Flightless Bird || l.s. ✔︎

ACT III: CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A/N: Buckle up.

Alex lived alone in a townhouse in Knightsbridge. The property had been in his family for generations. I could feel the weight of history as he swung open the double doors. The entrance hall alone contained more art and antique furnishings than a museum. I took off my jacket, careful not to knock over the Ming Dynasty vases on either side of me.

An ornate Turkish rug led into the drawing room. It was everything I expected and more. A beaded chandelier sparkled in the center of the room like a supernova. The paneled walls, couches, settee and silk pillows were all ivory with bronze piping. The Edwardian cabinets and side tables were a rich lacquered oak, and the tassled drapes, heavy, velvet and royal blue. There wasn't an inch of the place that wasn't dripping in luxury.

Alex glided over to the liquor cabinet. "Cognac?"

I shouldn't have had anything more to drink that night but I said yes.

There were statuettes and framed photos of dancers on every surface. They looked like headstones, tiny graveyards of memories. I thought I spotted a photo of Harry but it was Hans. He was in black tights and a white bodysuit, standing in fifth position with his small hand on the barre. It wasn't taken at RBS. It must have been a studio in Paris where Alex had trained him privately. I glanced around and realized that there were dozens of photos of Hans: in the studio, in costume, onstage, backstage. There were also personal photos of Alex and Hans on a beach in the South of France, in his home in Paris, hugging at a gala...

I'd forgotten how close they were. Poor Alex. "I'm so sorry for your loss," I said, embracing him. I felt guilty. Here I was complaining about my breakup with Harry all night when Alex was still mourning the loss of his dearest pupil.

"It was a shock." He sat on the settee and held the cognac with both hands. "Hanging. What a horrible way to die. The cord didn't break his neck, you know. He strangled to death. I think about how long it must have taken. It keeps me up at night."

That was almost exactly what Harry said about Hans' suicide. Neither seemed to wonder why he did it. I wondered.

"You did so much for him while he was still with us."

"Yes, and in death. His parents asked me to deliver the eulogy at his funeral." Languidly, Alex crossed one leg over the other.

I continued to wander through his memories. There were several photos of his wife Irina, and Boris Polzin who he danced with at the Paris Opera Ballet. There were more students too. He'd mentored a boy at RBS before Hans, and four other boys at École de Danse de l'Opéra. Gigi was right. He did favor boys. But that was not unusual, was it? Alex was a male dancer, he probably felt more attached to the boys because he saw himself in them. What I did find unusual was that there were no photos of Harry.

He knew what I was searching for. Alex walked over to the bookcase and took down a small silver frame.

"Here's the little devil. I would have taken more but Harry hated being photographed. He wouldn't even smile for this one. I took it during our trip to Paris."

The Harry I remembered always had a huge froggy grin in photos.

When I held the silver frame in my hands my eyes widened. He was a baby! Creamy complexion, chubby cheeks, pouty pink lips and a stubborn chin, under a mass of wild curls. It seemed impossible that he was ever that young. I couldn't stop staring at it.

I was insanely jealous of Harry when he left for that trip. Stuck at school, I imagined the incredible time he was having, at all the best parties with the most sophisticated people. It was a pretty photo of him but this was not at all what I had pictured. He looked miserable. When I examined the photo more closely, I noticed something else that was very strange.