Page 39 of Of Might and Mettle

Recognition flickered in the passport guy’s—Enrique’s—eyes. “Capitán Fuentes?” He frowned in confusion. “What are you doing out here?” He shared a look with his companion over Antonio’s shoulder.

Antonio could have laughed. “What are you doing here?”

Enrique blinked, as if it was a simple question with a simple answer and not the very thing that saved Antonio’s life. “That ship left the port without proper documentation.”

Now Antonio really did laugh. “Proper docu—”

Enrique slipped oars back into place. “And now I need to cite them. You can take the next shift.” He started rowing.

“Forget them,” Antonio said. “We need to get back to the island.”

“But their papers—”

“The king’s life is at stake, as well as his family,” Antonio said firmly.

Enrique shut his mouth and turned the boat around toward shore. The other guard helped. Even though the waves seemed to quicken their pace, Antonio only prayed they would make it in time.

But maybe it was too much to hope for a second miracle today.

Chapter twenty-two

Into the Fire

The break between acts was too short, giving Lorelle only enough time to change into her next costume and sneak a peek through the curtains to see her aunt and uncle—her family—sitting in the audience. It hadn’t been a dream or a figment of her imagination. They were there, sitting in the second row to the left.

Isabel caught her in a hug. “You did amazing, Lorelle,” she said. “I really hope la directora changes her mind. She’d be stupid not to have you as a part of the company.”

Lorelle didn’t know how to say it wasn’t in her heart to stay anymore. Instead, she smiled and nodded. “Thank you.” She followed Isabel’s gaze across the room, where Vanesa was tying her shoes.

She was speaking to Oliver again, and this time she seemed very angry at something. She gestured over to Lorelle, and that was all Lorelle needed to know what they were talking about: her.

No, she couldn’t stay a part of the company. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to dance at all, but she hoped that, somehow, she could change the way things were. Maybe the princess would be open to working with her.

“Have you talked to him?” Lorelle looked over at Isabel, but she had disappeared. She made a note to talk to her later.

All too soon, she was back onstage, creeping ever-closer to the finale and a new season of unknowns in her life when the curtains would finally close. A rumble of thunder sounded faintly through the walls, heightening the tension of the battle scene.

The mice pressed around her and the wooden soldier as they defended the kingdom. The wooden soldier brandished his musket, aiming for the crowd, and with a clash of cymbals, two mice went down. More mice appeared in the audience, and they disappeared with the next crash of the cymbals. Now the wooden soldier aimed up to the balconies, where the mice from the first wave had gone up to taunt them.

The wooden soldier’s musket clicked. Ice froze Lorelle’s spine, and she stumbled. The prop musket was supposed to be made of solid wood. The only time she’d heard that mechanical click was with Antonio’s revolver.

This was a real gun. And it was loaded.

Realization smacked her as the cymbals clashed. The audience cheered as another mouse fell, but Lorelle felt sick. The vying for the role of Maria, the costumes, the imperial sailors moving from port to port to the capital—Antonio had been right to investigate. The Empire was not yet finished with Monte Rico.

But Lorelle, like Maria, would not let her kingdom fall.

She didn’t have time to shout for the guards, if she would even be heard above the music. And if she waved frantically at the royals, would they even see her actions as anything more than a part of the ballet, a new twist on the production?

Though the mice were supposed to surround both Maria and the wooden soldier, they formed a barrier between Lorelle and her target. Had la directora changed the choreography?

She shoved her way through the mice, toppling the dancers and interrupting the dance. Gasps came from the audience, but she didn’t care. She reached the wooden soldier just as he trained his aim high and to the left, not where a mouse waved from the second balcony, but directly at the royal box.

Lorelle kicked as the gun went off, hitting the barrel of the musket and sending the wooden soldier off course. But he’d been exposed. Cries arose from the audience, though some clapped, unsure whether the spectacle onstage was part of the ballet.

She glanced back at the royal box. It was empty. Relief surged through her, but only for a moment as the wooden soldier turned on her. “You weren’t supposed to be here,” he snapped, “but I have alternate means of finishing the job.”

And with that, he aimed the musket up once more and fired at the stage lights. Gas lamps shattered, raining fire down on the audience, who burst out of their seats. The wintry spell of the ballet had shattered, replaced with fearful reality. Orange flames lapped at the curtains, quickly engulfing the powdery “snow” on the front of the stage.