Part II -- The Price Of A Dream (2)

Kitty gasped-the ring was breathtaking, the sea air seemed to freeze around her. For a moment, she saw a path clearing. She lowered her lashes, a sigh slipping past her lips, the picture of a girl weighed down by sorrow-though every note of it was staged for his heart alone.

"Oh, Arthur... it's beautiful," she whispered. "But I can't. I can't be your wife with all my parents' debts hanging over me. I have no dowry. I'd be a shame to your name."

Arthur leaned forward, earnest, insistent. "I don't care about any of that."

"But I do." Her smile was tender, practiced, just enough to sting his heart. "I won't let myself be a burden. Unless... unless you helped me by buying my cottage. Then I could pay the debts, and have a dowry to bring you with dignity. What do you say, Arthur?"

He hesitated, frowning. "That sounds like too much fuss."

Kitty lowered her eyes, her voice a velvet reproach. "I thought you loved me. Is helping me-a little dignity for your future wife-too much fuss?"

His resistance melted under the heat of her gaze. "Very well, my darling. I'll have O'Brian draw up the papers."

Kitty nearly squealed. At last-the door swung open.

Arthur studied her once more, lips curling in a half-smile. "So-you will be my wife, then?"

Kitty met his eyes without flinching, her voice sweet as honey. "Yes. Of course."

They celebrated with wine, with music on the gramophone, with laughter echoing into the night sea. But while Arthur toasted love, Kitty toasted freedom. She drank deeply, but not from joy-only determination.

Later, the air turned heavy. Arthur's hand slid over hers, his lips on her neck, his breath hot with wine.

"I have been a good boy for you, haven't I?" he murmured, pressing her down onto the yacht's broad sofa. "And soon you'll be mine... all mine."

"No, Arthur..." Kitty's voice trembled, but his kisses smothered her words. The way his name fell from her lips only kindled him further-what sounded to her like protestation curled into his ears like a tease, almost a flirtation. A tingle ran through him, sharp and electric, and his grip only tightened on her wrists, pinning her.

"My love, don't fight me," he whispered, voice low, possessive. Then pain cut through her, sharp, tearing-she gasped, tears spilling before she could stop them.

"It hurts," she sobbed, her voice breaking.

"It will pass, darling. You'll learn to like it," Arthur breathed, as if it were a comfort.

Kitty cried quietly, her body trembling, the pain cutting not only into her flesh but into her soul. Something within her was being broken, stolen-the fragile innocence she had never thought to guard. She stared past him, past the swaying lantern light, to the stars above the mast. Their glittering sparks blinked like a thousand unfeeling eyes, watching, bearing witness to her shame. She could not endure their cold gaze; she grew to hate their endless blinking brilliance. Turning her head away, she fixed her eyes on the white softness of the sofa beneath her, clinging to its stillness as her mind fled elsewhere.

In that retreat, the linen became a stage-bright, gilded, glowing in white and gold. She saw herself at the Royal Ballet School, wrapped in the dream she had built from ashes. If this was the price, she told herself, then she would pay it. Every dream demanded a toll.

That night, as the yacht rocked gently on the dark sea, Kitty understood: victory could feel like ruin.

The papers were drawn within the week, money transferred to Kitty's account through Mr. O'Brien, Arthur's stiff-necked solicitor. She signed the purchase contract with a hand that barely trembled, though her heart thundered. At last-the cottage was gone, turned to coin in her name. No longer her parents' burden, no longer her own-it was fuel now, fuel for something far greater than stone walls and a thatched roof.

Arthur drove her home afterward, the manor lights fading behind them as he took her hand. "Don't forget," he said softly, eyes glinting with triumph, "tomorrow you'll meet my mother. We'll choose your wedding gown."

Kitty pressed his fingers to her cheek, her voice honey-sweet. "I wouldn't miss it, Arthur."

But in her mind, she was already gone. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

The moment his black Mercedes purred down the lane and disappeared, Kitty's mask slipped. She hurried to the bank, pulse racing, every step echoing with the dread of discovery. She knew Arthur-knew that when he found her missing, he would freeze everything. So she took enough: the full tuition for the Royal Ballet School, the release fee for her mother's St. Brigid's pendant gathering dust in the pawnshop, and a small cushion for the unknowns ahead. The rest, she left untouched for the payment of her parents' debt.

That night, under the soft glow of her desk lamp, she bent over a stack of cheques, each one written in her careful hand. Widow Flannery for the dancewear left unpaid. Paddy Doyle for the ballet shoes. Murphy's shop for the music lessons. And the man who had sold her the van, whose trust had helped her escape. Debt by debt, name by name-she laid her parents' ghosts to rest.

By dawn, when the first paperboy rattled past on his bicycle, Kitty was waiting. She pressed a small stack of envelopes into the hands of one freckled lad. "This one to Ballyfarren Manor," she told him softly, tucking a coin into his palm, "and give it straight to the butler, mind." Inside lay Arthur's ring, gleaming coldly in its velvet box, her farewell sealed in ink.

The rest of the envelopes-cheques, carefully written in her tidy hand-were bound for grocers, tradesmen, and neighbors who had carried her parents' debts for far too long. One by one, she sent them off into the waking village, a quiet trail of closure behind her.

By early morning, Kitty had packed her van to the brim, every last piece stowed, her plan set. Just as she climbed into the driver's seat, ready to embark on her journey, a voice sneered from the gate.

"What're ya at now, lass?" Mr. O'Sullivan called, eyeing her van with suspicion and thinly veiled disdain.

"I'm going to be a ballerina. You'll see me dancing in London soon," Kitty replied curtly, leaning into that much-hated London accent with such passion that it silenced the old man.

"Will ya look at the wee one go!" called out a voice, squinting at the van as it bounced over the cobblestones.

"Faith, the jezebel's off, she is!" muttered another, shaking his head with disapproval.

"She done broke the master's heart, sure enough," said a third, lips pressed tight, eyes narrowed in scandalized disbelief.

"Ah, what a villain, the pair o' 'em!" snorted a fourth, muttering as he spat into the dirt.

But Kitty paid them no heed. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles ached, her jaw set with unyielding resolve. Every mile forward carried the weight of what she had paid-her parents' debts cleared, her cottage sold, and the price far heavier than any cheque or sum of money. The innocence of her youth had been the currency, and only she bore the cost. Every laugh, every playful glance, every tender fantasy had been bartered to secure this freedom.

The morning sun glinted off the van, warming her face, catching the steely green of her eyes, fierce and unbowed. She drove straight toward her dream: the Royal Ballet School in London. The ferry awaited, the sea wind promising a new life, and with it, the first true step away from everything she had lost-and everything she had paid.

Her spirit soared as the salty sea wind whipped through her hair, tugging at her clothes like an urgent whisper to fly. She cast one last glance at the snug little village, and it seemed smaller than ever-rows of stone cottages huddled together like prisoners, narrow lanes twisting and turning with the familiarity of a trap. The market square, the hedgerows, the whispering neighbors leaning over their fences-it all pressed in, stifling, judgmental, a cage forged from sneers, gossip, and the heavy weight of expectation.

A shiver ran down her spine at the thought of returning. She would never willingly set foot in that cage again, never let its walls hem her in, never let the small minds close around her dreams. The village had tried to dictate who she could be, who she should serve, and what she was worth. But she was breaking free. Even her voice had begun to change; as she left, the lilt of her Irish accent softened and slipped away, shed like an old skin she refused to carry into the life ahead.

Kitty clutched the St. Brigid pendant that hung around her neck-her mother's only possession she had managed to save-tight in her fist. The cool metal pressed against her palm, a fragile tether to the life she had lost. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as memories of her parents flooded her, their voices echoing in the hollow spaces of her heart. She whispered a silent plea to Saint Brigit, asking for strength, courage, and the resolve to face whatever awaited her in London, a young traveler chasing a dream that now rested solely on her shoulders. The letter of acceptance to the Royal Ballet School, folded neatly in her bag, was proof that fate had granted her a chance. All that remained was to survive, to endure, and to seize it.

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