Chapter 37: Which of all my important nothings shall I tell you first?

The last place Aidan wishes to be today is rehearsals. As if he does not know the steps back to front nor could recite them in his sleep. But, regardless of his prowess, the French accept nothing less than perfection. So, here he is, flinging his body about the stage in an artful manner to the onlooking of his company and the insipid Maître Renaud.

The day Aures had suggested had been one of the loveliest in recent memory. The starvation of them had not weakened his feelings for Edmund even remotely, and he and the women had cried openly, baring their hearts to one another in the most reassuring and loving way. It had left him reinvigorated, but that energy is quickly fading at the sight of Renaud approaching him across the treated floor.

“You lose a split second’s momentum on that last jump,” Renaud notes, coming to place his hands fully and luridly on Aidan’s person. “Perhaps if you leaned into the turn from the initial moment of the leap, like so.”