This pearly exterior I wear is a masquerade. Beneath my petal-pink slippers, my feet blacken with bruises. I pull my mouth into a candied smile to hide the ripe, budding ache.

"Lift your heads higher," Madame Klavdiya says, her eyes darting from girl to girl. She points at Anastasia. "Secure that left leg, Vyalitsyna."

I pivot into a chain of pirouettes, in sync with my sister's fluidity. Anastasia glows like a blooming flame, whipping around in supple circles, her eyes flickering with fervor.

Variation de Giselle, the symphony vibrating from the stereo, begins to prickle.

"Finish strong," Madame Klavdiya pushes.

I strain my limbs with stillness. The musical score swells to a close, jolting with abrupt silence.

Madame Klavdiya purses her lips. She steps forward, prowling through the sea of frozen ballerinas. Her brow furrows at our wavering poses. I hold my chin up, refusing to wilt under her glower.

She turns away from us. "I expect more from you girls by Audition Day."

We blink at the back of her shiny bob.

"You're dismissed," Madame Klavdiya says, shooing us away with a wave of her puckered hand.

The room exhales, rippling back to life. I unclench the muscles I'm still tightening, softening my legs and drooping my arms at my sides. Even my shiny faux-grin falters.

"Anastasia," Madame Klavdiya says, starting for my sister, her heels clacking with each step. She presses her fingernails into Anastasia's exposed shoulders. "You're getting better everyday."

"Thanks," Anastasia pants, her cheeks tinged eraser-pink.

"You have a real chance at winning the role of Giselle," Madame Klavdiya says, keeping her voice low. "The way you move is impossible to replicate."

Under the garish swell of the fluorescent lights, Anastasia's teeth flash blue.

"Was she born with that kind of skill?" Nadia asks me.

The words sour on my tongue.

"Anastasia's been training for years," I say. "She works hard. There's no secret method."

"We all work hard," Nadia says. "But we still can't dance like Anastasia."

*

Uncoiling from the whirlwind takes time - an hour, at least, to steady the prickling nerves in my lower body and the thrum-thrum-thrum of my feral heart.

I flex my aching calf muscles. Through the gaping window, the velvet-dark evening thickens with snowfall.

"I don't know how much longer I can take this blizzard," Anastasia says, leaning her head into the crevice of my neck. She reflects back at me like a glint in a mirror, her impish nose and bluebell eyes identical to my own.

"Moscow's frozen hell is always a treat," I say.

"When all of this is over, let's move somewhere warm. Somewhere like Barcelona or Rome," Anastasia says.

By all of this, she means ballet, but I can't imagine an end, or even remember a time when we weren't fluent in dance.

"It'll feel strange to be drowned in sunshine," I say.

Our pulses drum through each other's skin, steady and rhythmic.

"They say that the cold does things to people," Anastasia breathes. "Turns their blood to frost."

            *

"You have less than twenty four hours to prepare for auditions," Madame Klavdiya says. "Make every second count."

My slippers mold against my heels like a second skin. I merge with the ballerinas beside me, fusing into a sea of buzzing limbs. We heave and rise, fluid with electricity.

"Keep those palms turned out," Madame Klavdiya says. I extend my arms, pushing against the air as if I'm treading underwater. I don't realize I'm biting my tongue until the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

"There's no time for mediocrity," Madame Klavdiya says, narrowing her snake-slit eyes.

A bluish vein throbs in Anastasia's temple, popping over her sweat-streaked face. We aim our legs into the air and soar together.

In that flickering moment above ground, Anastasia is airy, butterfly-light. She leaps with her right foot curled to the back of her skull, spreading her arms out like plumed wings, as if she might fly away.

*

"Taya Petrova?"

We all crane our necks at the assistant looming in the doorway.

Taya, the mousiest girl in Vodianova Academy, has the complexion of a seasick sailor. She follows the woman out, her legs wobbling like plucked strings. I glance to the other side of the room, pretending not to notice. Their footsteps bounce against the hall's deep echo.

Girls huddle on the floor in knots, filling in every crevice of the waiting room. Some smear concealer over glaring red blemishes, their fingers oily with flesh-colored residue. Others prep their muscles by sprawling out into elastic arches.

Anastasia is teetering beside me, close enough for me to hear her fluttering heartbeat. She twirls a bobby-pin between her fingers, eyes glazed on the floor.

"Are you nervous?" I whisper.

She doesn't look up. "You tell me."

I watch a cluster of girls palm lotion around the room, greasing the slopes of their legs, the air thick with vanilla glaze and budding anxiety.

"Tatiana Vyalitsyna?"

The assistant is in the door frame again, clipboard in hand, a syrupy grin smeared across her face. "Come with me."

My knees knock.

"Break a leg," Anastasia mouths. I catch a whisper of a smile curl on her lips.

I float to the stage, my stomach lurching with warm nerves. The audience is a gray blur, washed out by the spotlight. My mouth fills with dread.

"Miss Vyalitsyna?" A female voice booms from below. Without seeing her face, I know she's the casting director.

"Yes," I gasp.

Madame Klavdiya must be in the audience, too. I picture her perched in the front row, combing through every flaw in my stance, her forehead wrinkling in disapproval.

"You may begin."

I gather my breath. Variation de Giselle blooms from the platform's underbelly, my pulse thrumming over the melody.

I propel my lithe body across the floor, flicking my legs in and out. Hairspray fumes settle in my throat, the tinny mist nearly making me cough. Keep going.

There are some things you learn about being on stage after dancing for a decade. I know that you're never supposed to look into the blinding spotlight. It's been drilled into my head since I was a kid, and yet...

Wincing at the white glare, my vision blurs with dusky splotches and flecks of blue. I jerk my neck away from the strip of light and keep spinning, trying to steady my wavering gaze on something, anything else.

Then, I feel it.

The pop of bone, my ankle snagging.

I fall to the floor with a thud, laying there like a rag doll that's come undone.

A murmur of gasps pulse through the audience.

"Somebody help her."

*

My crimson ankle dangles like a loose tooth.

The hospital room is stripped clean, every inch scrubbed white with bleach. The nurse reaches into the cabinet for a bottle of rubbing alcohol. My throat stings from the doctorly fumes.

"Does it look okay?" I breathe, trying to speak through my swollen mouth, popped with blood vessels.

The nurse prods at the dried wound on my ankle. She doesn't look up. "Your ankle should be healed within a couple of days. Two weeks, at the very most." She turns back to the cabinet and pulls out a translucent ice pack, the resin sloshing with glitter.

I cup my forehead with my palm, my mind churning with muddled, overcooked thoughts.

"You can dance again once you've recovered," She says, her face sturdy and careful. "Nobody will be able to tell you were injured."

My foot swells under the ice pack's biting sear.
I've ruined everything.

"Tatiana?"

Anastasia weaves between the door's half open slit. Through my bleary, tear-stung eyes, she is a pink flicker, a blur of flesh.

"Hi." I offer a weary smile.

Anastasia leans into me, knotting her arms around my waist. Her eyes dart to the strip of jagged white strip of flesh curled on my ankle. "Are you going to be okay?"

"It doesn't feel as bad as it looks," I say, keeping my voice even.

She blinks at me, her ample cheeks flushed the color of an unripe peach.

I want to say something else, but the words are tightening in my throat, my mouth loose and hapless.

*

Without any dancers, the studio is vacant in a bone-dry bare way. Madame Klavdiya waits in the corner, the lofty walls enveloping her solitary.

"Hello, Tatiana," she drones. "How's your foot?"

"As good as an injured foot can be," I try.

She makes a humming sound from the back of her throat.

"Will I still be cast in the show?" I ask, my voice heading with caution.

Madame Klavdiya licks her lips. "Casting is not up to me, darling. I have no say over who gets what part."

"Oh."

"You should know this by now," she says. I notice a pack of cigarettes curled in her hand.

"Of course," I say. I'm such a goddamn idiot.

"You're a lucky one." Madame Klavdiya plucks a cigarette out, tucking it between her spindly fingers. Her hand juts out like a jagged shard of glass."Nepotism will save you."

I bristle. "Nepotism?"

She flicks open a lighter with her free hand. The blue flame clicks on, illuminating the creases in her face. It reminds of me when I was a kid, telling scary stories with a flashlight flickering under my chin.

"Casting directors love Anastasia," Madame Klavdiya chuckles. "By default, they must love her twin, too." She takes a long drag of her cigarette, a billow of smoke puffing from her lips.

"Her twin," I say. "Right."

*

The television hums in the corner of the bedroom, casting pockets of purple light onto Anastasia's face.

"Anastasia?" I breathe. "Are you alright?"
She bobs her head. Her face is vacant, a blank canvas.

I sink back under my blanket cocoon. When we were younger, we'd spend sleepless nights splayed out on the floor, whispering into each other's ears. Our secrets wavered in the air like halos.

"When was the last time you had the dream?" Anastasia whispers.

I sit back up, combing through the echo in my mind.

"It's been years," I say.

Anastasia's mouth twitches. An infomercial for a weight program murmurs in the background, drowning out the quiet.

"Did you have the dream tonight?" I breathe.

She looks down. Her face blanches, turning bone-white.

The words are heavy on my tongue. "You did."

Anastasia's red-rimmed eyes flash from the television's buzzy, technicolor glow. "I don't know what's real and what's not anymore."