“Play for me.”

The command always tastes of Artemisia on Regulus's tongue, yet when you speak it your words flow as the nectar of blossoms, tinting the enmity between you with a hue perilously close to trust.

A poor boy—knuckles splitting the ivory, pomegranate‑red blooming over Bach's ‘Prelude in C Major.’

The whisper of satin pointe shoes on wood tells him that you start.

Not ‘Clair de Lune’ tonight, but Scriabin's ‘Étude in D‑Sharp Minor’—a masterpiece that claws at its own ribs, all dissonance and bare teeth. All he can do is watch your reflection shimmer on the grand piano's lacquer: a porcelain statuette in a worn ballet tutu.

His hands hover, trembling not from fear but from the phantom sting of the cane. (“Again,” his father's voice slithers into his mind, “you play it until it's flawless, or you play nothing at all. Dullard.”) Tonight, his ghosts speak in hushed tones.

But not yours. Midway through the étude, you stagger.

It is not a fall but a fracture—a half‑second betrayal of your body. Your left ankle rolls; your arms flare as a startled bird's wings. Regulus's fingers slam a discordant cluster of keys.

Silence. You stand perfectly still, back to him, shoulders rising and falling with the violence of your breath.

A poor girl—holding a révérence until the ankles scream, tears salting the blisters blooming beneath silk ribbons.

Up close, he sees what the mirrors hide: the raw skin beneath your tights, the tremour in your calves. You reek of arnica and exhaustion. Regulus says nothing; he knows better than to offer pity. Instead, he slowly unties his Oxfords. He tosses the shoes aside and rolls his sleeves past his ink‑stained forearms. The realisation does not come right away—your icy mask is splintered by confusion.

“Show me,” he says.

You withdraw a step and resume your stance in fourth position. He replicates you, barefoot, upon the warped floor.

“And yes, I play, you dance, but the arrangement,” he intones—lifting his arms in a crude port de bras—“has merely changed, ma chère.”