The music room smelled faintly of polish and chalk, the kind of air that clung to discipline. The tall mirrors caught the afternoon light, reflecting the sisters in perfect doubles as they moved through the steps their teacher barked out with clipped precision.
Sarah, now fourteen, followed every count with her usual sharpness, her small frame determined to master each turn. Gabriella, sixteen, taller and more striking, moved with grace but faltered often, her mind elsewhere. Her pirouette came half a beat late, her gaze drifting past the mirrors as though searching for something far beyond the room.
"Gaby," the teacher snapped, clapping his hands together. "Again. Focus."
She blinked, tried again, but her movements lacked the fire she once had.
Maggie, watching from the corner, crossed her arms. Her face carried no softness when she corrected Gaby. "Straighten your back. Eyes up. Don't drift like a leaf in the wind."
Gaby obeyed, though the roll of her eyes did not escape notice.
When the lesson finally ended, Sarah received Maggie's approving nod. "Well done, my dove. You keep the rhythm."
Gaby, tugging off her slippers, muttered under her breath. Maggie approached, gentler now, placing a hand on her shoulder. "What's happening with you, child? You were born to dance, yet your heart is somewhere else."
"I'm fine," Gaby shot back, shrugging her off.
Maggie pressed. "This isn't you."
That was enough. Gaby's frustration boiled over. "Stop it! You're not my mother. I'm tired of you acting like you are."
The words cut the air. Sarah flinched in the doorway. Maggie's lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing more. She let the girl storm past, choosing silence over anger.
Gaby stepped out onto the veranda, the warm air rushing against her flushed cheeks. The gardens stretched before her, green and endless, the hills rolling in the distance. She breathed deep, trying to calm the storm inside.
"Gabriella."
The voice behind her was unmistakable, her father's. Rick had appeared quietly, his tall figure outlined against the dark frame of the doorway.
She stiffened but did not turn.
He came to stand beside her, hands clasped behind his back. For a moment he studied the same horizon she had been staring at, then spoke. "I know you miss your mother. We all do. But that gives you no excuse to be cruel to Maggie. She's been here since before you were born. She is… a second mother to you both, whether you like it or not."
Gaby's throat tightened. She kept her eyes on the garden, unwilling to let him see the tears gathering.
Rick's voice softened, though his tone remained measured. "Learn to be kinder, Gaby. Strength is not only in how you dance, but in how you treat those who care for you."
Then, almost as if to ease the weight of his words, he added, "Come. I need to go into the city. You'll join me. Perhaps Sarah too. A ride in the chariot will do you good."
It was the first time that day Gaby's lips curved into a small, hesitant smile. The thought of leaving the mansion walls, even briefly, lit something inside her. She glanced back toward the house, where Sarah had been listening from the hall, and for the first time in hours, her heart felt lighter.
The city stretched out like a living painting, buzzing with Saturday color and sound. The chariot wheels clattered over cobblestones, weaving past rows of polished cars and street vendors calling out their wares. Billboards glared with promises of new fashions and jukebox hits, while corner cafés spilled with laughter and smoke.
For Sarah, every detail was a delight her eyes darted to the shops with their bright displays of ribbons and shoes, their perfume counters gleaming like treasure chests. Gaby, however, let her gaze wander over the streets themselves: children skipping rope on the sidewalks, young men in pressed suits leaning on lampposts, radios spilling out brass-heavy songs that carried the rhythm of freedom.
Rick escorted them with his usual composure, his steps measured, his gaze cool as he led the girls into a boutique. Sarah disappeared inside, already tugging Maggie along to point at fabrics. Gaby lingered near the doorway, restless, when a sudden commotion caught her eye.
A young woman darted out from behind a market stall, slipping a necklace into her handbag. She moved swiftly, eyes flashing with mischief, but the stall owner's shout rose just behind her. Quick as lightning, she turned the theft into performance straightening her dress, smoothing her hair, and stepping into Rick's path with an air of practiced grace.
"Oh! Forgive me, sir," she said sweetly, clutching his arm as though seeking support. Her smile was bright, disarming.
Rick looked down at her, surprised, but the sharp suspicion in his eyes melted under her charm. "Are you all right, miss?"
"Quite," she replied, her gaze steady, almost daring. "I only lost my footing. How foolish of me."
Behind them, the vendor searched the crowd, muttering angrily, but Quinn though they did not yet know her name, shifted her body so that Rick shielded her from view.
From her vantage point by the boutique doorway, Gaby saw everything. She frowned, watching the strange young woman laugh lightly at something her father said, leaning closer than politeness required. Rick, usually so guarded, spoke longer than he had with anyone outside their circle. Gaby's chest tightened, unease prickling at the edges of her curiosity.
Sarah, arms full of parcels, stepped out of the shop and barely spared them a glance. She was too busy admiring her new purchase in the window's reflection.
When the encounter ended, the woman tilted her head coyly. Rick, his voice softer than usual, asked if she might be free to meet again, perhaps later that evening. Her smile widened, the kind of smile that promised secrets. She slipped away into the crowd, leaving only the faint scent of perfume behind.
As the sun slipped lower, painting the city in amber, the family walked down a broad avenue. Sarah clutched her parcels, Maggie trailed behind, but Gaby's attention snagged elsewhere. Across the street, down a narrow lane, a tent pulsed with music.
She froze. Inside, through the canvas flaps, she glimpsed the swirl of bodies, women in bright skirts flashing quick steps, men tossing partners into spins, laughter and rhythm colliding in a storm of cha-cha, quickstep, and jazz. Nothing like ballet's rigid lines; this was wild, reckless, alive.
Her heart leapt at the sight. She moved closer, her feet inching toward the rhythm as if the music itself tugged her.
But Sarah's voice cut through the haze. "Gaby! Father's calling. We have to go."
Reluctantly, Gaby tore her gaze from the dancers, the shadows of their joy seared into her mind. She turned back toward her family, but the music lingered inside her, echoing louder than anything she had heard in the ballroom at home.