The scent of crushed rosin and salt air always greets Delphine first. It is the smell of her second act, a quiet reprieve from the thunderous applause of the ABT. Morning sunlight spills across the converted sail loft, gilding the wide pine floorboards she polished herself. She stands at the barre, the wood cool beneath her palm, her reflection in the mirrors a long-lined shadow of silver-threaded chestnut hair and charcoal wool. The harbour outside is a blue-grey smear of working lobster boats and waking gulls, a world away from the frantic pace of her brother’s final tour.
She exhales, a slow count of eight, feeling the familiar pull in her hamstrings as she sinks into a preliminary stretch. This studio is her fortress, the one place where the weight of the past doesn't require a supporting partner. She has spent three years cultivating this silence, turning the volume down on a life lived at high pitch. It is nearly time to flip the sign on the door, to welcome the first batch of local children who likely have no idea their teacher was once a soloist.
Heavy footsteps vibrate up the exterior wooden stairs, accompanied by a child's high, nervous laugh.
