Thus saith the LORD…The brush grated her eyelids. Silver in the eye crease and under the brow. Scarlet on the lid, sweeping a horizontal teardrop to her temple.

Behold, I will smite with the rod that is in mine hand upon the waters which are in the river, and they shall be turned to blood And the fish that is in the river shall die…Korov jaded her brows with black liquid pencil. By the time he pulled away, it looked like bristling wingtips.

And there was blood throughout all the land of Egypt.

While he colored her cheeks and jawline, she rimmed a set of rouge lashes with cosmetic glue. Her stomach knotted as the glue chilled her eyelids. She’d worn fake lashes a thousand times and never once cemented her eyes shut. But tonight she felt especially edgy.

His throne was like the fiery flame, and its wheels as burning fire. A fiery stream issued and came forth from before him: thousand thousands ministered unto him…

Tipping the lashes with black mascara, she moved on to the eyeliner—a dark sweep under her eye, arcing along the scarlet teardrop. Korov handed her a flat brush the size of a fingernail. She swirled it through the black eye shadow and shaded her lid for a black to red gradient. He leaned backward and forward, rubbing his chin. Her face blazed metallically. With a decided nod, he rolled over the garment stand. A new bag puffed on a hanger.

I beheld even till the beast was slain, and his body destroyed, and given to the burning flame.

***

In Kostchei’s enchanted garden, Ivan found a majestic Firebird. Catching her against the magic fruit tree, the prince bargained: her freedom for a magical, protective feather.

***

“And 5, 6, 7—No! You’re dancing with elephant feet. Where’s my spritely Ivan?”

The dancer dropped Zoe’s hand. “It’s Royce, and two minutes ago, you wanted stately.”

“Iv—Ross—whoever. You’re simply too masculine. The Russian ballet is a delicate trade. Perhaps you’re too set in the unrefined modern day to comprehend…” Master Korov groaned, kneading his forehead. “The craft of bodily expression was ushered to the motherland—”

“The Mothership?”

“—By Peter the Great. The ballet transformed, nay, converted, the crude frugality of St. Petersburg’s elite to the zenith of human elegance.”

“You want me to learn pointe? I mean, that’s elegant and feminine and all, but a little precarious for my elephant feet.”

“Master,” Zoe said, “If you put him en pointe, he’s going to flatten me. I can’t hold him.”

“No, not pointe, my precious Zoya. I would never burden you with this oaf.”

“So you know her real name? Feliks, I literally gave you the referral for this company.”

Korov snapped his finger toward the mirrors. “Entrechat en barre. As many repetitions as would honor our Mariisnky predecessors.”

Royce stalked toward the handrail, arching an eyebrow at Aria. “So we’re praying to the ghosts of the Imperial Ballet?”

“Angels!” Korov snapped. “Entrechat.” Royce smiled saccharin and skipped up and down. His feet were a crisscrossing blur. “Where’s my First Soloist? Where’s my Firebird?” Korov called.

Aria tied off the ribbon and flexed her ankle. “Ready.”

“Ah, my Ariadna, warmed up? Hm, stretched? Join Ross over there and run the pirouette sequence. That is, when you think he’s paid proper homage.”

Aria slid her leg down the rail in an extended split. Under Royce’s leather shoes she saw Korov’s reflection. He raked his scalp as the others split for twelve pas de deux. One of Ivan’s men at arms to one of Tsarevna’s maidens, the ensemble shuttled en valse through the studio.

“This is the last scene, everyone, EVERYONE. I need you to personify the triumph of Ivan over the evil sorcerer Kostchei, th—Kostchei? Where’s my Kostchei? One of you please find me Aleksei.”

Alex’s head popped through the door. “Yeah?”

“Ah, Aleksei. These plebs need inspiration. They need to feel the wrath of Kostchei. Show them your Kostchei face.”

Alex ambled onto the floor, scratching his neck. “Aren’t I dead?”

“In this scene yes, but, simply show the company your Kostchei face.”

Alex stared at the wall.

“That’s it! Do you see those hypnotic eyes, that despising snarl? Everyone, now, the plague of Russian folkloredom is dead! His spell is broken. That’s how I need you to dance.”

“I wish I were dead,” Alex grumbled, shoving back through the door.

“The. Feeling. Is. Mutual,” Royce huffed between jumps. Aria straightened.

“Five more reps, then get a towel. You’re soaked.”

He slumped over the bar, stretching his calves. “Birds like birdbaths.”

“And ghosts like entrechats,” she returned.

***

The Black Chapel, L.A. It sagged in pieces at the corner of the block. Rubble, dismantled scaffolding, and yellow Caution tape strewed the lawn. It looked like a tomb itself had burrowed to rest under the soil, only to be blocked by concrete and septic pipes. It was utterly dead.

The inside was anything but.

Fig hardwood pews flanked the nave like crimson ribs. Between lied a hand-knotted oriental carpet, black and friezed with gold beasts of Eden. Fresh pots of white lilies, coriander, and mint spruced the aisle every few paces.

Lining the nave were Roman colonnades, furnished with Byzantine tapestries of the Temptations. Corinthian pillars, studded with horned candelabra, upheld a series of balcony pews. Gospel verse chiseled the black slate stonework. On the nave walls under either colonnade glittered the Twelve Stations in mosaic. Above were six stained glass windows, convex, of two panels each. They tapered to a point under decorative cherubim heads.

Before each panel towered a statue of rippling marble. Six archangels on the right faced six demons on the left, poised to battle over the nave. The seventh demon, Lucifer, hovered at the back wall between the void. His right half was gold and humanoid. His left was igneous, cloven, antlered.

At Lucifer’s feet stood the baptismal basin, a half-dome of burnished bronze. Its pedestal was a sculpture of Satan, fully metamorphosed, bearing the basin on hunchback like a downcast Atlas. Mirrored in the holy water were the ceiling frescos—the Torture of Job, Herod’s Massacre of Innocents, Sodom and Gomorrah—lining the Gothic vaults like shards of nightmares.

Across the chapel, the seventh archangel lunged for Satan. It was the warrior Michael, soaring over the crossing. His sword was checked overhead like a cobra pre-strike. Beyond him were the sanctuary dais and altar, both unfinished black slate. And beyond those, an upright gold casket with a Pascal lamb on the front. The tabernacle.

Aria followed Pastor Thompson’s cassock into the sacristy. Her throat burned from the myrrh. The priest had to stoop under the gargoyle-shaped censers, and she wondered how he could navigate the gloom, let alone breathe so close to the incense.

“So you’re setting the stage before the apse?”

Aria shrugged. “The altar, that’s all I know.”

His eyes twinkled behind half-moon spectacles. “Yes. I spoke with Mr. Korov. He wanted to drop the background before the apse. That, the drapes, and the cat’s walks should be ready by noon.”

Aria ducked to hide a smile. “That sounds about right, Calvin. Then we could use the altar—apse—for the orchestra, and the sacristy for backstage space. If you will,” she added.

They entered an office space where a little iHome played Christmas carols. Her jaw dropped at the swivel chair and desk. They felt otherworldly in their worldliness.

Calvin pulled some matches from a drawer. “We’ll do just about anything for the company. It seems our future congregation will come from your audience tonight. That’s why I insisted we begin the night with a short service. It’s been my hope to start the New Year with a full mass.” He waved a swatch of paper, maybe sermon notes, from his breast pocket. On the front he’d noted three readings.

Exodus 7:14-22. Daniel 7:9-11. Mark 13:1-13.

She turned back to the hallway, glimpsing Michael’s sandaled foot over the arch. “Tonight will be our best performance yet. And not just for the stunts. This is the perfect venue. You don’t get the same vibe elsewhere.” A fuzzy Twelve Days of Christmas chanted in the background.

Calvin pulled an advent wreath from the cupboard. “Ominous isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Aria said, staring at the tall pink candle. “It’s something.”

And a partridge in a pear tree.

***

“It’s from the Keivan era,” Korov said. Royce nodded slowly, grimacing.

“What about my Muscovite costume? It’s just, this one’s so authentic.”

“Precisely.”

“But Russia’s freezing. They wear so many layers. This is L.A.”

“Unfortunately. Which is why I’ve eliminated the korzo and fur hat. For now, you’ll wear the rubakha undershirt and svyta overcoat. They’re traditional.”

Royce wrenched the scarlet svyta from its hanger. It spread from a fitted torso to a wide bell cut at the knee. “Is this a hoopskirt?”

Korov handed him a pair of sapphire hose. “What would you know of refined wardrobe?” Pulling a makeup case from his messenger bag, he headed toward the vanity table.

***

The beaded curtain jolted when Esther set the jug. The bread-based Kvass reeked of ginger. Esther’s blend was more vodka based, though, and it perspired in the muggy trailer. A klezmer tape reeled static on the boom box.

Aria poured two chipped mugs while Esther slapped a platter of yeast dough pockets before her. Mushrooms, chervil, and sautéed cabbage dripped from the fried pirozhki buns. Scrunching a dish rag to her upper lip, Esther slumped into the booth. “So you want me to watch this… fire bird?” Her eyes flickered to the steaming platter.

Aria gnawed nervously on a pirozhki. “Firebird. You of all people would know the folktale. The phoenix and the garden, remember? Well, a century ago, this composer Igor Stravinsky wrote it for the Parisian ballet. Please, Aunt Est—Esfir,” she stuttered as Esther’s eyes darkened, “You’d like it. We’re pulling out all the stops. It’s going to be perfect.” She slid a pale blue ticket over the sheer tablecloth. Season pass, signed by the First Soloist herself. Esther didn’t take it. Instead she lifted off her plumed costume turban. Bohemian rings clinked as she steepled her bony fingers.

“Show me what’s in the basket.”

Aria flushed. “I’ve been so busy with rehearsals, I didn’t have time to bake—”

“Do you know why I keep this profession?”

Aria sniffed. Esther folded her arms smugly.

“Why, Ariadna? Why would I dedicate my life to a circus act?”

Aria scrutinized the crystal ball centerpiece. “Tradition.”

“Inheritance,” Esther said. “My mother was a Ruska Roma, so I am too. My father was a Jew, so I am too. They became refugees of the Second World War, so I did too. These are my birthright and burden, and yours to some extent. Treat them like an heirloom, and you’ll always have something.” She retired against the sequined pillows. “Perhaps you felt some of this sentiment when you applied to the Vaganova. And now this particular company… Now show me what you brought.”

Aria tipped the wicker basket open and pulled out a grocery store box. Through the fogged plastic lid she saw the sprinkles froth in melted cream. Esther chuckled softly. “I’ll tell you what. I will watch you dance the Firebird.” Her rings flashed around the ticket. “Let’s just hope your performance isn’t as crude as your taste in pastry.”

***

Scraping her hair in a compact knob, Aria swiped her black robe over the stiff angular arm. She sank in the canvas chair and looked to Feliks. He opened the palette. “I commissioned it specially for tonight.” The usual ochre pigments were gone. Instead black, silver and crimson sparkled from the shallow depressions.

Aria looked from the eye shadow to her plain reflection in the vanity. “It’s beautiful, Master Korov. But I don’t see how those colors will play into my facial design.”

Feliks’ face pleated mischievously. “While you arranged an exotic venue, I arranged an exotic costume.” Clicking shut the palette, the dance master squinted at Aria’s reflection. “You’re not wearing the foundation.”

“No, I haven’t put it on yet.”

“You wouldn’t have found it. The artists are stuck in traffic, so we have very little. But we’ll make do.”

The office floorboards creaked. Alex walked in, lugging a shiny box. “You wanted this, Korov?”As he broke through the light of the vanity bulbs, Aria shivered. Two gold eyes glinted from the tabernacle. It was the lamb, disappearing as Alex swiveled off the cover. Inside was a silver chalice with a square cross base and ruby inlay. Korov put the cup on the vanity, and set a wooden crucifix next to it. Then came the bottle of shimmer toner and a chunk of white powder. Before Aria could question, Feliks squirted the toner into the cup.

“What are you doing?” She pushed off the chair. He sprinkled in the powder.

“Mortar and pestle,” he shrugged, grinding the makeup with the butt-end of the crucifix. Aria surveyed the sacristy, but Calvin wouldn’t be backstage until after the sermon. In fact she heard fragments of his voice at the lector’s podium, prophetic and velvety with the Gospel.

…the end is still to come. Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes in various places…Brother will betray brother to death, and a father his child…

“Get me some,” Alex said, watching the blend turn to snowy cream. Almost the color of Aria’s face. She sat back in the chair and let Korov scoop the mixture onto a sponge. Swallowing, she took it and worked her skin into opal pallor while Korov circled a small white brush through the eye shadow case.

“Aleksei, fetch the gold for me. We’re going to dust your arms, Ariadna. Myrrh base, too.”

Everyone will hate you because of me.

***

Pastor Thompson stood in purple vestments beside the wreath. He seemed just as tall outside the cramped sacristy, as his head brushed the curtain festoons. The teeming pews reflected in his spectacles.

“It is my privilege to welcome the Korov Ballet Company. Tonight they will perform the Russian folktale and ballet Firebird.” Aria followed Korov out the emerald drapes, Royce at her heels. The lights were too bright to distinguish faces in the nave. She would have sniffed for ginger, but frankincense clogged her nostrils. Please let her be here, she thought as her director and dance partner saluted the audience seven times. Right pew, left balcony. Right balcony, left pew. Orchestra, crew, and priest. The lights dimmed.

***

Panel 4. At the disciple’s sandals was a half-furled scroll, reading John. A trumpet blew in the Apostle’s ear as he gazed at a crystalline throne. From its white effervescence shone rainbow chinks of light. Seven lamps burned before the idol. Four beasts followed—lion, calf, man, eagle—punctuated with eyes like Argus. Each beast wore six insect wings, and their lips were hollowed in a chorusing “Holy”. Two dozen white Elders fell prostrate and cast their gold crowns before the Lord.

***

Prince Ivan wanders through the foliage, stirring a curlicue bow. His fist tightens on the mahogany riser. Arrow notched. He crouches under a trellis to study the gilt pear tree. Violins frizzle like a spiraling record. The enchanted garden trembles in eerie triads.

A pear falls. Fog roils over it, a glutting ghost. Ivan creeps forward, reaching for the lost fruit. He ducks back into the shrubbery as a single flute breaks frantically from the haze. The Firebird follows.

Three times she leaps across stage—de Côté—, glittering like vapor, and vanishes beyond the curtain. Intrigued, Ivan tiptoes sidelong from Upstage Left, shuddering his eyes with his fingers at the next flash. For her second apparition, the Firebird breaks into another grand jeté from Center Stage Right. She pauses before the audience, twirling en pointe to arabesque in fifth. Then comes a rally of fluttering slippers. The flute commands the orchestra as harps pluck accents on the upbeats.

The Firebird dances allegro, batterie, acrobatic… She flits weightlessly across the garden, tutu flouncing like an airborne blossom. With another grand jeté and arabesque, she sweeps her arms across her body in fifth, wrists whipping to the sleigh bell tambourines.

Ivan emerges from the fog. The Firebird’s winged eyes bulge at his drawn, checked bow. She prances de câté under the pear tree. Neck taut, fingers straining like pinions, she resumes her flustered batterie—a flurry of glissades, and petit saut. Her torso faints in dramatic bravura. She swivels in piquet, toes striking stage aplomb. The flute whorls through arpeggios.

She fleshes the tempo, its human avatar.

Spinning in chaînés along the diagonal, she stops dead—a sideling croise devant en pointe—, fingers branching allongé for the stage lights. With swift cabriole back to the tree, she poses under the lush flora. Plucking off a golden pear, she dances with the fruit between her lips.

The audience doesn’t know how her breath fogs the crusty aerosol glitter. How her jaw aches from its wide clamp. How her lungs burn.

All they see is foot fire en pointe and arms stroking like restless gold wings.

Before she can spring away, Ivan catches her waist. The pear falls.

Rising to first arabesque, she slaps her arms wildly. He rotates her before the audience, flaunting her glistening black bodice. When she escapes, he chases her en Dehors and grabs her hips for a series of see-sawing grand écarts.

Each lift to and fro, time constricts like a tightening elastic. The Firebird moves adagio—stiffer, slower, legs rejoining.

***

Panel 5. Seven seals on a scroll. From the angel’s lips sprouted, “Who is worthy?” Tears dripped from St. John’s fingers as he smothered ghoulish cries. Then a bloodied lamb with seven horns and seven eyes parted the throng. Grotesque and graceful. The Elders turned their harps to him and toasted vials of saints’ prayers. “Worthy” they echo.

***

The flute blared as I beat my arms. Royce guided me down to a half-kneel. I bowed, pouting, and rowed my arms in winglike curves away from him.

Clasping my wrist, he twisted our arms open. Backbending me so he could study the Firebird. I whisked my flaming lashes, puckered my lips like a beak. As he leaned toward me, I saw the sweat streak his powder, felt the breath of his nostrils on mine. I yanked free and sprang off in high arabesque, a vertical split. He caught my wrist before the Firebird took flight (before I tipped over). As he lifted my arm, I lowered my leg, easing off his fulcrum. The harp cycled through ghostly harmonics. Inching backward, he knelt behind me. I dithered once around him—dither, as Korov insisted mythical birds did—, caressing the free wind with my other arm.

Just when the flute dwindled to a whisper, Royce tipped me onto his shoulder for our highest lift yet. His pearl-studded coat was like a knuckle in the stomach. I flipped wildly over, and he caught me for a regal fish dive. Arms and legs still as wax. Righting me, Royce guided me through a series of pirouette turns. His hands rimmed my torso as I spun, a constant reinforcement. My tulle and sequins rasped under his powdered palms, no doubt helping new callouses.

When my momentum expired, he wrapped my arms across my body, miming a bound fowl. I moped at the floor, flickering my working leg. In one last vie for freedom, I broke into a straightaway of piquet turns, but Royce remained my anchor, grinning as if the Firebird were a spoil. His arm curled under mine and checked my torso on a backbending lift.

***

Panel 6. Each seal shone terror: a crowned archer on white stallion; a rider on red, brandishing a wet sword; a rider on black, with balancing scales; a cloaked rider on gray, leading cloven-footed monsters. They all spurred toward Earth. After those four seals came the fifth: the altar of souls. White-robed martyrs pined underneath for Judgment Day when their wicked brethren would be slain too. Their cries goaded the sword and balance. The sixth seal portrayed the sun, eclipsed by the blood moon, over a quaking Earth. The stars fell, mountains shriveled. Mankind—wicked and pure alike—prayed for avalanches to consume them before the Lamb’s wrath did.

***

The zipper gasped under her fingers. Rather than flaming red and gold, the new tutu glittered pitch black. Layers of singed orange mesh interspersed the tulle tacking. Aria thought of spitting embers. About to ignite.

The heart-shaped bodice was black gossamer with pearly crimson boning, feeding into a basque of crow feathers. “So the phoenix is born of the ashes,” Korov smiled. She blinked wordlessly. Charcoal tights draped over his arm. He handed her a shoebox. “No need to break them in. I simply reupholstered yours.” The box opened like a coffin—the slippers inside were black satin.

“I can’t believe you did all this.”

“The show demands it, my Ariadna. Now, ever twirl batons?”

***

Stretching her arms in a pointed arch, he guides her into a full dip—developé to arabesque penché to curled pirouette, adagio. Straightening, she repeats the vertical split slower still. She gazes mournfully back as he cranes over her. Then he retires her to the ground. Her back leg sprawls out in a provocative pigeon. The flute barely whispers. It’s just an echo in the apse rotunda.

Then it rebounds, and the Firebird brightens. She pulls at her headdress and twiddles a feather in the air. The prince takes the red plume. While he marvels at it in the spotlight, the Firebird makes her escape. She twirls out in chaîné and arabesque, once more a smug allegro.

***

Panel 8. The seventh seal. God gave seven angels seven trumpets. The eighth angel received a censer of altar fire and pitched it to the Earth. From each of the trumpets sprang a new horror. First: hail, fire, blood. One third of the trees incinerated. Second: a flaming mountain chucked to sea. One third of the sea became blood. One third of Aquaria, from krill to leviathan, floated dead. Third: a meteor struck the Tigris. Men choked, squinted, recoiled, from the toxic wormwood waters. Fourth: One third of the sun, moon, and stars smitten. Day and night dissolved to monotony. Chaos abounded. Angels screamed from clouds to survivors: “Woe, woe, woe.”

***

Back to his wanderings, Ivan encountered an old castle, in which twelve maidens and the princess Tsarevna were confined. Tsarevna told Ivan the castle belonged to Kostchei, the evil sorcerer. She warned Ivan not to follow, but the prince longed to free his love. He pursued.

***

Thirteen pairs of soft leather slippers brush the stage in demi pointe piqué. They belong to Tsarevna and her twelve maidens, who prance a fleet brisé through the garden. Their jumps are small, light, and leisurely—hindered by classical shin-length gowns. Compared to the Firebird’s avian vaults, they’re bizarrely human movements.

While the maidens frolic off en Dehors, Tsarevna kneels in the garden and tosses a pear innocently before her, nuzzling it to her neck. Her gold waves course under a sleek wire tiara. In her loose emerald bodice and puffed chiffon sleeves, she looks like a dryad. Another marvel for Ivan.

He swaggers into the garden. The princess stares as he sweeps his arm in a regal bow and offers her the fruit. Tsarevna scampers off. The maidens file between her and Ivan. They performed a wave of fawning bows before dividing in two circles, one orbiting each royal. Peering over their respective captors, Tsarevna and Ivan each extend an arm in mirror fascination. When the maidens disperse, they reconvene in pas de valse. The violins lilt from major to minor. Close but apart, the prince leads Tsarevna to a standstill, tilts forward, and kisses her.

The lights flick from gold to blue. The foliage trembles from suspended fans. The horns resound as the maidens trot in playful colonnades. The royals’ waltz resumes, hurried now. They clasp arms, pressing closer than ever. At the crash of cymbals, Tsarevna runs. Both oboe and piccolo swoon in Klezmer undertones as she folds in a somber bow. She waves Ivan off, queuing blackout.

***

Disregarding Tsarevna’s caution, Ivan broke into the castle and fought Kostchei’s minions. Incensed, the sorcerer tried turning Ivan to stone, but the prince brandished the Firebird’s feather. The Firebird intervened, directing Ivan to the great egg which held Kostchei’s soul. Casting the egg to the ground, Ivan killed Kostchei and freed the imprisoned maidens. He and Tsarevna married, feasted, and forgot the wicked sorcerer.

***

Korov sifted the crow feathers. Strips of sandpaper lined the basque’s underpinning. Royce plucked his bag off the rack and did a double take. “Bad call, Feliks. No.” Aria felt the gritty stuff. “Aria, don’t do this.” It was red phosphorus. Perfect, she thought. She almost smelled chervil.

***

Panel 12. A red dragon with seven crowned heads and ten horns batted its serpentine tail through heaven. The stars became asteroids that barraged the Earth. Drunk off man’s shrieks, the dragon slithered into the wilderness after a new mother. Michael and his angels interceded. Thus began the War in Heaven. The dragon and his demons were downcast to Earth and drowned in Lamb’s ichor.

***

Ivan bats through the gnarls despite Tsarevna’s warning. Rounding the set to Downstage Right, the prince finds a spired gate. He rattles the greened bars. They don’t budge. Instead bells and trumpets wail an alarm. The clarinets spiral in freefalling arpeggios.

Ivan stumbles into six purple tunics—peasants with rounded shapka hats. Ivan heaves them off, but six more—skull-masked minions with bracken garments—haul him back. Two turbaned guards with brocade trousers lock Ivan’s arms, while six noblemen, vested and plumed, leap onstage, pas de poisson en Dehors. They swing curved swords. Part for propulsion, part for premonition. The stage floods with Kostchei’s court.

They fizzle into a circle and ripple in obeisance as the decrepit magician skulks onstage. With greened skull mask, spiked fingers, and rusted scepter, Kostchei jabs his scissor hand at Ivan nine times: One, two, three, four. One-and-two-and-three (rest). The guards shove Ivan forward. He spits at the sorcerer’s feet, and the ensemble tosses him about the stage. He ricochets angrily, but they swarm him in a pyramid that rotates so the audience sees the costumes in three-sixty detail.

Just as the minions spread Ivan’s arms, Tsarevna and her maidens trickle through the wings. The princess half-kneels before Kostchei, pleading with her fingers. The sorcerer cackles over a grotesque trombone slur. Casting the women aside, he points his scepter at Ivan. The gongs roar.

Ivan staggers against a boulder, shielding his face as gray film spins over him. The cobweb machine chugs unnoticed under the blasting trumpets. The film coagulates as Kostchei waves his scepter. Just shy of calcified, Ivan plucks the Firebird’s feather from his coat and flourishes it. The film breaks, and he stalks to Center Stage, twirling it to the flute cadences.

***

“Take them.” Her feathered headdress swallowed the Roman candles. Perfect.

***

The Firebird returns.

She arabesques onstage. Flapping her arms, she spells the crowd onto their feet. With fantastic knee kicks and diving arms, the minions churn like a hurricane around her. She frisks en pointe to the tambourine.

Focusing the crowd with a combination–tour en l’air, fouette arabesque, and signature fifth arms—she bats her wrists. Everyone cartwheels in revoltade, flipping like dragonflies.

The maids reappear, expanding the circle with languorous fourth arms en haut, en avant. The whole ensemble capers in costume like masquerade dancers. They all fall—maidens to Kostchei—when the Firebird stops. Legs like needles, de côté, she bows before the audience. Then rotating, legs quivering, sweeping stardust through the fog, she looks to Ivan.

The prince holds a gold coffer. Thrusting it open, he pulls out a giant egg. And shatters it. The frenzy revives, minions howling. The cymbals thunder. The Firebird reaches for her headdress.

The stage erupts in a fury of sparks.

***

The twin cylinders slipped readily through the feathers. Legs crossed en pointe, I struck the Roman candles along my basque. They caught the scores of red phosphorus and sizzled. The ensemble looked beyond awestruck as I wielded the fireworks. They were scandalized, I knew, but the audience would take it for dramatic finesse. Perfect.

Twirling the Roman candles, I ran to the corner of the set and turned. Royce’s jaw clenched. The scene was supposed to have ended, but Korov had given the orchestra an extra tag. They played the new coda for me. While Alex and Zoe remained frozen in place, Royce stormed toward me, purple faced.

Five, six, seven, eight.

The flute screamed in full. I twisted past Royce with a modern flying jump, wheeling the cylinders overhead. Electric sparks spewed everywhere like falling stars. The audience cried and beat their programs together.

The flute retired as I landed a lyrical stag by the curtain. Back arching, I swooped my arms down and behind me. The vaults flashed dizzily above. Blisters. Wailing. Blazing city. The candles left my outstretched hands—Korov, waiting for me in the wings like we’d planned. I listened for crackling water to be sure he’d extinguished the fireworks. Then he pressed my laced back, signaling my stage entrance. The orchestra cycled back to its original ending. I tensed for the next jump.

Royce caught my hips before I made it, as if to lift me himself. Instead his face was ashen. “Go. Don’t look, just go.”

The orchestra crescendoed, but not loud enough to drown the audience’s screams. Pew kneelers banged the floor. I strained over Royce’s pearled shoulder as he shoveled me back to the wing. The ensemble flooded over the stage as the pear tree turned into a bonfire. I pushed past, straining to see the chaos. “Esther! Esther! ESFIR!”

Royce coughed. “She’s not here.” He cinched my waist, and I nearly turned out my legs for a fish dive. But we weren’t dancing. We were blundering back toward the curtains.

An iron beam creaked out of its socket above. The light fixture tipped. “Get down!”

Royce chucked me toward the wing. I crumbled into a scalding puddle. Blackened water, the candle bucket, bled seamlessly through my dark tights. My palms and thighs seared with gunpowder on raw sores. But Royce had it worse.

He wriggled in military crawl against the iron fixture. It bit into his legs, just above the svyta’s hooping. Neither the fixture nor the stiff saucer hem budged.

My new pointe shoes were unbroken and no good for running, so I grit my teeth and crawled toward him. My makeup started to run in the bittersweet smog. I felt my face melt in crimson and charcoal veins. My eyes blurred as I grasped Royce’s forearms.

Staggering to my feet, I heaved with all my strength. He rocketed out. We bowled over the stage. A slender rod cracked my spine and a hot whoosh followed as I tangled into the curtains.

A tall pink candle rolled toward my face. My pulse skyrocketed. Royce was quick to pick me up before the advent wreath devoured my skirt.

He dragged me through the sacristy. Bows and masks lay twisted on the tiles. The tabernacle shone like a beacon under a cracked marble sword. Egg-shaped bulbs crunched under Royce’s boots. Fragrant cinders from overturned censers splattered my ankles, but nothing broke my death grip on him. We slammed through a side door and didn’t stop until the line of trucks at the parking lot.

The first thing I noticed was a crown. It was Zoe’s tiara, crooked and sooty. She stretched a blanket out to me. I folded into the scratchy wool. My pulse began to settle down, and I heard the sirens, the chatter, the weeping pastor. I relaxed.

Until I saw a blue ticket smeared on the asphalt. Season pass. My own handwriting staring up at me.

“Esfir!”

Royce was dabbing my face with the blanket edge. “She’s not in the lot, Aria. I checked. See, I told you she’s not here.”

Not in the lot.

I clawed the slippers off in a heartbeat. My tights turned soggy through the grass. I crashed into the side door before Royce caught up. The metal bolt left my wrists warm. Gnashing my teeth, I bolted over wax droplets and broken glass for the nave.

The fog was sepia. It smelled sulfuric, like brimstone. The fire had eaten the front half of pews, rumbling savagely over the hardwood like a mounted hoard. The oriental between smoldered, a flaming tongue. I ducked under the near colonnade and rushed for the back doors. The mosaic stations had begun to char. They passed in reverse order—tomb, cross, collapse…

The tapestry rippled off the balcony, catching fire on the ground. I glimpsed Satan pointing Jesus down a ravine. As I reached the end of the colonnade, about to cross back behind the pews, a white meteor fell from above. The archangel exploded in hollow chunks and marble dust right in front of me. I spat stone powder and watched the demons opposite topple off their pedestals. The balconies quaked. The Corinthian plinths chipped above me.

Leaping over the broken archangel, I ran for the basin. Makeup drizzled freely off my cheeks now. I realized I was crying for Esfir, but I couldn’t see her anywhere. The holy water darkened as crimson tears seeped in.

Then the twelfth panel blasted in red shards. A brass nozzle popped through the jagged sill. The heat vented up, and the cherubim’s faces seemed to bleed over the dusky waves. Then water shot through.

It hissed uselessly against the inferno.

A soft wind blew on my neck. I glimpsed my reflection in the basin as a black and gold blur crashed down.

***

Her eyes opened to newspaper fiber. Immediately they welled. She scooted up the stark mattress, straightening against the pillows to see a dresser, an IV stand, a clipboard at her feet. Royce was fast asleep in the armchair, a barcoded bracelet on his wrist. She whimpered as the morphine tubes caught, twisting needles in her arm.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he mumbled.

“Where’s Esfir?”

He lurched to his feet and pushed a button by her bedside. Her wrist throbbed for a moment. She closed her eyes to the headline. Los Angeles Phoenix, or something like that.