A Proposal From The Crown Prince. Jessica Gilmore

      ‘I’m leaving. I’m joining a tour company.’

      Posy spun round and stared at her friend in disbelief. ‘You’re what? Cramped dressing rooms, digs, a different small town every day, no paid holiday? Instead of here, instead of all this history, the reputation? Why?’

      ‘To dance,’ Elise said simply. ‘I will go in as First Soloist, if I do well then I could be Principal by this time next year. I have been promised a chance to dance Clara and Aurora this autumn. There’s even a chance of Odette/Odile if I work hard. I deserve this. I’ve paid my dues here, Posy. As have you. Why don’t you come with me? I know they would jump at the opportunity to have someone with your training.’

      But Posy was already shaking her head. Here was where she was meant to be. This was the stage she wanted to conquer—not a different stage every night. ‘I can’t. But I wish you all the luck in the world if this is what you really want.’

      ‘What I want is a handsome prince to whisk me away from all of this, but if it won’t happen in real life at least I’ll get to dance it. Posy, there’s a whole world outside. Remember that, you have choices...but come, it’s Saturday night and we are free for such a short while. Do you want me to wait for you? There’s a table at Luigi’s with our name at it.’

      ‘You go ahead. I’m still not changed and I left my jacket in the studio. I’ll see you there, okay?’

      ‘Okay. Don’t be too long. It’s not good to be alone when your thoughts are sad.’

      There’s a whole world outside. Elise’s words echoed through Posy’s head as she headed away from the dressing room and up the staircase that led to the rehearsal studios and break rooms where she spent much of her day. There was a world outside but this was all she had ever wanted from the moment she first put a ballet shoe on. She had sacrificed friends, romance, higher education, even her family to be able to walk along these corridors, rehearse in these studios. To step out onto that stage. How could she give up on her dream when it was still attainable? Impossible.

      She’d expected the dancers’ area to be dark and shut up but to her surprise the lights were on in the wide corridors. She stopped to look at the familiar space, at the sofas lined up along the wall facing the huge windows with their views across Covent Garden and the wider city skyline, encouraging the dancers to sit and rest between their gruelling routine of class and rehearsal. Windows above the sofas looked into the large studios, each wall covered with mirrors and barres, capable of holding forty or so dancers. She spent nine hours a day, six days a week in these corridors and studios; they were more home than the narrow bedroom she rented just a few streets away.

      She’d left her jacket slung on one of the sofas and she picked it up, suddenly impatient to be out of the building and away from her worries. Elise was right, maybe being alone when she was sad was a mistake. She’d be better off at Luigi’s with a glass of wine and a plate of pasta, her usual Saturday night treat. As she turned she caught sight of two people in the studio and froze when she recognised the ballet master, Bruno, and the formidable company director, Dame Marietta Kirotsova, deep in conversation.

      Her heartbeat speeded up. Here was her chance, handed to her on a plate. She could go in there and ask them just what she had to do, what she had to work on, how she could distinguish herself enough to finally take her rightful place as a featured artist. She inhaled, apprehension creeping through her. She was used to criticism, to rejection; she had to be. But this time it mattered more than it ever had.

      ‘Just move, Posy,’ she admonished herself, but for the first time in her life her feet wouldn’t obey. Maybe she was a coward after all, maybe it was better to hope than to know that there was no hope.

      And then all thoughts fled as she heard her name, loud and clear through the partly opened door. She tried to speak up, to let them know she was there, but her voice had dried up, her limbs incapable of movement.

      ‘Rosalind Marlowe? Oh, you mean Posy?’ Bruno’s voice, still heavily Italian even after several decades in London, carried easily through the still air. Posy swallowed, wishing she were anywhere else.

      ‘She’s danced with us for five seasons. Do you think she’s ready for a featured part?’

      Posy squeezed her eyes shut, wishing with all the fervour of a small child for the right answer, that her worries would all be over soon.

      ‘No.’

      And just like that her world ended.

      ‘She’s an excellent technical dancer, maybe the best we have. I can see her as coryphée one day—and she would be a wonderful teacher. But she doesn’t have the fire, the passion to step outside the corps. I never look at her in character and believe this is a woman who has loved, who has lived. It’s a pity but as I say she is almost unsurpassed technically and a great asset to the company...’

      Posy didn’t wait to hear more. Somehow she regained control of her legs and began to back quietly away. She had her answer. She would never be a soloist, never stand in the spotlight, never see the crowds jumping to their feet for her. Worse, she would never dance the steps she knew and loved so well. Would never be Juliet or Giselle. She was fated to watch other girls live out the tragedies. She had failed.

       CHAPTER TWO

      NICO MIGHT—AND DID—tell himself that he would rather be anywhere in the world than stuck here on L’Isola dei Fiori but even he had to admit that right now he was as contented as an imprisoned man could be. Maybe it was the soft summer evening light, the way the brilliance of the sun had dimmed to a glowing warmth, the sea breeze a cool accent to the heat. Maybe it was the scent of night-blooming jasmine mingling with the salty tang of the sea or maybe it was the way the green cliff tops rolled across the horizon dipping suddenly into the azure blue of the sea punctuated only by the curving perfection of fine white sand.

      So, maybe L’Isola dei Fiori felt like a prison but at least it was a beautiful one and as he strolled along the cliff path towards the Villa Rosa it was easy to forget all the reasons he didn’t want to be here—and all the reasons why he was tethered to his island home.

      Although the nearest beach was technically open to anyone, like all the beaches on the island it was Crown property; the only known path to it led from the fading pink villa, majestically poised on the very edge of the cliffs looking out over the sea. The only known path to those who didn’t know every inch of the island by heart, that was. And Nico did. Whether he liked it or not every path, every bend, every slope, every blade of grass and grain of sand was emblazoned on his heart, in their own way as binding as his obligations.

      The way was hidden by two boulders, seemingly impenetrable unless you knew the exact turn—a smart right, almost turning back on yourself, a squeeze and then the path lay before you—more of a goat trail than a formal path, a steep, twisting scramble down to the beach. Nico stared down at the overgrowth covering much of the rocky path. How many times had he raced Alessandro down here, half running, half slithering onto the beach below, only to return bruised, scraped and exhilarated from another forbidden adventure?

      His eyes burned. No, he wouldn’t think of Alessandro. But it was hard not to when every corner held a twist of nostalgia, a memory to cut deep. Two years on and time had healed nothing. Grimly he increased his speed, the adrenaline of the fast clamber down chasing away his grief in a way no other attempt at solace had until he finally half leapt, half fell down the last vertical slick of rock onto the sand below. Nico kicked off his shoes, the soft sand beneath his toes anchoring him firmly back in the here and now.

      It had been over a decade since he’d last visited this particular cove and nothing seemed to have changed. Nico had travelled to more than his fair share of stunning places but on an evening like this the secret cove was hard to beat: small but perfectly formed, the sand curving in a deep horseshoe partitioned by a graceful arch of craggy rock. The waves lapped gently on the shore and Nico knew from experience that the currents were kind, the water deepening gently, several long