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Since it was only a matinee, Ninette had not even thought much about the fact that the Sylphide herself, Mademoiselle Jeanmarie Augustine, was nowhere to be seen. The etoile was possessed by one of those rich old men, performed her warm-ups in the privacy of her own little ballet studio in her luxurious flat, and was rushed to the theater in her paramour’s own motorcar. But an uncharacteristic stir backstage caught her attention, as did the sound of raised voices signaling something was wrong, and she looked up from her stretching among all the other little sylphs to see the ballet master, the wardrobe mistress, and the company manager hurrying towards her own little knot of girls carrying, respectively, a wreath of artificial orange blossoms of the sort that winter brides wore, the slightly larger and more elaborate wings of La Sylphide herself, and a sheaf of papers. . . .

And they were looking straight at her.

A thrill of excitement together with a chill of anxiety sent blood rushing to her cheeks and gooseflesh to crawl on her arms. Something must have happened to La Augustine. But surely they weren’t—

They were.

The other girls scampered awkwardly out of the way as the three approached, the portly, be-suited manager, with his little fringe of hair combed hopelessly over his bald pate, looking particularly red-faced and out-of-sorts. When they reached hearing distance, they all started talking at once.

“Of all the wretched inconveniences—”

“Ma belle, we haven’t time to change—”

“Petite, I know you can—”

“Enough!” roared the company manager, getting complete silence. “Look here, girl—” he scanned the papers in his hand. “Ninette. La Augustine managed to trip on the curb and sprained her ankle. Her understudy didn’t come in.” The look on his face told what he thought was the reason—a man, too much wine, and a big head after. “The second understudy is already in the harness—”

The harness. Of course, the harness that attached to the ropes that would make the Sylphide fly through the air to tease James. There were really two Sylphides, a dancing one and a flying one. The harness was built into a costume that was impossible to actually dance in. The dancing Sylphide would flit offstage and the flying one would be pulled by three strong men out of the wings and through the air, only to have the dancing one take her place again to flit with James in pursuit. It was one of the tricks that made this ballet so popular.

“That leaves you. Pierre says you can dance it—”

The ancient ballet master, gray-haired, tall, and leonine, smiled encouragingly. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly elated and terrified all at once. “Mais oui, I have studied the part, rehearsed it, but—”

“I have seen you in rehearsal after rehearsal, cherie, and you will be admirable.” The ballet master patted her shoulder. “Do not think. Just dance.”

“It’s only a matinee,” the company manager growled. “The balletomanes are always after us to put new young dancers on the stage—”

“Ah, but you know why we have the etoiles dance even the matinees,” the ballet-master interjected. “The balletomanes are few, and the public many, and the Parisian audience is loyal to a fault. They wish to see their etoiles, and barring accident—”

“Yes, yes, yes, I know,” the manager growled. “Well, there was an accident. Get those wings on her!” he barked at the inoffensive wardrobe mistress. Unflappable as ever, the competent old woman in her eternal, rusty-black dress was already taking the smaller wings of a soloist off the small of Ninette’s back. “Thank all the Saints the costumes are so alike; we’d never have time for you to change.” The ballet master plucked the smaller, scanter wreath from Ninette’s head and pinned the Sylphide’s wreath in its place.

The stage manager, evidently already apprised of the situation, was mustering the chorus. Anton Deauville, the rather aging etoile in the part of James, was arranging himself in the armchair onstage. The orchestra had finished tuning and was falling silent. So was the babble of sound from the other side of the curtain. The company manager gave Ninette a despairing look and stalked off to stage center front, to part the curtains and walk through.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” She heard his voice, muffled first by the heavy velvet, then the fire curtains. “Due to an accident, the part of La Sylphide will be danced this afternoon by Mademoiselle Ninette Dupond. Thank you.”

She went cold. She had been in the theater so many times when it was someone else’s name announced in place of the etoile. There had been restlessness, murmurs of discontent—after all one had paid to see the etoile, and one should get what one had paid for! Sometimes there were whistles and catcalls, more often cross murmurs as the members of the audience searched in their playbills for the unfamiliar name. Once in a great while, people walked out.

Were they walking out right now?