Pretzel whirled across the stage, giving her all to the dance. The mirrors lining the wall reflected her slim body in flashes, catching here an outstretched leg, there a delicately curled arm. With each pirouette, each leap, she felt more and more sure of herself - and of Hieronymus Graubart's instruction.

His quiet voice was present at every stage. "The leg a little higher," he would tell her, or, "To the left a little more," or, "Point the toes, Pretzel, point them!" She loved it when he used her name - but she didn't let it show, didn't let the shivers he sent down her spine distract her from the dance.

The music swept towards its climax - the most difficult part of the performance. Pretzel's face was a mask of concentration as she contorted her limbs into the demanding forms Hieronymus had choreographed. His voice was silent now, but she could feel his eyes burning into her, urging her to higher and higher degrees of art.

The music reached its final, shattering fanfare, and the whirl and flex of Pretzel's body ceased at the precise moment it fell silent. She held her post for three long, painful seconds - and then curtsied gracefully to her audience of one, and allowed herself to relax.

Hieronymus Graubart gazed at her contemplatively, his eyes tracking over every inch of her body. She knew he was reliving the dance, checking it for imperfections, compiling his comments in order.

Finally, he spoke, and his soft voice brought a smile of pure delight to Pretzel's face. "Exquisite, my dear, truly exquisite. I think you are at last ready for the stage."