She goes pink. Stories? Oh god, are people telling stories about us, now? Maddie inhales, settling her hands in her lap, folder tucked under one thigh. Treats? Oh, if that vendor with the crispy little spit-roasted birds is open today, I'd just about kill for some of those.
     Maddie takes the folder again, glancing around casually to try to spot Sabira's mention. I should probably try to introduce myself to her and be nice to her beforehand, then. I don't want her hating me because of Baz or the academy. We'll have to rehearse loads for the coronation, of course. Who do you have lined up for our costumes?
     One foot swings idly against the other ankle, and she picks absently at the hem of her sleeve. Should I be wary of Melissandre? Who is she, anyway?
     I think that would be very kind of you. Melissandre is a duchess. She, like many young nobles, has been sent to the Capitol for instruction and education. She is shrewd. She plays the game. She might be someone you want to befriend, just to keep dibs on her. I would trust her slowly, however. She could be useful, say, as a lady-in-waiting. You know, if you become a queen. If her shrewd acumen could be focused in your favor, that is.
     Sabira smiles as you go pink. None about you that I know about. But ... his previous girlfriends are pretty chatty. He had three, I think, before he started chasing after West girls. She smiles to you, nudging you gently. And then he fell in love.
     The door opens and Melissandre walks through the door. Her back is straight; she believes it went well. She does a quick bob of respect to the Princess. Sabira does outrank her! Graciously, Sabira bows her veiled head.
     The stately woman reappears, her hands folding primly in front of her once more. "Lady Elaine." The two remaining girls look at you, now having a face to put with the name. Smiling, Sabira rises from her bejeweled poof, holding out her hands to you. "Best of luck. I am sure you will do well." She leans forward and kisses each cheek.
     If. Well. We'll see. She looks around, about to open her mouth to try greeting the dark-haired girl when the door swings open. I'll keep it in mind, anyway. She'll probably hold my lack of title against me, but if so, that's her problem, not mine. We're all born the same way, covered in blood and crying. How we conduct ourselves in the rest of life's up to us.
     She rises to her feet, leaning in to accept the kiss. "Thanks," she murmurs, the butterflies in her stomach threatening a rampage. She tucks her folder up under her arm, giving the stately woman a quick smile of greeting and trying to keep the sheer terror out of her eyes as she moves to follow. "That's me. How do you do?" Polite friendliness is ingrained in her. It'd be against nature for her not to ask.

     The stately woman is not without warmth. She is beautiful. On earth she would be perhaps sixty, her hair perfectly coiffed and silver. Her eyes a piercing blue. "I am well. I thank you for asking," she seems considerate and understanding though somewhat icy in appearance. "Follow me, please." And she turns, leading you down another hallway, the door closing behind you.
     Her dress is white silk with the slightest of trains. Her neck is long and slender. She could easily be a queen with such a walk. But you know better. She is and has been a dancer herself. "Because I understand you are not acquainted with some of our customs, I shall explain the proceedings to you. You will have an audition, followed by a brief question and answer period by the panelists. There are three members of the executive judges committee. They will be scoring your audition today. You will be notified of the results within an hour, once all auditions have been completed for the day."
     Pausing at a double doorway, she turns to look to you, her hands folding once more. "Should you misstep, you will be given an opportunity to repeat the movement and continue with your piece from the point of error. I wish you the best in your endeavors. You may go in."
     Her hands unfold to gesture toward the door. She will not be following you apparently.

     She follows, folding her sheets of music to her chest, listening intently. "Thank you for explaining," Maddie answers sincerely. "I've been trying to catch up, but - well, there's just been an awful lot to catch up on." She ducks her head, as much to make sure the hairpins are all still holding (they are) as in a nod of farewell, and she heads through the door.
     I hope I did the right thing in bringing the music with me. What if they do things differently here? But Sabira would've told me. It'll be fine, Mads. Just - just close your eyes and think of England! Or, well, keep your eyes open and don't trip over your own big fat feet. You can do this. Really. And hey, if and when you do this, you never have to worry about piddling things again, do you? What's a state dinner compared to this?
     She heads through the door demurely, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Or would, if the nervousness didn't show in her eyes. She's only human, after all.

     The room is quite large and extremely ornate. Arched and pointed windows line the entire of one wall, providing a view of the Capitol Island across the bay and the bay and ocean itself. To the left as you enter is a raised dais, where three individuals quietly sit. They acknowledge your presence with a look. To the other side of the room, there is a small chamber orchestra, some twelve pieces in all.
     "If you have music, you may provide it to the conductor and then continue with your introduction and audition," the center member, another stately woman with white hair says clearly, her voice filling the cavernous space, "... and then we will speak and then confer. You may proceed."
     The other two members are men. One elderly and already sizing you up. The other is younger, a current professor. He glances down to his paperwork (information about you, no doubt) in final preparations.

     She doesn't swallow audibly; sound would be swallowed up in this if one doesn't take care, she's sure, but why take chances? She does an appropriate dancer's bow, one foot placed at an angle behind the other. "Thank you," Maddie says out loud, trying to project without being too loud. She straightens, carrying the folder over to the orchestra's leader and holding it out to him carefully. He receives a sunny smile, albeit with the nerves showing in her eyes, still; surrendering the folder, she returns to the center of the stage.
     "My name is Madison Elaine West," Maddie stands straight, hands joined loosely in front of her as she looks to the threesome of judges. "I'm from the United States of America, most recently Massachusetts. I will be performing for you a variation of a piece from my country known as The Red Shoes, set to music by Paco de Lucia - Rumba Improvisida 1971. I hope that you will enjoy it," she adds with a quick return of her sunny smile, "because I know that I'll enjoy performing it."
     She steps back en pointe, waiting for the judges to give the word for her to begin or no. Her nerves are still with her, but they have suddenly faded to the background; she knows exactly what to do and how she wants to do it. Now she just wants to get on with it.

     The conductor smiles genially. He is a pleasant-looking man with pointy ears and purple eyes, with red-brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. He provides the sheet music to the players. "When you are ready," he says to you, "take your position and we will begin."
     The panel nods to your introductions. "We look forward to your performance, Miss West," the woman at the head of the dais speaks. "Proceed as you will."
     As you take your point position, the conductor raises his baton, and instruments are to the ready. He begins. The lone sound at first is that of a lute, throaty and sweet....

     She was already en pointe; now one leg lifts, comes down again as she crosses over and turns around, features calm as the dance begins. She has been over it and over it, practicing until her feet were bloodied so that by now her feet know where to go without her mind needing the reminding.
     There is a story to the dance, of course, even if it is not one known locally. And that was by intention; she had done considerable research to find a dance which is from her world, with fewer comparisons to be made. Of course, she then had to take it even further, and set it to a rhumba score, a mixture of ballet and rhumba dancing. She has only eight minutes in which to tell a tale, however, and eight minutes will have to be enough not only to gain their attention, but to hold it.
     The presence of a man is mimed, a girl out for a stroll with a lover. She takes his arm, dancing in circles around him, dragging him this way and that: to this window, then to that window, oohing and aahing over everything and teasing him unmercifully with wide, sweeping steps. She stops suddenly to stare into a window; there, she mimes, there are the shoes for which she would die. They are presented to her after her imperious demand, and immediately she puts them on, forgetting about anything and everything else. She would do anything to have these shoes, and the greediness of her demand is made plain.
     Those shoes, those shoes - she straightens, spinning now, around and around until the red and the gold run together with the speed of her spin, seeming to become living flame. Lover is forgotten, cobbler is forgotten, along with his hellish deal; the shoes have a life of their own, and for the moment, she is a willing partner in the dance, moving through the air as cleanly as a knife. Where she lands, she immediately is gone again, little flames licking in the space where the devil's shoes have been. She dances with one after another imaginary partner, turning to and fro in uninhibited delight, the pleasure of popularity, of movement evident in her eyes, in her face. She has yet to miss a step.
     But all such pleasures pall, given time; bit by bit, she slows, smiles to partners growing more forced. She excuses herself, turning away, moving to what she hopes will be a comfortable place to rest, expression weary. She sighs, stretching, preparing to sink down to sit, and weariness gradually becomes dawning surprise, then terror; she cannot stop dancing. Her feet continue to move of their own accord, taking her into ever more exaggerated flourishes, the rapid percussion of the rhumba echoed with the sharp staccato of her feet drumming against the stage as if her ankles might surely snap.
     She looks now to her former partners, to her lover, invisible and imagined as they are; but nowhere does she find aid. Where before everyone would dance a turn with her, now she is marked as the devil's creature, and that she was unknowingly duped and is unwilling makes no difference. She runs for shelter, and doors are closed in her face. She tries to cross into sanctuary, but the shoes pull her hapless feet away, a marionette in someone else's show. She dances over hills and dales, growing ever more weary; it seems the shoes will keep her dancing forever, until she spies her chance. Deliberately, and with strength born of desperation, she flings herself into a series of gay-seeming leaps, further and further from the path the shoes have in mind for her, until she is on the very edge of a cliff. And there a duel is fought between her and the shoes for long, complicated moments, until with an expression of triumphant defiance, she hurls herself over the edge, and into the sea.
     When the music stops, Maddie picks herself up from the lip of the stage, trying not to look as if she's out of breath. It's hard not to let them see she's sweating. She does another dancer's bow, first to the judges, then to the orchestra in silent thanks for their own performance, straightening and resisting the urge to mop her face and neck. "Thank you for your time and interest," she says politely. Her voice is almost even! She'd be proud of herself if she weren't so sweaty and out of breath.

     There is no applause, but that is not strange. One doesn't expect applause in an audition. The young instructor appears to be suitably impressed. The older man is harder to read, but his eyebrows are raised -- which usually means interest. The woman has a warmth in her features, though she is reserved.
     "Part of the audition, of course, is graded on technique, raw talent. But we also like to know your artistic approach to your audition. It was an interesting mixing of styles," the woman speaks, and there is no irony in her words. "We have some similar styles, with the expressive," what Americans would call contemporary, "...but the other elements are rather new. Is there a story behind how you chose those two styles to convey your parable?"

     Maddie is gratified to be asked, even though now that she isn't dancing, the nervousness threatens to rise up and consume her again. She calls upon the ghosts of prep school tutors past to keep it under control, speaking steadily and precisely now that she's getting her breath back a little bit. "Yes," she answers aloud, albeit rather carefully. "There is a story where I am from, of a girl who fell in love with a pair of red shoes and allowed her vanity and selfishness to overwhelm compassion and common sense so that she took the shoes without finding out the price attached. It was her misfortune that the shoes were being offered by a devil, and the price was that of her soul."
     "In the original story, she couldn't remove them, and as long as she wore them, she couldn't stop dancing, no matter what. Those who loved her were trampled and forgotten, and only when she was desperate for rest did she seek redemption; a priest was able to remove the shoes for her, and there she died. The story's been altered and updated over the years, but generally has been confined to ballet. However, I felt that the concept behind the story - greed, desire, inflamed passion for a peripheral combined with the strength of will to alter the intended outcome for another - fit in well with the music and culture of South America, from which region of my homeland I drew the music and some of the dance influence."
     She feels as if she should say something more, something more personal, but she can't think of anything to add. Maddie falls silent, waiting for the next question if there is any, and silently praying for a glass of water.

     The young instructor leans forward. "I have to compliment you, Miss West. You understand the storytelling nature of dance very well. I was happy to see that portrayed. So often, the concentration is primarily upon the physical technique. So, I wanted to express that to you," he smiles. "And I like that you considered what style would best compliment the story you wished to tell. How long have you studied dance in America and how many styles would you say you are versed in currently?"

     She colors at the praise; it's actually fairly unexpected. "Thank you," Maddie answers, flattered. "I began lessons when I was five years old, and I was fortunate in that my family traveled extensively, so that my lessons began in India and continued primarily in Africa and Brazil before we returned to America. When I returned to America, it was difficult for me to keep up in the Indian and African styles I'd learned, although I tried - those were primarily gumboot dance of South Africa, and kathakali dance from the Kerala state of India. It was easier to keep up with Latin dance such as I'd begun to learn in Brazil."
     This answers part of the question, but not all of it, and she continues, trying to keep specific and to the point, "The past five years of my training have been almost entirely within America, and I would consider myself versed in an additional half-dozen styles, most of which are more or less 'native' to my home country, which is something of a melting pot of other nations. Those styles would be ballet, swing, hip-hop, ballroom dancing, beguine, and flamenco as a specialization within Latin dance."

     The older man seems a bit drowsy. He's not bored, he's just extremely methodical. "There are areas for improvement and development of course," he looks up over his spectacles, "...or you would not need to apply to the Academy." His voice is a kind of smoky drawl. "Have you given any thought to specialization or how you would like to pursue your studies? Is there a particular area of focus that you would like to now choose?"

     "Of course," Maddie agrees. Her voice doesn't wobble. She's proud of that, anyway, and she's under no illusions as to how good she is or isn't, or she wouldn't have been so nervous in the first place! "I don't feel that I can state where I should specialize, sir, until I've learned more in depth as to what the academy offers me. Right now I'm better at Latin and African dance than I am anything else, but I feel that makes me less well-rounded than I ought to be, as a dancer and as a student."
     She is, as always, nothing short of honest. "As such, no, sir, I'd hold off on such choices until I've had the chance to really dig into it and learn where my real strengths and weaknesses are."

     The woman seems pleased. "Thank you, Miss West. As noted previously, we have two more auditions. We will have our decisions made one hour after all auditions have been completed. We thank you for your performance and wish you the best of luck." She smiles and it is not an ironic smile.
     "You may exit through the same door. Dame Lombard will take you back to the waiting hall. If you will be returning to the palace," they know who you are, "... simply let her know to arrange for a messenger. You are welcome to wait, however."
     She sits back in her chair and the three begin looking at their paperwork again.

     She does another one of those dancer's bows, to the judges and then to the orchestra. "Thank you again for your time, ma'am, sirs." Maddie pivots, holding her breath as she heads back to the door through which she came. She is going to explode, she just knows it. Once her back's turned, she is blushing vividly.
     Ohmygod. I SO need a drink!