..." I greeted, taking off my hat. For the first time, I felt nervous. I was dying to see her dance up close.