We resumed. And failed again. And again.
The next hour was a haze of embarrassment—Callum gently correcting my steps, Ingrid biting back smirks, the rest of the class gliding effortlessly through their sequences while I stumbled like a marionette with tangled strings. No matter how many times we repeated the same three turns, my limbs wouldn’t cooperate. My body didn’t want to belong to this dance. It wanted to run.
By the time Professor Marwood clapped his hands, sharp and final, the air in the hall was thick with the scent of exertion and old wood polish. “That will be all,” he said. “Same time tomorrow. Everyone is to attend.”
Students began to gather their things, murmuring among themselves, eager to flee the scene. I reached for my coat, heart racing with relief—until Marwood spoke
