Chapter 33 - Anya’s Decision
Anya received the offer on Monday.
The academy accepted her for the summer intensive.
The scholarship covered more than the first letter suggested.
Her parents could manage the remaining amount with assistance arranged through a legitimate program and the school’s independently approved contribution.
There were no publicity obligations.
No promise to return.
No requirement to praise me.
I insisted on that.
Then, when the decision became real, I discovered how much I wanted her to stay.
I hated myself for it.
Marisol found me reviewing the schedule.
“You’re being very mature.”
“I’m furious.”
“At a fifteen-year-old?”
“At the universe.”
“More acceptable target.”
I laughed.
Then I looked down.
“What if she goes and they tell her everything we taught is wrong?”
“Then she’ll learn to distinguish correction from contempt.”
“What if she can’t?”
Marisol sat beside me.
“Then she’ll need somewhere she can ask questions without being ashamed.”
I looked at her.
There was the answer.
Not keeping a student close.
Remaining safe enough that leaving did not become exile.
When Anya told the class, Ruby cried.
Mateo asked whether the academy had better mirrors.
Anya looked horrified by the attention.
I rescued her by beginning warm-ups.
Afterward, I gave her a notebook.
Not my mother’s.
A plain one.
On the first page, I wrote:
You do not have to be grateful for being hurt. Learn what is useful. Question what is not.
She read it.
Then she hugged me so hard I nearly lost balance.
“I’ll come back.”
“You don’t have to promise.”
“I want to.”
“Then I’ll be glad when you do.”
She left smiling.
I cried in the office.
Only briefly.
Then I answered an email about broken radiators.
The universe did not permit extended artistic mourning while building maintenance remained unresolved.
That afternoon, Duval sent a substantially revised production proposal.
Six performances.
A longer development period.
No automatic international tour.
No rights over my school.
No publicity involving students without separate, appropriate permissions.
Health-related scheduling provisions.
Credit identifying the work as a reconstruction and new development from surviving materials.
He had moved.
So had I.
Camille and I examined the remaining problems.
Some concerned money.
Others concerned artistic authority.
Duval wanted final control over casting.
I wanted a meaningful say over the movement language and the use of Elena’s name.
We would not resolve everything that day.
But for the first time, the document described a project I could imagine choosing rather than enduring.
I told Alexander over dinner.
He smiled.
“That sounds promising.”
“It’s also frightening.”
“Those can coexist.”
I studied him.
“You’ve become annoyingly reasonable.”
“I still have other qualities.”
“Most of them expensive.”
He laughed.
Then his telephone vibrated.
He checked the message and became still.
“What?”
“The financing arrangement is moving forward.”
“With the same group?”
“Partly. Different terms. Another participant.”
I waited.
“No condition concerning the wedding.”
Relief moved through me.
Then I saw his face.
“There’s a cost.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
He explained enough for me to understand without turning dinner into a prospectus.
The terms were less convenient.
Not ruinous.
Not heroic.
A business choice with consequences.
“Do you resent it?” I asked.
He looked surprised.
Then he considered.
“I resent the situation.”
“And me?”
“No.”
The answer came clearly.
Then he added, “But if we’re going to be married, I should be allowed to admit the situation was difficult without you hearing regret.”
I looked down.
He was right.
I reached for his hand.
“Then tell me when it is.”
“I will.”
That night, we wrote our wedding date in the notebook.
A Saturday in October.
Small.
Warm.
Ours.
For ten minutes, everything felt possible.
Then Camille called.
Vivienne had filed a new claim concerning royalties.
May you like
This time, she was not only asserting rights over my mother’s work.
She was claiming the Rostova estate owed her money.
