Part I -- Kitty (2)

James Byrne, Kitty's dad, had worked his whole life as a gardener on the grounds of Ballyfarren Manor-the heart of Kilvara, a place that felt less like a center and more like a black hole, pulling folks in to labour for little pay. Her mother, for her part, was a primary school teacher, never short on patience but always short on coins. Money was never plentiful, and ballet-an art famously costly-was a constant challenge.

Still, her parents never once discouraged her. They ignored the sneers and pitying advice from their more "practical" neighbors.

"Ah now, why'd ye be encouragin' such a daft dream, Sarah? Yer only hurtin' the poor girl." said the kindly Mrs. Doyle.

"She'll only go breakin' her own heart - an' ye'll bankrupt yerselves for a bit o' fancy dancin'." was the concerned Mr. O'Sullivan's constant refrain whenever Kitty's mother took her to ballet class.

Because her parents believe Kitty wasn't just another village girl playing at pirouettes-she was gifted. Anyone who saw her dance knew it. Even her teacher, a woman not given to empty praise, had whispered once to Sarah that Kitty had the makings of a real ballerina, perhaps even a career beyond Kilvara. That kind of promise, fragile and rare as spun glass, was what made the mockery burn all the sharper.

Yet none of that stung quite as sharply as what some of the other girls in her class said.

"Kitty, darling, you know as well as I-the ballet is a luxury for the well-heeled," sneered Georgina Wyndham, the so-called princess of Ballyfarren Manor, her eyes glinting with spite.

"It's perfectly fine as a pastime, Kitty. But do be sensible-one really must be able to afford more than the costumes," added Georgina's ever-faithful shadow.

For Georgina and her set, ballet was nothing more than a finishing school trick-a way to stand straighter, glide across a ballroom, keep their shoulders from slouching. Grace and poise, no more. But for Kitty, ballet was a lifeline. She adored the steps, the precision, the pure rush of nailing a movement until it sang through her body. It was freedom, unlike anything else she had ever known. The elegance, the posture, the polish-they were only pleasant by-products. What mattered was the dancing itself.

Later, walking home past the hedgerows, Kitty lifted her chin and spoke to herself in the crispiest London accent she could manage-half imitation of Georgina, half parody. "One really must be able to afford more than the costumes," she trilled, letting the vowels stretch like elastic. She practiced it often, imagining herself in Covent Garden, not Kilvara, as if the right inflection alone might carry her across the Irish Sea.

But in the eyes of her neighbours, this was pure foolishness. They saw her as a pretender-a slip of a village girl putting on airs, as though she were better than the rest of them. The sight of her rehearsing those clipped vowels earned her sneers in the market and mutters at the pub, all for what they called her "silly London notions" of dancing ballet in a place that would never welcome her.

Nevertheless, Kitty's dreams soared higher than the peaks surrounding her village, and her parents were the wind beneath them-the fuel that kept her aloft, no matter the weight of other people's doubts.

Yet for all the gossip and sideways glances, there was a far greater danger than the wagging tongues of Kilvara. It revealed itself one summer's day on the strand, when Kitty was twelve...

The tide had gone out, leaving the beach scattered with stones and shells that glittered faintly in the fading light. Kitty crouched low, her small hands sifting through the pebbles until her eyes lit up with wonder.

"Papa, look!" she cried, holding up a rock threaded with strange green veins that caught the sunlight and shimmered as if alive.

James Byrne bent to inspect it, brushing the sand away with care. "That's a fine find, Kitty. A treasure, maybe. A treasure from the earth herself."

But before Kitty could tuck it safely into her pocket, a voice cut through the sea breeze.

"Well now," drawled the elder son of Lord Ballyfarren. He was of medium build, yet to little Kitty he seemed a towering force, a shadow that blotted out the sun. Auburn hair fell neatly across his brow, and hazel eyes-sharp, unblinking-burned into her with a heat that made her stomach twist with dread. Twenty-four years he carried, though his arrogance made him seem older still. "What treasure have you there, Kitty?" His eyes did not linger on the stone, but on the child herself-too long, too intently.

James straightened in an instant, his body shifting to shield his daughter. "It's no concern of yours, young master," he said firmly.

The man smirked. "Just being friendly. She's a pretty little thing. You ought to let her visit the manor more often."

James's voice was iron. "You'll keep your tongue civil and your distance farther. She's twelve years old. My daughter's no sport for you-or for anyone."

The young lord's smirk faltered, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Careful, Byrne. You forget your place."

"I know my place," James shot back, eyes blazing. "And I know my duty. If you trouble her again, you'll answer to me before you answer to your father."

The silence after was taut as a wire. Then the young lord turned sharply on his heel, boots crunching against the shells as he strode away.

James wasted no time. He took Kitty's hand, firm but gentle. "Come along, pet. We're going home."

In the hurry, the shimmering-veined rock slipped from Kitty's grasp, falling soundlessly onto the damp sand. She glanced back at it once, her lips parting as if to protest, but her father's grip was steady, unyielding. The waves crept closer, whispering over the stone as father and daughter walked away, the sun dipping lower on the horizon.

Tragedy first struck when Kitty's father was diagnosed with bone cancer. After a year of grueling treatment, he passed away.

In his absence, it was as though the gate of protection around the Byrne family had crumbled. Half the village offered condolences; the other half looked for advantage. Kitty herself had been poised on the edge of a dream-she was meant to apply to the Royal Ballet Upper School in Covent Garden, the final step before a life on stage. At fifteen, nearly sixteen, the timing was critical. But with her father gone and the family's savings drained, she never even got the chance to apply. Sarah spoke of "next year" as if it were a promise, but Kitty felt the door of her future narrowing before her very eyes.

Yet among all these disappointments, another danger lurked-more insidious than poverty, more corrosive than grief. It crept in not from London's unreachable ballet halls but from within their own parish, wrapped in flowers and false sympathy. The elder son of Lord Ballyfarren began his grotesque idea of "courting" her. At first, it was condolence flowers, the card addressed not to the widow but to Kitty herself-fifteen years old and still raw from grief. Sarah sent the delivery boy straight back, cheeks burning, her voice sharp as flint: her child had no business receiving such things.

Yet the bouquets kept appearing, despite her mother's insistence that they be returned. Quietly, Kitty would steal moments to study them, flipping through her father's old copy of The Language of Flowers. White roses, she noted, meant innocence; tulips, elegance; and sometimes, an orchid, rare and commanding, as if to remind her of her own quiet strength. But each flower, sent from an adult to a fifteen-year-old, felt wrong-none of them had any business carrying such meanings for someone so young.

The young lord, oblivious or deliberately brazen, soon moved on to presents: a branded handbag, trinkets of jewelry, even satin pointe shoes that glittered in their tissue paper. Kitty's eyes had shone when she saw them-how could they not? She had dreamed of luxury all her life, but never touched anything finer than her mother's old church dress. And now, there it was, laid out as if meant for her.

Sarah gathered them all into a box, marched up the long drive of Ballyfarren Manor, and placed the lot before its lady. Her words were few but heavy: she would not have her child made a target. Within a fortnight, the son was shipped off to Europe to be kept out of sight. Yet the whispers spread all the same-hissing through Kilavara's lanes that the Byrnes were arrogant peasants, too proud for the lord's attention, acting above their station.

And still, though half the village scorned them and the future seemed only shadows, Sarah would not yield. She clung to the belief that Kitty's dream must survive. Even in the thick of grief, she worked herself to the bone, drowning in debt to keep her daughter in lessons.

"Ah, would ye ever stop now, Sarah? Ye've only just paid off the last loan, and here ye are lookin' for another? What in God's name do ye think the wee one's gonna be with all this ballet carry-on? She'll end up scrubbin' floors at Ballyfarren Manor like the rest of us-or, if she's lucky, playin' at bein' some great lady of the manor herself. Either way, it's her destiny, an' you're workin' yourself into the grave for nothin'."

"Mrs. Keane," Sarah said, her voice cutting but steady, "I'd thank ye kindly not to speak about my child that way. An' it's no business of yours-same as it's no business of mine that you're lendin' money at sinful interest an' struttin' into Mass like you're God's own saint. Mind yourself now, or I might see fit to make it my business to tell folk about that wee sideline o' yours."

Mrs. Keane huffed, puffed, and pressed the money into Sarah's palm, her lips pinched tight. Kitty, watching from the corner, felt her heart splinter. Her mother-so proud-reduced to taking money from such a woman, all for her dream.

Damn this poverty, Kitty cursed silently, again and again, her lips barely moving.

Tragedy struck a second time three years later. Her mother, too, was diagnosed-ovarian cancer this time-and gone within six months.

Before the end came, there was still a flicker of hope. Kitty and her mother had sent off her audition tape to the Royal Ballet School-Kitty dancing a poised and graceful solo to Saint-Saëns' The Swan in the quiet studio where she trained. By now her technique had ripened into something precise and commanding, her arms carving through the music with the confidence of a dancer who had lived for this moment. She had almost refused to send it, clinging to her mother's hand and whispering she could never leave while she was sick. But Sarah, pale though she was, had pressed the envelope shut herself, insisting Kitty try.

"This is your last chance, my love," Sarah whispered, her voice carrying the music of her Irish tongue. "You'll go, Kitty. Whether I'm here... or not, you'll go."

Like her mother had said, this was her last chance. At eighteen, the door to Covent Garden's Upper School was closing fast-and with it, her only path to the Royal Opera House stage. If this tape failed, the dream would wither before it ever learned to breathe.

And so they waited. Each morning Sarah would glance toward the post with a brave little smile, and each night Kitty prayed for news. But behind the hope was a tangle of dread. Even if the letter came, they had no plan for how to pay the fees, no notion of how Sarah's illness could be borne with Kitty gone to London. The dream shimmered just out of reach-close enough to touch, yet impossible to hold.

The letter never came in time. Before it could, Sarah slipped away, the sickness claiming her faster than either had feared.

"Dreams, love... they're like wee lights we carry," Sarah said, her voice gentle but firm. "And the world... sure, it's always tryin' to blow 'em out. But you can't let it. Keep that light burnin', fight for it, no matter what comes at ya," she whispered in her final days, her tone faint but fierce. A few days later, she was gone.

After her mother's passing, Kitty was plunged into shadow. Her spirit felt buried in the grave alongside Sarah, her dream of ballet sealed away with her. With no letter from London and no money to her name, she saw no way of escaping her little town-her prison.

And her "kindly" neighbours offered no true comfort, only gossip dressed as concern.

"Sure, she'll not be dancin' again, not with her mam gone."

"Long gone's the sprite's dream o' the stage."

"An' what was the use o' all that fussin' now?"

Each word pressed her further into her solitude. She kept to her house, refusing callers. Neighbours left food on her step, even advice, but she touched neither.

Her only sanctuary was the studio. There, in the mirrored quiet, she poured her grief into movement. Each pirouette carried sorrow, each lift from her partner gave her the fleeting taste of flight. Dancing was the one place she felt free.

But the predator returned. Arthur Wyndham, just turned thirty and in his prime, had inherited both the estate and the title of Baron of Ballyfarren. Whispers trailed behind him-conquests, ruined reputations, victims scattered across Europe. When he learned Kitty was orphaned, destitute, and drowning in her parents' debts, he saw his chance.

At first Kitty only answered him with politeness, trying to shut him out. Her father had once called him a sick man, and she could see the truth of it in his eyes: the glittering hunger of a beast eyeing prey. That look made the hair at her nape rise.

"Good morning, Miss Byrne. Allow me to extend my condolences on your parents' passing," he said, stepping across her threshold without waiting to be invited.

Kitty had never known such fear, but she hid it. She knew instinctively-if he sensed weakness, he would pounce.

The Baron strolled about her small parlour, glancing at the modest furnishings before pausing at a framed portrait of Kitty in her white tutu.

"I regret missing your mother's funeral. I had only just returned from the Continent." His smile was cool as he settled himself beside her on the sofa.

"Thank you, my lord," Kitty replied evenly, masking her unease.

Her parents had always taught her never to drop her gaze. So Kitty held his eyes-green, cat-like, gleaming with quiet defiance. "I beg your pardon, my lord, but I must leave you. I am expected at practice."

She rose, guiding Arthur Wyndham toward the door.

"Miss Byrne," he said, lingering on the threshold, "you look rather despondent of late. Permit me to take you sailing. The sea air does wonders for the spirits."

"I thank you, my lord, but I am quite occupied with rehearsal. I've no time for sailing." Her tone was graceful, but firm.

He inclined his head, a smile tugging his lips. "Well. Should you change your mind."

She closed the door softly, but his mutter carried through the wood: "So this is how you'll play it, little cat."

Kitty's heart was heavy as she went to practice. This might be her last lesson-she had no money left for Mrs. O'Hare's fees, and the letter from London had yet to come. She felt adrift, lost at sea with no sight of shore.

But that afternoon, a miracle awaited her. Inside her mailbox lay an envelope marked with the crest of the Royal Ballet School.

It brought both joy and despair. She had been accepted to begin in the autumn term, four months away. Yet there was no bursary for her. Her Irish passport made her "international"-and international meant full fees.

It was too cruel. Fate had dangled freedom before her, only to snatch it away with cold reality. For one sweet moment she had believed she could fly, only to be crushed by poverty's weight.

But as she stood with the letter trembling in her hands, a spark kindled. She had been lost, yes, but now she held a buoy-her acceptance-and she would cling to it with all her strength. Somehow, some way, Kitty Byrne would dance her way out of the cage.

Kitty looked around her little cottage, its whitewashed walls dulled by years of salt air and smoke from the turf fire. The thatched roof sagged in one corner, and the faint smell of peat still lingered in the low-ceilinged rooms. Her mother's teacups sat untouched on the dresser, a film of dust softening their painted roses. The floor creaked beneath her step, worn smooth by generations. This was home-her prison and, suddenly, her key. A slow smile crossed her lips. The house. The house was her way out.

But a girl of eighteen had no notion of how one even began to sell such a thing. Were there realtors in a village like Kilvara? She doubted it. So Kitty turned to the only other person who had never doubted her dream of ballet - Mrs. O'Hare. Kindly, with her flour-dusted hands and firm voice, Mrs. O'Hare directed her to Mr. Finnegan.

Mr. Finnegan had no office, no shining window with property listings. His trade was nothing more than a stack of papers and a battered leather ledger he carried under his arm. Folks came to him when they needed to sell a patch of land, a farm, or a cottage-and more often than not, they ended up waiting years. The realty business in Kilvara was as stagnant as the bog water in winter.

"Have ye ever seen new folk about, Miss Byrne? No, ye have not. Because no one's buying here." His voice was rough as gravel, his tweed jacket smelling faintly of damp wool and tobacco.

Kitty's shoulders sagged. Another door slammed in her face.

"But..." Mr. Finnegan's eyes softened, and he rubbed the stubble on his chin. "I'll still put word to your house. Who knows-maybe luck'll find ye yet."

On her walk home, Kitty cut across the shoreline. The tide was on its way out, leaving seaweed strewn like ribbons along the sand. The gulls cried overhead, dipping low as if mocking her. The salt air clung to her hair, sharp and bracing, while the waves glittered under a hesitant sun. And there-anchored further out, sleek and gleaming-was the promised yacht of the Lord of Ballyfarren, as though it waited for her alone.

Another door, another possibility. But could she stomach his game?

Kitty stopped and let the wind whip at her skirts. The horizon stretched vast and merciless before her. If I could swim to London, to the Royal Ballet School, I would. I'd swim until my arms broke.

She clenched her fists. That day, on that shoreline, Kitty Byrne made her choice. She would enter Arthur Wyndham's dangerous courtship, and she swore she would not drown in it. She would emerge victorious.

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