Iris
“Keep your chin up and shoulders back, Miss Willford! And one-two-three, one-two-three. No, no, no! You’re leading again!”
I bite back a frustrated groan as Madame Laurent, the ancient dance instructor my parents hired for me, stops the music for what feels like the hundredth time in the past hour. Her thin lips press together with obvious disappointment as she circles Arthur and me, prodding at my shoulders, neck, and arms with her knotted old fingers.
Madame Laurent is apparently one of the most prestigious ballroom dance instructors in Ordan. The crème de la crème.
She’s also a f*****g drill sergeant.
“The waltz is the backbone of high society,” she barks. “It’s not just a dance—it is a statement. And right now, you are making a very poor statement indeed.”
