Chapter Text
Charlie had danced for as long as she could remember. Not the clumsy, stumbling steps of a child pretending to follow music, but the careful, instinctive movement that seemed to live in her bones. She didn’t run through the house; she leaped and twirled at the slightest hint of a piano note or violin chord, her tiny feet finding rhythm in every sound. Music was more than something to move to—it was a pulse she could not ignore, a language she understood before she could even speak.
Her father often told her she was just like her mother, graceful, determined, unstoppable. “You don’t run, Charlie. You leap,” he would say, as she spun in the sunlight streaming through their Manhattan apartment. Even at five years old, she felt a strange mixture of pride and fear at the weight of his words, as though each leap was a promise she needed to keep.
Her first real glimpse of a dance studio came not as a student, but as a visitor. Lucifer had taken her to pick up her mother from practice, and Charlie could hardly contain herself. The polished wooden floors gleamed under the bright overhead lights, mirrors stretched from wall to wall, and music swelled, vibrating through the air like electricity. And then she saw her mother. Lilith Morningstar, tall and strong, moving with a power that made the air itself seem to shimmer. Charlie’s small hands shot up, her voice bursting with excitement. “Mommy! Mommy!”
Her father’s hand pressed gently to her shoulder. “Charlie, quiet,” he said. “You’re going to interrupt mommy’s concentration.”
Charlie tilted her head, confused. Interrupt? Concentration? The words sounded alien in her five-year-old mind. But even as her excitement softened to curiosity, she could not look away. Lilith was a force of nature, a whirlwind of elegance and strength. Charlie didn’t know then how much it would shape her life, or how the same discipline and fire would haunt her own steps years later.
Lilith had not come from privilege. She had grown up in the Bronx, in a cramped apartment, under a mother whose love was harsh and a father who was often absent. Somehow, against every expectation, she had captured the attention of Lucifer Morningstar, a man born into wealth and power, disinherited for daring to love someone outside his class. But Lucifer had rebuilt his fortune, climbed to the top, and now stood as governor of New York City. Together, he and Lilith had Charlie.
From the outside, Charlie’s life seemed perfect. She attended prestigious schools, mingled with Manhattan’s elite, and never wanted for anything. But perfection had a hollow ring. She disliked the arrogance and entitlement she saw in her classmates, the way privilege masked effort. In the studio, it was different. There were no titles, no social class distinctions, only practice, work, sweat, and the unspoken rules of talent and perseverance. Here, envy and pressure existed in a more tangible, biting form.
Everyone wanted to stand out, to be seen, to be chosen, and the fight for recognition could be cruel.
Her mother had hesitated when Charlie first expressed interest in dance. “She’s so young,” Lilith had said. “Do we need to start now? I didn’t do it until I was nine.”
Her father had smiled, patient but firm. “And you also told me that you wished you could have started earlier. The sooner she begins, the more time she has to grow. Dance will challenge her, push her, and demand everything, but she won’t face it alone. We’ll be there every step of the way.”
And so, Charlie had begun, not as the governor’s daughter, not as the daughter of a famous retired ballerina, but simply as herself.
Each day in the studio, every ache in her muscles, every fall and stumble, was a step toward proving that she was not just Charlie Morningstar, she was Charlie.
Her mother retired from ballet when Charlie was nine. At thirty-five, Lilith Morningstar left the stage as a legend of ABT and NYCB. The tickets to her final performance sold for over two hundred dollars apiece. (if you could even get one). The theatre had been packed with critics, celebrities, and aspiring dancers who wanted to witness a farewell that would be remembered for decades. Lilith bowed that night to a roaring standing ovation, and the city spoke of her for weeks afterward.
Retirement did not pull her away from dance for long. Within a year, Lilith opened her own studio, a modest space compared to the grandeur of Lincoln Center, but alive with passion. What made it extraordinary wasn’t its size, but its doors: they opened to everyone. Children from Park Avenue danced beside children from the Bronx; the wealthy trained alongside those scraping together bus fare just to attend. Lilith adjusted the class fees according to each family’s income, a rule that raised eyebrows among the elite but earned her deep respect in the communities she had come from.
Yet Charlie was not her mother’s student.
And that puzzled everyone.
Parents whispered between classes, older students exchanged glances, and younger ones asked bluntly:
“Why doesn’t your mom teach you? Isn’t she the best?”
Lilith’s answer was always the same: Professional boundaries matter. She would not bring family into her classroom, would not give her daughter special treatment, or harsher treatment, just because they shared blood. Lucifer supported the decision fully.
But for Charlie, it meant something else:
If she succeeded, it had to be earned.
No shortcuts. No legacy privileges.
So she worked harder. Twice as hard as anyone thought she needed to. With a governor for a father and a ballet icon for a mother, expectations clung to her like a second skin. She didn’t want applause for being their daughter; she wanted applause for being herself.
Her persistence paid off sooner than anyone expected.
At twelve, she was selected out of every ballet school in New York City as one of the 3 performers who would dance as Clara in The Nutcracker. It was a dream role, especially for a first major theatre performance. She had only been en pointe for a year, and yet she danced with a maturity that made the audience forget her age. Her debut night was a triumph. Critics wrote about her promise; reporters called her a prodigy; her parents threw a celebration after the premiere, filled with congratulations and camera flashes.
Confidence bloomed in her like a rising curtain.
But theatre has its shadows.
On her third performance, during a series of turns, her foot slipped. It was small—barely a second—but enough. She fell. The audience’s collective gasp struck harder than the floor. Charlie pushed through, dancing to the end of the act with a trembling but determined smile.
Behind the curtains, the applause still echoing, her mentor, Madame Katerina Volkov, a stern former Bolshoi dancer, unleashed her fury.
The fifteen-minute intermission was split mercilessly: ten minutes of sharp, precise scolding for “humiliating herself in front of a full house,” and five minutes to pull herself back together. Charlie stood in front of the mirror, trying to steady her breathing, cheeks flushed with shame, rosin dust clinging to her tights like frost. She had been corrected firmly before, every good dancer was, but something about that particular reprimand pierced deeper.
By the next performance, her fourth night, confidence had turned fragile. Her hands shook as she tied her shoes. The stage lights felt harsher, the music sharper, every eye heavier. The fall no longer lived in her body; it lived in her mind.
She broke. Quietly. In the dressing room, tears slipped down her powdered cheeks.
A soft voice interrupted her spiral.
“Here.”
Charlie looked up to see one of the girls from the Angel Corps offering a small block of rosin and a handkerchief. She had dark hair, kind eyes, and a steady expression that didn’t pity—only understood.
“Accidents happen,” the girl said gently. “It won’t be your last. It doesn’t have to define you.”
Charlie blinked, stunned by the sincerity. “I’m—sorry you saw that,” she whispered.
The girl shook her head. “Cry if you need to. Then go out there and dance, the show must go on.”
Her name was Vaggie. Charlie would remember that moment long before she realized that Vaggie would become her closest friend in the academy.
Time, however, has a way of stretching even the brightest memories thin.
By seventeen, the magic of her Nutcracker debut was no longer a crown, it was a target on her back. What had once been awe in the eyes of her peers had hardened into scrutiny. In the halls of the NYCB, admiration curdled fast into resentment, especially for a girl who carried a famous last name.
The shift had begun slowly. Whispered comments during barre, a smug glance when she wobbled in an arabesque, polite smiles with sharp edges. But the moment her acceptance into the Academy went public, the tension ignited. Overnight, students who once asked her to rehearse with them began avoiding her; others whispered loud enough for her to hear.
“She only got in because of her parents.”
“Money twirls faster than talent, apparently.”
When the Academy released a formal announcement reaffirming that admissions were based on merit alone, it wasn’t the comfort it was meant to be. If anything, it magnified the issue, like a reminder that people believed she needed defending.
Charlie kept a folded print of that announcement in her ballet bag, tucked behind her pointe shoes. At first, it had been a reassurance. Then it became a ritual: she would read it right before class, as if reminding herself she belonged there, no favoritism, no special treatment. But over months, the ink felt less like encouragement and more like proof that someone, somewhere, was still doubting her.
One chilly autumn afternoon, as she traced the sentence for the hundredth time—“The New York City Ballet Academy maintains equal standards regardless of background or socioeconomic status”—a familiar voice interrupted her.
“You need to stop reading that,” Vaggie said, plucking the paper from her fingers before Charlie could react. “You’re feeding the beast. If you keep reminding yourself that people think you’re only here for your last name, you’ll start believing it too.”
Charlie sighed. “It helps me stay grounded.”
“No, it helps you stay miserable,” Vaggie corrected flatly. She folded the paper once, twice, then shoved it back into Charlie’s hands. “You don’t owe anyone proof. Least of all them.”
Before Charlie could reply, a voice floated from behind them, laced with amusement.
“Oh, don’t look so tragic, Morningstar. It’s not that personal.” A tall boy in warm-up clothes leaned casually against the barre, stretching his feet. His curls were tied in a loose half-up style, the ends dusted—literally—with glitter that caught the studio lights.
Charlie knew him; everyone did. Angel, one of the most effortlessly charismatic dancers in the male program, he literally grow up in this specific dance school. A natural-born performer who treated the academy like a stage and the world as his audience.
“They just needed to shut up a few insecure brats,” he continued with a wink. “Trust me, the announcement wasn’t about you, it was about everyone else choking on their own envy.”
Another dancer approached him, adjusting his long dark hair into a tight bun. His posture was prim, his accent unmistakably British. “Quite right. They treat me like dirt as well, and I came all the way from London for this place. Royal Ballet rejected me before I even had the chance to audition—‘We regret to inform you…’ blah blah, you know how it goes.” His attempt at nonchalance faltered under the sting of the memory.
Charlie blinked. “Really? Royal never even—”
“Considered me, yes. But here, at least, they gave me a chance.” He stuck out a hand with an earnest, overly formal bow. “Sir Pentious. A ridiculous stage name, I’m aware, but I’m determined to earn the ‘Sir’ one day.”
Charlie shook his hand, biting back a smile. “Charlie. But I guess you already knew that.”
“Darling, everyone knows that,” Angel said, stepping between them with a playful flick of his wrist. “Angel. Some call me Angel Dust—and before you ask, it’s not that kind of dust.” He spun gracefully on his heel, glitter scattering from his hair like a trail of fairy magic. “I played every fairy role under the sun as a kid, and my costumes… well.” He gestured to the shimmer clinging to his warm-ups. “It stuck—literally and metaphorically.”
Sir Pentious cleared his throat. “He forgets to mention he still sprinkles glitter on his rehearsal clothes. It’s become a personality trait.”
“It’s branding,” Angel corrected.
Charlie laughed, genuinely, freely, for the first time that day. The knot in her stomach loosened just a little.
From that afternoon on, the four of them grew toward each other the way dancers learned to move in sync, slowly, instinctively, until it felt natural.
By the time they were adults, friendship had become routine in the best way. After exhausting rehearsals, it was almost a given that they would spill out of the Academy together and let the pressure melt somewhere far from mirrored walls.
Some nights, they grabbed cheap dinner at the tiny Dominican spot near Lincoln Center that Vaggie loved, grease, plantains, and laughter cutting through the nightly fatigue. Other times, Angel dragged them to Brooklyn, insisting the best parties were the ones held in basements, rooftops, or cramped walk-up apartments where half the guests were dancers, drag queens, or upcoming artists. Angel knew everyone: bartenders, bouncers, DJs, that one guy who always had a couch free “for performers only.” He belonged to the city in a way the rest of them envied.
And on the calmer nights, when their muscles ached too much to dance anywhere other than a studio, they crashed at Vaggie’s NYU dorm. The room was tiny, the bed squeaked, the radiator hissed like it held grudges, but it felt safe. Sir Pentious always brought tea from his dorm “to maintain the morale of the troops.” Angel sprawled dramatically across the floor, complaining about midterms at John Jay like it was a Greek tragedy.
Sometimes, when her parents weren’t home, Charlie invited them to the Morningstar penthouse, a sprawling Upper East Side apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view that looked fake even in person. Angel and Pentious would wander around in awe every single time, making dramatic oaths about how they would “gladly die for this level of luxury.” Charlie would roll her eyes, amused, because to her it was just... home.
A home she didn’t feel entirely part of.
Because while her friends talked about rent, dormmates, and supermarket ramen like badges of independence, Charlie went back each night to marble floors, a silent elevator, and a bedroom bigger than Vaggie’s entire dorm. She didn’t have stories about bad roommates or learning to do laundry at 2 a.m. in a shared building basement. She didn’t have the freedom to decorate a peeling studio apartment with thrifted furniture or invite people over without her parents knowing.
She envied them, not for what they had, but for what they were allowed to struggle through on their own.
Sometimes, Charlie wished she could have a dorm like Vaggie and Sir Pentious, cramped and chaotic and hers. Or a little apartment in Brooklyn like Angel’s, loud and messy and alive. Her own space. Her own life. Her own identity.
Instead, she lived like a guest in her own home, slipping in late after rehearsals, showering, collapsing into bed, and starting all over again the next morning. She barely spent time there. The penthouse felt like a museum, beautiful, curated, and quiet.
Too quiet.
Still, when she sat cross-legged on Vaggie’s floor eating instant noodles, or stumbled half-asleep out of a basement party with Angel and Pentious, sharing a scarf because they forgot jackets, Charlie felt something warm and real. Like this was growing up. Like this was hers.
She held those nights close, even if she didn’t know yet how much she’d need them to survive what came next.
By the time those memories resurfaced again, Charlie was 22 and in her senior year of college, juggling her Political Science major with her longtime love for ballet. Vaggie, now 21 and a Marketing major, had managed to balance rehearsals, exams, and part-time work with a discipline none of them fully understood but always admired. Sir Pentious, 22, Economics major with a flair for dramatics that spilled into everything he did, was still as ambitious as ever. And Angel, 23, was set to be the first among them to graduate with a degree in Criminal Justice, a choice he made mostly because he didn’t feel the need to study ballet again in college after already surviving it once at the academy. If he had to suffer through essays, at least they’d be about crime instead of choreography.
The four of them were passed out around Angel’s tiny apartment after a night out, heels abandoned, makeup smudged, and limbs draped over furniture that definitely wasn’t meant for sleeping, when the email notification tone pierced the silence around 7 a.m.
Angel was the first to stir. Or rather, his phone did, buzzing nonstop on the hardwood floor.
He squinted at the screen; his eyes widened, and then—
“Oh. My. GOD.”
Vaggie groaned into a couch cushion. “Angel, if this is about a meme, I swear—”
“It’s the casting list for Sleeping Beauty.”
Those four words sobered everyone instantly.
Vaggie shot upright so fast she got dizzy. Sir Pentious searched blindly for his glasses. Charlie’s heart climbed into her throat.
Angel unlocked his phone, scrolled, then gasped so dramatically it echoed.
“No freaking way.”
His voice cracked—then turned into a shriek.
“I GOT PRINCI—PAL. I’M FREAKIN’ AURORA’S PRINCE!”
Chaos erupted. Vaggie lunged at him first, nearly tackling him. This was his first-ever principal role. Pentious wrapped them both in his long, lanky arms. Charlie joined the hug, smiling so widely her cheeks hurt.
They were loud, tired, unwashed, and absolutely euphoric for him.
Sir Pentious found his name next. “Second lead! Ha! Perhaps New York does have taste after all.”
Angel smacked his arm. “After you threatened to defect to London last semester? Please.”
Vaggie scrolled, muttering under her breath. “Please don’t let it be corps de ballet… please… please—OH. Oh! Okay, that’s… actually decent. Fairy of Song. Not bad. I really thought they’d punish me for skipping rehearsals during finals.”
Charlie smiled at her. “Vaggie, that’s great.”
Vaggie nudged her. “See? Maybe this is the season we all rise.”
Charlie took the phone last.
Her thumb scrolled… and scrolled…
Names flew past—leads, alternates, soloists, fairies, attendants, even understudies—
Nothing.
Her stomach dropped before she found it.
Bottom of the list. Beyond minor. Barely a dance role at all.
“Court Lady #6.” Not even a named variation. Two entrances. One short waltz behind the main dancers. A role most dancers got when they were fifteen.
Charlie exhaled, steady. Expression calm—too calm.
Angel’s grin faded. “Babe… are you kidding me? Court Lady Six? They could’ve at least made you number three.”
“It’s fine,” Charlie said, voice thin but practiced. “Really. It’s whatever.”
Sir Pentious frowned, sitting straighter. “With all due respect to the Academy’s precious image, this is absurd. Yes, fine, you come from money, but you’ve worked harder than most dancers this season. Your applications for Aurora and Lilac Fairy were excellent. Objectively excellent.”
Angel crossed his arms. “Someone’s scared of Morningstar privilege rumors. They’re over-correcting again. It’s pathetic.”
Charlie wished it didn’t sting, wished it didn’t feel like the fall from her Nutcracker mistake all over again, but it did. A tiny fracture inside her, familiar by now, formed again.
Vaggie moved closer, placing a hand on her arm. “Next season, okay? You’ll climb again. You always do. And this one will pass.”
Charlie nodded, but something inside her whispered:
Will it? Or have they already decided who you are?
She swallowed the thought. Smiled. Told her friends she was happy for them, because she was, truly, but the heaviness didn’t leave her chest.
Not this time.
Two months had passed since the casting email, and the rehearsals were finally reaching their last stretch before the premiere. Charlie’s small role hardly gave her visibility, but she practiced tirelessly. Even at Columbia, if no one else was in the classroom, she would slip in, pop in her AirPods, and move through the steps as if the stage were hers. Every pirouette, every arabesque, every delicate gesture—she rehearsed alone, hoping to perfect what she could control.
Vaggie and she arrived a little late that morning, as they often did, but the studio was quiet. No one had started dancing yet, so they took a few minutes to warm up, adjusting pointe shoes and stretching.
Carmilla Carmine, one of the professors, finally gathered everyone. Her tone was apologetic, but commanding.
“I want to apologize for the delay this week,” she began. “With the premiere so close, I know time is precious. But there’s been a change. Our pianist, Zestial, has retired.”
A collective murmur of disappointment swept through the dancers. Zestial had always stayed late if anyone needed extra practice, patiently adjusting tempo, correcting phrasing. He had been an institution in himself.
Carmilla continued, “However, we have someone to take his place. Please welcome our new pianist.”
The sound of a cane tapped from the hallway, deliberate and measured, growing louder as it approached the studio door. Heads turned automatically. A man, older but striking in his bearing, stepped into view. His presence was magnetic, handsome in a sharp, almost intimidating way, and a wave of whispers rippled through the room.
Charlie leaned toward Angel, whispering, “Why is everyone acting like that?”
Angel’s eyes were wide. “I've been forgetting that you got here later than I did . He… was supposed to be a legend. I remember when I was a kid in the adult class, you know? When professors want you to get excited about the future. He was preparing for his permanent principal debut in Swan Lake. Everyone was talking about him; he was going to be brilliant. But… he never danced that night. Something happened. He never really came back as a dancer.”
Charlie’s chest tightened as she looked at the cane he carried, the slight shadow of pain it suggested. Her stomach sank with sympathy.
Carmilla’s voice carried through the whispers. “Mr. Alastor has joined us not just as a pianist, but as someone with an intimate knowledge of ballet, particularly the repertoire we perform here. You will not need to teach him exact tempos or melodies—he already knows them.”
Alastor’s gaze swept across the room, calm, unreadable. His voice was measured and quiet. “It is good to be back at the studio after all.”
And that was it.
He walked to the piano, the cane barely necessary for balance, though he moved with careful precision. It was obvious he could navigate the studio with ease if he chose, his body still capable, still disciplined, despite the shadow of past injury.
A hush fell over the dancers as he sat at the piano and began to play. Every note was precise, elegant, and commanding. Even without speaking, the room seemed to bend to his rhythm.
Rehearsal began.
Charlie, Vaggie, and Sir Pentious sat together on the floor by the barre, catching their breath and adjusting their shoes. Across the studio, Angel practiced alongside Emily, the current permanent principal dancer for Sleeping Beauty. Emily was everything Charlie admired and envied: graceful, effortless, and magnetic. She moved with a clarity and precision that made every pirouette, every arabesque, look easy. Her family was wealthy, yes, but unlike Charlie, that never seemed to get in the way; she had been promoted to permanent principal with a flawless record of performances, and everyone loved her for it.
Charlie couldn’t help but stare, the tiniest pang of envy curling in her chest. She wished, just for a moment, that she could glide across the stage like Emily, flawless and untouchable, that the world would see her for what she was, not the shadow of her name. It was unfair, she thought. But the music was ready to continue, and reality pulled her back.
“Girls!” Carmilla’s voice cut through the quiet. “Charlie, you and the other ladies. Come, now. You will practice with the corps.”
Charlie exhaled, steadying herself. She already knew the choreography; she had practiced it alone countless times. But as she stepped forward, Carmilla’s eyes swept over her and the other girls, sharp and calculating.
“Too stiff,” Carmilla said flatly, voice cold. “No emotion! Smile, da! Do not dance like machines, but like dancers. You might not be the center of attention, but you still need to do it perfectly, and im not seen that yet.”
Charlie’s cheeks burned, but she didn’t stop. The critiques landed heavier on her than the others, and for a moment, she felt the familiar knot of inadequacy. But she danced anyway, every muscle memorizing the steps, every motion precise, despite the sting. She let the embarrassment roll over her like a winter chill, temporary, but real.
When rehearsal ended, the group was buzzing with plans. Vaggie, Angel, and Sir Pentious were talking animatedly about a restaurant nearby that offered a discount on drinks if they arrived before 8:00. “Come on, Charlie! Friday night. Why not?” Vaggie urged.
Charlie opened her mouth, about to agree, but the sharp memory of Carmilla’s critique stopped her. She nodded politely, declining. They exchanged knowing glances. “Ok, but don’t overdo it,” Pentious said gently, shrugging. They left together, leaving her alone in the empty studio.
The silence was thick, but inviting. Charlie decided to connect her phone to the speaker and play the music for her part. She needed to practice, uninterrupted.
Then the door opened. The sound of a cane echoed across the studio, louder than it should have been. Charlie’s stomach twisted as the new pianist stepped inside.
“I… I was just going to practice,” she said softly.
He tilted his head slightly, voice smooth and calm. “I am well aware.”
Charlie blinked, unsure if it was a question or a statement. She focused on connecting her phone, but the process took longer than expected. Before she could finish, he sat at the piano and began to play her part, flawlessly, as if he had known it all along.
Charlie froze, listening, and then rose from the bench. Her gaze met his over the music, the tip of her ears warming. He played through to the final note without a hint of hesitation.
When the last note echoed and faded, he turned in his seat, cane tapping softly against the floor. “Do not lose more time,” he said, voice measured, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Get in position.”
Charlie’s face flushed faintly, a mixture of nerves and something she couldn’t name. She straightened, drew in a breath, and moved to her starting mark, ready to dance.
Charlie moved to her mark, the faint echo of Alastor’s piano notes filling the empty studio. Her role was small, but she treated it as if the stage were hers. Each plié, each delicate lift of her arms, was precise, practiced countless times in empty classrooms and mirrored studios.
The sound of his fingers on the keys was mesmerizing. Every note was exact, controlled, yet somehow alive, carrying subtle shifts that Charlie hadn’t expected. She found herself dancing not just to the rhythm, but with him, letting his interpretation guide her movement, as if he could hear the slightest hesitation and adjust the tempo to challenge her.
She could feel his presence before she even looked at him. When she finally did, he was still at the piano, posture straight, fingers moving with elegant authority. His eyes flicked toward her briefly, not in judgment, but assessing, calculating. And in that moment, something odd and thrilling coursed through her.
“Keep your shoulders down,” she heard in her mind the faint echo of Carmilla’s critique, but under Alastor’s playing, it felt less like a reprimand and more like a suggestion she wanted to follow. He was quiet, but every keystroke spoke volumes.
Charlie spun lightly, keeping her small waltz flowing. For all the embarrassment of being Court Lady, something inside her lifted. Her pirouettes felt sharper, her gestures cleaner, each motion almost pleasing him. She wasn’t sure why that thought even mattered, but it did.
When the piece ended, the last note hanging in the air, Alastor turned back, and his eyes met hers again. No words were exchanged, just a faint tilt of his head, a quiet acknowledgment that she had kept up.
Charlie felt her heart flutter, a warmth rising in her cheeks. She had danced perfectly, but not for Carmilla, not for the other dancers, not even for herself, not fully. She had danced for the music, for the piano, for the man at the keys.
A small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips as she lowered her arms, trying to look composed. She didn’t want to admit, even to herself, how much it mattered that he was there, that his playing had guided her every step, that he had made her want to be better.
Alastor stood, cane tapping lightly against the floor, and said softly, “Well done. Do not waste the next measure.”
Charlie’s pulse quickened. She straightened again, forcing herself to inhale, exhale, and prepare for the next run. Even in her smallest role, she felt something unfamiliar: a spark of exhilaration, of challenge, of… connection.
And in the quiet of the empty studio, as the piano began the next phrase, Charlie realized she would follow that music anywhere.
For the next hours, Alastor played without a word. Eight more times, each run through her small waltz, and each time Charlie felt herself improve, almost imperceptibly, yet undeniably. The notes from the piano seemed to carry her movements, correct them, guide them. She found herself speaking softly under her breath, almost unconsciously.
“Now… start.”
“Again.”
“Faster.”
Each cue was hers, but the music bent to her will only because of him. And still, he didn’t say a word—just played, precise, unflinching, yet almost… encouraging.
The clock on the wall caught her eye: 11:30 p.m.
Her heart sank. She needed to leave, go back home, but she couldn’t just walk away without saying something. She took a hesitant step toward him, the soft padding of her pointe shoes almost inaudible against the wooden floor.
“Um… sir, Mr. Alastor,” she began, voice slightly trembling. “Thank you… for staying. I—I’m sorry for keeping you so late on your first day here.”
He paused mid-motion, lifting his gaze from the keys to meet hers. The corner of his mouth curved into a faint, polite smile, one that was both amused and genuine. “Not a problem at all, my dear. It reminds me of the old good days. There is… a certain charm in staying late for a student so determined.”
Charlie blinked. His words, calm and measured, seemed to settle something in her chest. She let out a small breath. “I… I hope I’m doing it well. I don’t want to mess it up again tomorrow.”
He straightened slightly, the cane tapping softly against the floor as he rose. “You are doing… very well,” he said, his voice precise but courteous, each word deliberate. “Do not trouble yourself unnecessarily. Ballet, like music, is a matter of timing, grace… and persistence. You have both, more than you know.”
Charlie’s brow furrowed slightly, confused. “But… how would you know? You were playing the piano against the wall—”
He gave a slight chuckle, dry but not unkind, tipping his head with a subtle nod. “I can hear your steps. I know the rhythm, the beat. I know when you are aligned… and when you are not. Music tells me everything, Miss Morningstar, ”
Her heart skipped a beat. His words carried no exaggeration, no flattery. They were simple, factual, and somehow far more meaningful than any praise she had received before.
Alastor straightened fully, took up his cane, and tapped it lightly against the floor as he began toward the door. “I will expect to hear the same dedication tomorrow at practice. Good evening.”
And with that, he left the studio, the echo of his footsteps and cane fading into the hallway.
Charlie stood still for a moment, the soft glow of the late-night lights reflecting off the polished wood floors. A small, almost shy smile tugged at her lips.
She felt a flicker of hope; hope that she had improved, hope that tomorrow she would move with the music instead of against it, and perhaps, hope that Carmilla’s critiques would sting less.
The next day had arrived faster than before.
Saturday schedules were always the most intense: 12 p.m. to 6 p.m. Two hours in the studio, four hours on the actual stage.
Charlie arrived early—she always did—hoping to run her part before the others filled the room with chatter, nerves, and noise.
The studio was quiet, the air still cool from the night before. She set her bag down, slipped off her warm-ups, and began stretching on the floor. Hamstrings, hips, back—slow movements, letting her body wake and unfold. After ten minutes at the barre, she reached for her pointe shoes… and sighed.
Dead. Completely dead.
The box was flattened, the shank soft. She expected it, rehearsal weeks always killed her shoes, but it still annoyed her. This pair hadn’t even lasted two days.
“Great,” she muttered, grabbing a new pair.
She began the familiar routine: bending the shank, softening the box, and then, whack.
She hit the shoe against the wall to break it in.
The sound echoed like a gunshot in the empty studio.
She froze, because she heard something else.
Steps. Tap.
Steps. Tap.
A cane.
Her breath caught. Mr. Alastor was early too.
The door eased open, and he entered with the same composed presence as last night. His posture was straight, his expression pleasant but unreadable.
“Good morning,” Charlie said quickly, a little breathless.
He nodded politely, offering a small, controlled smile before moving toward the piano. “Good morning, Miss Morningstar.”
She resumed hitting her shoe—whack, whack, whack—winced at how absurdly loud it sounded, and blurted, “Sorry! I know it’s loud.”
Alastor’s fingers paused briefly on the piano lid. “My dear, if breaking in shoes were the most disruptive noise I’d heard in a studio, I would consider myself quite spoiled. Do carry on.”
The comment made her grin. She finished breaking the shoes, then pulled out her ribbons, elastic, thread, and needle. Stitching was second nature by now—quick, clean, precise. She hummed softly as she worked.
Right as she finished sewing the second shoe, she reached into her bag to cut the ribbons and froze.
“…I forgot my scissors.”
Of course she did.
She checked her phone. A message in the group chat:
Sir Pentious: We’ll be a lil late. Angel insisted we “celebrate his future fame” and now we are hungover in Brooklyn.
Charlie groaned. So much for borrowing Vaggie’s scissors. She needed to practice before class. Desperate, she tried biting through the ribbon with her teeth like a feral raccoon.
She was so focused that she didn’t hear the footsteps approach until the cane tapped right beside her.
She looked up.
Alastor was standing over her, offering a small pair of silver scissors, held delicately between gloved fingers.
“A dancer,” he said with a playful lilt that absolutely fit his mysterious charisma, “should never forget her equipment. It rather ruins the mystique of professionalism, wouldn’t you agree?”
Charlie nearly died of embarrassment.
“Th-thank you—really—sorry, I don’t know why I’m like this,” she rushed out, cheeks burning as she took them.
“You are quite welcome,” he replied, amused but gentlemanly.
He turned to leave, and she panicked; she hadn’t properly introduced herself yesterday. So she stood, extended her hand, and forced out:
“I’m—well—you know who I am, but I’m Charlie. I mean—Charlie Morningstar.”
He raised an eyebrow with a soft hum of amusement. “Yes. I am aware.”
Right. Her name. People knew it. She always forgot her life wasn’t normal.
“Sorry, that was stupid. Of course, you knew. Um… then—what is your name?” she asked, even though she obviously knew it was Alastor.
He gave a light chuckle—the kind that could be either charming or unsettling depending on the lighting—and replied,
“You already know that as well.”
Her face heated even more. “Right. Yes. Sorry. I just wanted to be polite.”
He began to walk away, cane tapping softly. And only once he had taken three steps, he spoke without turning back:
“Alastor Hartfelt. A pleasure, Miss Morningstar.”
Her eyes widened. Somehow, hearing his full name made it feel… real. More personal.
Before she could respond, the door swung open and voices flooded in, the other dancers. She glanced at the clock.
11:50 a.m.
She’d lost her chance to practice alone. But strangely, she didn’t feel tense about it anymore.
She looked toward the piano, where Alastor was settling into position, hands poised elegantly over the keys.
For the first time since the cast list had come out, Charlie felt she might not be facing this battle alone.
The rest of the class began to trickle in, chatting quietly as they slipped off coats, changed shoes, and claimed spots at the barre. Moments later, Professor Carmilla entered the studio with the sharp click of heels that immediately killed every whisper in the room. In one swift motion, everyone rushed to stand at the barre, backs straight, chins lifted, hands properly placed.
Charlie swallowed. Angel, Vaggie, and Sir Pentious still weren’t there.
Carmilla gave Alastor a short, cold gesture with her hand. “Music.”
He obeyed, settling at the piano. Carmilla began calling out exercises, her voice clipped and strict, counting with the tempo. “And— pliés… one, two, three, four— up. Shoulders down. Posture. Again.”
She walked through the rows with the sharp gaze of someone hunting for mistakes. Whenever she paused behind a student, their muscles tightened with dread. Charlie felt her approach, she braced for correction, sure she was next, when the studio door swung open with two sharp claps.
Rosie entered, warm smile softening the tension instantly. “Sorry to interrupt, dears!” The music stopped; even the air stilled. “Carmilla, I need a word. It’s important.”
Carmilla’s jaw tightened. “It had better be. You are stopping my class.”
“It may take a few minutes,” Rosie admitted with an apologetic smile.
Carmilla’s jaw tightened. “So what would you have them do? Stand there like furniture? They need direction.”
Rosie glanced at Alastor. “Perhaps Alastor can continue the exercises until we’re done?, He is not just a pianist after all. He was one of my peers when I was still in the company.”
Carmilla scoffed with a pointed look at his cane. “He can hardly—”
Alastor rose smoothly, cane in hand, posture controlled.
“My dear Carmilla,” he said with a pleasant, razor-thin smile, “I assure you, I am far from incapacitated. Ballet technique does not vanish simply because one is no longer on stage.”
A quiet murmur spread. Carmilla rolled her eyes. “Fine. Do as you please.”
With that, she followed Rosie out, leaving the door half-open behind them.
A strange, charged silence took over the room.
Alastor moved away from the piano and toward the old speaker system. “We shall continue,” he said, adjusting the volume. “Do keep up.”
Just as he pressed play, the studio door burst open, Vaggie, Angel, and Sir Pentious rushed in, breathless, scrambling to join their places. Charlie’s heart dropped with second-hand embarrassment.
Vaggie whispered at lightning speed, “What did we miss??”
Charlie barely had time to whisper, “He’s teaching—” before music filled the room.
Only… it wasn’t Carmilla’s traditional piano tracks.
It was faster. Sharper. Something older, yet electrifying.
Instinct kicked in; everyone moved automatically, surprised but obeying.
Alastor walked with his cane behind each row, voice slicing cleanly through the music. He didn’t know students’ names, so his feedback was rapid, impersonal, and brutally precise:
“Higher turnout.”
“Control your port de bras—your arms are noodles, not silk.”
“Feet—point, don’t stab the floor.”
Students stiffened, not because he was rude, but because everything he said was true. Painfully true.
He paused by Emily for a mere second, eyes narrowing in assessment.
“…Wonderful.”
A ripple of understanding spread. Of course, she was the principal ballerina, she was just perfect most of the times.
Charlie felt him before she saw him, his presence settling beside her like a shadow.
The exercise shifted to relevés on pointe, balancing on one leg, fully extended.
“That leg is not high enough,” he said to Charlie, loud enough for several nearby dancers to hear.
She lifted higher, trembling. The shake in her supporting foot worsened.
“And the shaking,” he added, tone almost bored. “Control. You are not a newborn deer.”
Her face tightened, but she fought to maintain it. He leaned closer.
“And smile. The audience should never see the strain. A dancer suffers, silently.”
Why was he still here? Why her?
Her leg burned. She tried for another inch, desperate to satisfy his demand.
Without warning, his hand gently, yet firmly, lifted her leg higher into full extension.
Gasps whispered across the barre. It wasn’t unheard of; Carmilla did the same constantly. But coming from him—the sudden contact, the intensity—caught Charlie completely off-guard. As soon as he let go, she lost balance and came down clumsily, wobbling to regain footing.
A single beat of disapproval.
“Do not disappoint on the next attempt.”
The music shifted into a calmer track, allowing everyone to breathe, barely. Whispers fluttered in the corners of the room, adrenaline buzzing through the students. Some were intimidated. Some were thrilled. A few seemed awakened by the challenge.
But no one was ignoring him now.
Carmilla and Rosie were gone for ten long minutes, ten minutes that Alastor did not allow to go to waste. By the time the studio door finally opened again, every dancer was flushed, sweating, and silently praying for mercy.
Alastor saw the professors return and struck his cane twice against the floor—sharp, commanding. Several dancers startled.
“Warm-up is concluded,” he announced, turning down the radio. Only then did everyone dare to breathe.
Rosie took one look at the exhausted class and chuckled.
“Well! This is the most winded I’ve seen all of you in ages. Someone’s been slacking on intensity, hmm?” she teased, giving Carmilla a pointed smile.
Carmilla scoffed. “Warm-ups are not meant to turn dancers into factory machinery. I prepare my students to perform with expression. A dancer must tell a story, not simply move through steps like a metronome.” She faced the dancers, clapping once for attention. “Gather. This is important.”
Angel, Sir Pentious, and Vaggie drifted toward Charlie as everyone reassembled.
Angel fanned himself dramatically. “If this isn’t about a water break, I’m passing out on purpose.”
Vaggie nodded, rubbing her calf. “I’m still hungover. That warm-up nearly killed me.”
Sir Pentious muttered, massaging his temples. “That man just declared war on our joints. And he was brutal with you, Charlie!”
Angel leaned in. “Yeah, babe—did you piss him off? Did you step on his cane or something? It was giving ‘new personal enemy’ vibes, and he literally just got here.”
Charlie didn’t answer. Her stomach twisted. It was to help her improve… right?
Carmilla waited for silence before speaking.
“We have unfortunate news. Millie—our Lilac Fairy—arrived today with her foot in a cast. Admirable dedication, but reality is reality. She will not be able to perform.”
A stunned hush fell across the room.
“We didnt oversee this, so e must recast immediately. Anyone who auditioned for Lilac Fairy will report with Professor Rosie to Studio B. She will reassess, and the role will be reassigned. The rest of you will continue rehearsals here before we move to the theater.”
Vaggie’s hands landed on Charlie’s shoulders. “Charlie, this is your chance.”
Angel lit up. “Girl, this is it. No more Court Lady nonsense. Lilac Fairy is a solo. Take it!”
“And we shall escort you to the line if we must,” Pentious declared, and they did, gently pushing Charlie into place with the other candidates.
Rosie counted heads, then turned to Carmilla. “Carmilla, dear, may I borrow Alastor for this evaluation? A second pair of trained eyes would be valuable. And who better than someone with a professional background?”
Carmilla exhaled sharply. “At this rate, the company will need to hire a new pianist. This one seems determined to play professor.”
Alastor let out a soft, polite laugh. “No need to be so stern, my dear. It is only my second day. Besides, field work is splendid for the legs.” His tone was light, refined, and just cheeky enough to irritate her without breaking decorum.
Another long sigh from Carmilla. “Ok. Just this once.”
Alastor rose. As he stepped forward, Charlie noticed, only because she had been watching, that his cane slipped for half a second. His balance wavered. But he corrected instantly, posture untouched, expression unchanged. No one else reacted.
Rosie began leading the group toward Studio B. Charlie’s pulse pounded in her ears. Her throat tightened.
As Alastor approached to follow, a single icy thought stabbed through her: She was the one he had corrected the most during the warm-up, where he made it clear to everyone that her flexibility, stretching, and efforts were not good enough for the class. Why would they ever choose me now?
The seven girls filed into Studio B. Rosie motioned for them to sit against the wall.
“All right, ladies,” she began, clasping her hands. “Don’t be nervous, well, actually, be very nervous. The premiere for your group is Wednesday night. Class One opens this production for a reason—you’re the strongest dancers we have. But that also means whoever gets this role has to train like hell for the next few days. Understood?”
A few girls swallowed hard. Charlie nodded, though her pulse was racing.
One by one, Rosie called dancers forward. Alastor sat slightly behind her, posture straight, listening, observing every step with unsettling stillness. He spoke only occasionally, leaning toward Rosie to murmur brief comments as each girl finished. Some left the center with relief, others with dread.
Charlie sat against the cold studio wall, knees drawn slightly in, hands fidgeting with the ribbons of her pointe shoes.
With each passing dancer, Charlie’s stomach coiled tighter.
You can do this. You know the steps. You’ve practiced this a thousand times in the past.
But the voice in her head was louder: Remember what he said. Your legs weren’t high enough. You shook. You weren’t graceful. You’ll embarrass yourself. You need to be better now
The Lilac Fairy variation was demanding, especially the jumps and extensions, the intricate balance that Alastor had criticized just minutes ago. Charlie swallowed. She tried to breathe. She tried to clear her mind, but her body tensed as Rosie’s voice cut through the room.
“Charlie Morningstar, position, please.”
The studio seemed to shrink. The barre against the wall became a distant memory. All that existed was the floor beneath her, the music waiting, and her own heartbeat hammering in her ears. She straightened her back, planted her feet, and raised her arms, focusing on the melody she knew so well.
She danced.
Every step, every turn, every leap, she poured all the grace and passion she had into the motion. Her feet brushed the floor like whispers, then soared into extensions that made her feel weightless. One minute and twenty seconds stretched into an eternity, every muscle, every fiber of her body trembling in effort and concentration.
When the final note fell, she stayed poised, chest heaving, gaze fixed forward. The room was silent, the only sound her rapid breaths.Then she caught sight of them: Alastor, murmuring quietly to Rosie, who nodded in agreement. Their whispered conversation made her stomach tighten further. She didn’t know what they were saying, but the gravity in their expressions told her: the decision was not yet made.
“Thank you, Charlie,” Rosie said warmly. “You may sit.”
Charlie returned to the wall, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Rosie and Alastor rose.
“We’ll step outside to discuss,” Rosie announced to the group. “Then we’ll let you know our decision. For now, return to Carmilla’s class and continue rehearsing your original roles.”
Back in the main studio, Vaggie was in the center rehearsing her part, Carmilla circling her with pointed corrections.
“Again! More grace, Vaggie! Tell the audience a story with your arms, not just your steps!”
Angel was across the room practicing with Emily, while Pentious worked alone, muttering counts under his breath. Charlie sank down near the barre. For a moment, she didn’t move. Of course she didn’t get it. Why would she?
After a short minute, she forced herself up and quietly practiced her tiny background choreography beside the barre. Court Lady #6. Again.
Ten minutes passed.
The door opened. Rosie and Alastor stepped in. The room stilled.
Rosie smiled. “We have made our decision.” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “Your new Lilac Fairy will be… Charlie Morningstar.”
For a heartbeat, no one reacted. Shock froze the air.
Then Angel cheered first, clapping wildly. Vaggie and Pentious joined in, rushing toward her. Emily, the principal dancer whose effortless grace had been the standard for years, smiled and joined in, setting a precedent. The room followed, applause filling the air, but Charlie could barely register it.
Her legs were weak, her chest tight. She felt as though she were suspended in midair, a fragile figure caught between disbelief and joy.
Carmilla nodded once, assessing Charlie with new eyes. “After Vaggie, you will rehearse the Lilac Fairy variation. Prepare.”
Rosie approached Charlie, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll do wonderfully. We chose you for a reason.” She gave her an encouraging wink before exiting.
Alastor remained.
He stepped closer and tapped her opposite shoulder lightly. The touch was gentle, almost tender, but his words were anything but.
“Do not make us regret our decision, Miss Morningstar.”
Pressure crashed down on her chest like a weight.
She had never felt more terrified in her life.