A Ruby in the Ice
by Mary-Jean Harris
part 1
Icicles framed the dark stone portico of the Palais des Bijoux, glinting in the light of the white December sun. They seemed to form a crystal chandelier above Liana as she entered the home of Mme Karina’s Rubies. A world of ballet, a world of dreamy orchestral music, a world of jewels. It was a world she had to be a part of.
Yet the line of at least thirty young ladies entwined around the rose-marble columns of the reception hall hardly heralded Liana as a princess stepping into her rightful kingdom. No, all these girls thought themselves equally special, equally unique in securing a position as one of the Rubies.
The Prima Ballerinas of the Palais des Bijoux performed not only in Paris but at the finest opera houses in Europe, Asia, and even the Americas. In their red shoes adorned with rubies and their elegant motions crafted to perfection, there was no comparable troupe.
Liana took her place at the end of the queue, noting the middle-aged woman behind a desk at the end of the hall. The woman’s chestnut hair coiled smoothly into an elegant coiffure with a dusting of silver strands. She spoke with each young lady sternly before presenting her with a contract, a crisp white paper dense with scrawled ink. It was barely eight in the morning, an hour before the auditions officially began.
I have time, Liana reminded herself. She loosened her clenched fist from the strap of her linen ballet bag. Perhaps she had packed too many ribbons; none of the other ladies were so fancifully attired. Simple buns gelled and combed to perfection and deep, crimson lips cast them as professionals eager to secure a position that was all but granted to them.
But Liana knew they couldn’t all succeed. They couldn’t all live the dream of the young girl trapped inside Liana’s heart, twirling ribbons in her bedroom while she leapt about in her soft pink shoes. But she would succeed. The Rubies were the epitome of perfection and grace. The life she envisioned without the ruby shoes was one of labour and despair, endless hours in her aunt’s kitchens with a mop that was always insufficient in lifting up soup stains and char from the woodstove...
“Your name?”
Liana had reached the table in a daze. She steeled herself against the sudden jolt in her chest. “Liana Desrosiers.”
The woman hardly suffered her a glance as she pushed one of the contracts before Liana and tapped the paper with a sharp, polished nail. “Sign here and enter the Quartz Hall to my left.” She gestured to an arched door behind her. “And note that the Ruby Hall on my right is strictly prohibited to all but the Rubies. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Then sign and proceed.”
Liana lifted the dip pen, her fingers clumsy as they fumbled to put the nib into the inkwell and set it to paper. I should read this, she reminded herself.
This agreement is set forth between Mme Karina, proprietress of Mme Karina’s Rubies of the Palais des Bijoux, and the candidate ballerina—
“Well?” the woman demanded.
“I’m still reading—”
“Do you wish to delay the auditions?”
There were so many clauses, it would have been impossible to read them all in less than a quarter of an hour. But Liana couldn’t risk her chance, so she skimmed the document, noting what seemed to be salient points amid the swarms of ink:
never to speak of the inner workings of the Palais...
agree to accept the Ruby Shoes only at such a time as Mme Karina deems suitable...
a lifetime agreement to be concluded only if and when Mme Karina deems suitable...
There were another twenty girls behind her now, and Liana found the words blurring into black rivulets upon white. She drew the pen to the bottom of the page, signing her name with the date: 7 December 1865. It was done.
The contract was snatched from under her nose with a flick, and Liana found herself entering the audition hall. Winks of morning light caught in the floor to ceiling windows of the grand hall, an icy jewellery box of hopeful ballerinas. There were ladies tall and short, willowy and plump, all with taut anticipation like icicles that would shatter upon the cold marble floor the moment a “no” was uttered from Mme Karina’s lips.
As it turned out, Mme Karina was not present; instead, a certain Mme Julie Clairveaux and the lady from the desk — Mme Cecilia Marillier — were the auditioners. The day proceeded in a blur, arabesques blending into jetés and pas de chat, with more pliés than Liana could count. She could feel the sweat in the corners of her eyes and along her nose, and she knew her hair bun was disintegrating, like those of the other girls around her.
By the end of the afternoon, icicles were glittering outside the windows as the sun set in golden-bronze hues behind the city’s towers, manors, and churches. A tall man, clad in black with pole-like limbs, arrived at the day’s end to light the chandeliers. When the dancing had concluded, the young ladies stood attentively, not daring to sit despite their cramped muscles and bruised toes. Liana noticed blood seeping through the edge of one young lady’s shoe, a mockery of ruby red upon pink.
Once Mmes Julie and Cecilia had finished conferring, they read the names of those fortunate ladies who would be tested by Mme Karina the following day. They were presented with a single red jewel, a promise of what was to come. The rest were handed a scrap of red cloth and dismissed.
Cold air seemed to sink into Liana’s throat, cloy in her lungs. Her fingers pinched the cloth hard, as if she could somehow condense it into a ruby by sheer force. She pushed her stiff limbs forward and stopped Mme Julie at the door.
“Madame,” she began, “I believed we would all be tested by Mme Karina. That is what the contract—”
“Foolish girl,” Julie snapped. “The Mistress has no time for those who do not show potential.”
“But I—”
“Have been dreaming about this your whole life?” The sing-song lilt to the woman’s tone froze the words in Liana’s throat. “As have all.” Julie gestured to the room where the girls with scraps of cloth were numbly packing their belongings.
The woman departed, and Liana was left with a hitch in her throat. Her skin, previously warmed by the day’s exertions, started to prickle with gooseflesh as the chill of the chamber met her sweat-coated skin. Only ten girls had been chosen, leaving nearly fifty bereft of hope. Bereft... but no, she couldn’t accept it.
Liana approached a young lady who appeared no older than fourteen, her red hair forming a frizz of curls where they had escaped her bun. “May I have that?” Liana asked, pointing to the girl’s scrap of red fabric.
The girl handed it over at once. “I don’t want to see that again,” she muttered.
Liana collected a few dozen scraps from the remaining ladies, all of whom shared similar sentiments. But Liana was possessed with fierce determination rather than defeat. She left the Palais des Bijoux at a brisk pace, her boots creating a steady clacking rhythm upon the cobblestones. Her breath curled in the December air, coalescing in a white mist that blended into the evening fog.
When Liana arrived home, she retrieved a new candlestick from the pantry and a long loaf of bread from the kitchen to quench her hunger. She then got to work in her room.
* * *
The shoes were a poor excuse for ballet slippers. They were patched furiously with crude stitches, as if performed by an army surgeon in the trenches of war. The two hard ends of the bread had served as a frame upon which to sew the toes and were now spiked with needles.
Liana slid them onto her feet and felt the uneven stitches press into her toes. But that didn’t matter. Slipping them off again, Liana stepped into her boots and tossed a cloak over her light practice attire; she hadn’t changed out of it yesterday and, after her nightly exertions, it clung to her skin like the scales of a snake. No matter: they wouldn’t be looking at her attire or the state of her hair or skin. Only her feet, and the perfect rhythm flowing through her body. Fortunately, exhaustion had not yet overcome Liana, for she had a long walk to reach the Palais des Bijoux.
The girls who were to be tested by Mme Karina hadn’t yet arrived, for it was only half past six when Liana reached the opera house. But the building was open, and the chandelier of icicles above the door was dull without the morning light. Inside, the double doors to the Ruby Hall pulsed in Liana’s vision. “Strictly prohibited,” Mme Cecelia had said. Unless she was a Ruby, that is.
* * *
Copyright © 2026 by Mary-Jean Harris
