The Ballroom Mistress – Part 2: Last Waltz

She put on a record, an old waltz, slow and crackling, and the sound filled the vast dim room. She did not take his hand. She stood a pace away with the cane held crosswise and told him, in a level voice, to begin.

He danced alone. She watched. When he drifted, the cane tapped the floor. When he faltered, she said a single word, again, and he began the phrase once more, and again, and again, until the steps became automatic and his mind finally went quiet. It was the oddest sort of discipline, an endless patient insistence on getting something right, and under it he could feel the slow release of everything he carried.

"Do you wish to continue?" she asked, at the half hour.

"Yes, Madame."

"Do you wish to be corrected?"

"Please."

She corrected him with a hand at his shoulder, a finger under his chin, a murmured sentence in the cold, immaculate tone of a woman who had known the best and the worst of every pupil. When the record ended she let the silence fall. Then she set the cane against the piano.

"Encore," said Odette, quietly.

It was her word, and she meant it for both of them. She slipped off her gloves, crossed the floor and held out her hand. "Now we dance."

They waltzed, close and slow, to music neither of them needed, and it was the warmest thing he had ever done. Her hand rested at his back. His cheek rested against her hair. When the last of the record had played, they sat on the piano stool, sharing a flask of tea she had brought, her shoes off, her feet in his lap.

"Thank you, Madame."

"Odette," she said, and smiled. "That was a very good first lesson."

"The second?"

"The cane will be longer," said Odette. "And your posture will have to improve."

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