“Camillia.”
All around the studio, reflections of me jerk in the mirror. Madame Ophelia stands at my elbow, watching me run through the warm-up exercises with her mouth pursed.
“Yes, Madame?” I murmur, trying not to move my lips. Monsieur Paris watches us from the front of the room, his arms folded over his broad chest. Even under his long-sleeved black t-shirt, the shift and rise of his sculpted muscles is clear.
Madame Ophelia starts to say something, then gusts out a sigh. It’s not like her to hold back criticism, and I risk glancing in her direction.
Her eyes darken instantly.
“Face forward, fool,” she snaps. “Did I tell you to break form?”
“No, Madame.”
Monsieur Paris watches us, his expression tight. Am I messing up so badly? All around us, legs bend and raise. Limbs float thr
