I nod, raising the steaming cup to my lips. It tastes like rose and chamomile with honey, and it is soothing, the heat slipping down my throat and the steam clearing my sinuses. “I was going to be the prima,” I whisper as I take another sip of the tea, finally looking up to meet his eyes. “I had an audition with the New York Ballet, not long before what happened—” I break off, unable to talk about Franco yet, about what had happened to my feet. “All my instructors at Juilliard were sure that I was going to be the next prima. It would have taken some time, of course, but they were so sure I would get there, that I’d be the best—” my voice breaks, and I go back to drinking the tea, fighting back more tears. “It’s all gone now. That’s why I don’t want to talk about it. There’s nothing left to tell, and it hurts too much.”
He can drag it out of me if he wants, I know. No amount of kindness or concern can change the fact that he owns me, that I have no home or money or resources of my own, that everyone who cares about me is so far away or lost altogether that I might as well be all alone in the world. If he insists on knowing it all, now, I will have to tell him.
But I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about it, and Alexandre must see something in my face that convinces him not to push, because he doesn’t. He simply sits there as I finish the tea and takes the cup out of my hands when I’m finished, his long fingers wrapping delicately around the fine, flower-painted china.
I notice, for the first time as he takes it away, that there’s a chip in the porcelain.
And then, as he sets it aside, I feel a sudden, intense sleepiness, so deep that it feels like a wave pulling me under, and I realize with a thrill of fear that there must have been something in the tea.
I look up at Alexandre fearfully, but his face is smooth and calm as he leans down, pulling the covers up over me and tucking me in. “Va te coucher, ma petit poupée,” he says softly, his accent soft and caressing the syllables as he leans down, pressing his lips against my forehead.
He says something else, but I don’t catch it. I’m already falling asleep, and I can’t resist the exhaustion pulling me under.
If I’m being honest, I don’t want to.