The dress rehearsals at the Richmond Theatre were conducted in an atmosphere of feverish secrecy. Mrs. Bennett had ordered the doors of the hall barred, allowing access only to the three protagonists and a lighting technician she trusted implicitly. For this piece, the orchestra had been replaced by the distorted and powerful soundscape Azzurra had created.
As the notes of the "heartbeat of the earth" echoed through the empty theatre, Azzurra guided Oliver and Maya through a sequence that was becoming increasingly extreme. They were no longer seeking beauty; they were seeking truth.
But something in Oliver was changing.
Azzurra watched him as they rehearsed the central lift—the moment where he had to hoist her above his head to simulate the explosion of the lighthouse lantern. Oliver had always been a flawless athlete, but now his movements were heavy, burdened by a fatigue that did not seem muscular.
"Oliver, let's stop," Azzurra said, seeing him stumble after a landing.
"I'm fine, Azzurra. Let's keep going," he replied, but his breath was a rattle.
He pulled off his rehearsal shirt, drenched in sweat, and Maya let out a stifled scream, clutching her hands to her mouth. On Oliver's back, along the spine, purplish marks had appeared—resembling bruises, but with the unmistakable shape of intertwining water currents. Furthermore, small circular burns were visible on his arms, identical to the marks left by silk when it burns against the skin.
Mrs. Bennett stepped down from the stage, her face pale. "Oliver... what are these marks?"
"I don't know," the boy murmured, looking at himself in the mirror. "While I dance, I feel an immense cold, followed by a heat that sears. It's as if my body is becoming a vessel for something that doesn't belong to me. But I don't feel pain; I feel... strength."
Azzurra approached, lightly touching the marks on his back. Upon contact, she felt an electric shiver. They were the signs of the sabotage. By dancing with her, Oliver was absorbing part of the blows being struck against the pier in Sicily. His devotion to Azzurra had turned him into a living lightning rod.
"They are destroying you, Oliver," Azzurra whispered, tears beginning to fall. "You can't dance like this. The Draunara will eat you alive."
"No," he replied, taking her face in his hands. His gaze was lucid, almost transfigured. "I am your partner, Azzurra. If you carry the weight of the sea, I will carry the weight of the earth. I won't let you dance alone against that shadow."
Maya, usually the most pragmatic, was terrified. "Mrs. Bennett, we have to stop everything! This isn't a ballet anymore, it's madness! Look at what's happening to him!"
The headmistress looked at the marks on the body of her best student, then at the fresh scratch on Azzurra's neck. She knew that, rationally, she should suspend everything and call for doctors. But she also sensed that if they stopped now, this evil would never be defeated. It would remain latent, ready to devour Azzurra once her time at the school ended.
"Oliver is right," Bennett said firmly, though her hands were trembling. "Dance is the only way to expel this poison. If we stop now, the marks will remain forever. If we reach the end of the choreography, if we manage to bring the light onto the stage, all of this will vanish. Oliver, do you feel you can continue?"
"Until my last breath," he replied, moving back into position.
Azzurra looked at her friend—the boy who had taught her that London could be a home—and realized it was no longer about dance. It was an act of supreme love. Oliver was placing his perfect body at the disposal of the curse to allow Azzurra to be free.
"Then let's do it," Azzurra said, her voice vibrating with a new, terrible awareness. "But this time, we will dance as if the theatre didn't exist. We will dance as if we were on the Strait, between the mud and the light."
Maya pressed "play." The music started again, louder than before. And as the three teenagers moved through the darkness of the theatre, the marks on Oliver's body began to glow with a bluish light, pulsing to the rhythm of the lighthouse that, thousands of miles away, Belinda was about to ignite.