Another new day in this new life. Emerynne is thankful for it.

Her way to the kitchen is intercepted by faint sounds, stopping her in her path – Annika is crying. Emerynne knows her crying all too well, like a catchy song unwittingly memorized; she used to stay awake in her bedroom in Vienna, listening to the subdued yet mournful weeping. A voice, Erika's, murmurs, "Annika, no. You simply did what you thought would mend things. You had no idea Johann would become like this..."

Emerynne stiffens at the sound of that name. Stepping closer to the living room, she stays out of sight in the hallway, listing forward to furtively eavesdrop.

"That is just it!" Annika exclaims, her tone holds a stab of self-accusation, "I should've known. I saw him become more and more violent every day, still I stayed and hoped to reverse all of it. I failed, I could neither protect her, nor myself. I should've—I..." her voice breaks and so does she, sobbing softly.

"Annika..." Erika says, placating and gentle, still forceful, as though she has run out of ways to make her sister stop holding herself accountable for everything that went wrong.

"I should've done this a long time ago," Annika resumes, "and Emery wouldn't have had to go through all that. You know how lucky I am to have her as my daughter, she gave up so much only so I could try, time and again, to sort Johann out and have us all go back to being a happy family." She pules, choking on her next words, "I failed her... I—I failed her, I failed myself."

Emerynne's heart twists in her chest. She inhales a ragged and rasping breath, the anamnesis swimming in her mind – venomous eels biting memories, shaking up illnesses. The fatigue, the pain from prior night's punishment, the quiver in her calves, the twang of thews in the arch of her feet held en-pointe. It's clear as day, how she used to cave in to her bodily protests against the ballet positions and fall straight down due to a sprained ankle, or a pulled muscle; the instructress asking her to take a break, and Annika looking at her from beyond the glass doors of the studio, her face manifesting an agony greater than what she felt. As her vision blurs with betoken tears, Emerynne promises herself that she will not cry. She cannot be weak here when her mother is fighting her demons.

No one should ever have to battle their demons alone. Especially not Annika.

Treading the rest of the hallway, Emerynne steps heavily to make her presence known. All conversation stops at the sound of her approach – as she expected. In the living room, Annika occupies one of the dining-table chairs, back towards Emerynne, shoulders hunched. Erika is beside her, pretending to inspect the trayfuls of drying herbs on the table.

"Good morning." Emerynne keeps her voice light, like she didn't just hold back from collapsing in the solitude of the passage, like she didn't almost crumble like an old, weathered fortress. The composed masquerade that she now flaunts has taken years of practice – from faking being fine in front of people at education school, in front of her batchmates at ballet school, in front of friends and neighbors.

Erika drops a dry bloom into its tray and looks up. "Oh, hi, Emery!" Her greeting is cheery, traceless of what Emerynne overheard transpiring.

"Good morning, sweetheart." Annika finally turns around. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yes, I did."

A quietude is beginning to pervade the air. Thick and uneasy, it makes Emerynne want to retreat to her room and curl up in bed like a harassed millipede.

"So, Emery..." Erika's timely breaking of the silence is much appreciated. "Would you prefer tea or coffee to start your day?"

"I'll have coffee, thank you."

"There's some in the percolator," says Erika, pointing towards the kitchen, "and you'll find the mugs in the upper, left cabinet."

Pouring herself some of the caliginous, energizing beverage, Emerynne sags against the granite kitchen counter, holding her mug in both hands to tap its soothing warmth. There is a small ventilation window to her right, letting the fresh, crisp morning breeze come susurrating in every now and then. She can see into the home in the building next door; a woman keeps bustling past, presumably laying out breakfast for her family.

"Emery..." Erika comes in, depositing two teacups in the sink.

"Hmm?"

"Are treacle toast and fruits okay for breakfast?"

"Of course. I'll eat whatever you make, Aunty. You need any help in laying out breakfast?"

"No," Erika replies, "but you can help me finish the fruit tarts."

"Sure." Emerynne giggles. "Nothing shall go to waste."

"Wonderful!" Erika beams, exuberant. "So, well... years of living alone, I stuffed all the spare plates up there," she says, angling her chin to the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet. "If you could bring up a chair—"

"I can reach it," Emerynne interrupts her, stepping forward. Being the tallest in the household, she easily clears the distance on her tiptoes and reaches into the shelf. Her hands brush the cool surface of the china plates and she grabs two, carefully bringing them down. "Here..."

"Thank you kindly."

By then, Annika has popped into the kitchen to help. The tiny space is now crowded, so Emerynne exits with her coffee mug, leaving the two sisters to serve breakfast.

❧

Since that Sunday spent together, Emerynne and Noemi's friendship blossoms like spring has blossomed through Hallstatt. Every evening, after they are let off work, they go around town, sit at the Hallstatt Market Boat Station, watching the vessels ferry people and things across the lake, watching the sun set behind the blue and violet alps. They find they have a lot to talk about, from things as superficial as make-up and clothes, to those as serious as politics and social injustice.

On this one such occasion, Noemi has determined that she doesn't know Emerynne well enough. "Come on, tell me more about yourself," she demands, "tell me stuff that friends are supposed to know about each other."

"Like what?" Emerynne scoffs. "I think we know each other and will keep finding stuff out as we go."

"I merely believe I should know when your birthday is... or like, what your favorite color is, what your hobbies are—" Noemi lists the items off on her fingers. "We ought to know these, or at least be curious about it. I feel like I barely know you!"

"Okay, okay," Emerynne quickly says, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. "My birthday is the twenty-third of October. My favorite color is blue. I like to make art, I like to dance, I read a lot—"

"You dance?" Noemi interjects abruptly.

"Uh, yeah." Emerynne cannot keep the pride from lifting her voice when she reveals, "actually, I am trained in Austrian and Russian Ballet, and was going to be a professional ballerina."

"Oh my gosh, that's badass!" Noemi is wide-eyed. "I have never met a ballerina before."

Emerynne laughs. "I'm not really a ballerina..."

Confusion apparent in her visage, Noemi questions, "what do you mean?"

"Well, I haven't danced in a long time. I dropped out of ballet school before I could graduate," Emerynne confesses slowly, trying to keep her remorse from showing, "and now that I have all these tattoos, I've lost all chances of being accepted into any ballet school."

"Why'd you drop out in the first place?" enquires Noemi.

There's a knot in Emerynne's throat, however, she swallows it down. Casting her gaze out to a fishing boat lazing far in the middle of Hallstatt Lake, she hides the tears that prick her eyes. "You know, the competition, the toxicity about body and eating disguised as fitness," she exemplifies, "it didn't sit well with me, no matter how much I love ballet as an art."

"Given a chance, would you still like to be a professional dancer? Just a dancer, not a... prima donna, is it called?"

"Prima ballerina," says Emerynne. "I don't know though..."

"Come on, I see how you talk about dancing," Noemi contends, "I can tell how much you love it. It makes you happy..."

"Yeah, it does make me happy," agrees Emerynne, releasing a defeated sigh. "But, like I said, the competition is far too great. No ballet school is going to take me now... and without a certification, I won't last a day amidst the professionals, and there—"

Noemi holds up a hand to quieten her, saying, "does it have to be ballet though? Don't you just like... love dancing?"

Turning her face to the sky, Emerynne's eyelids slide closed against the heavy sunshine, feeling it warm her cheeks, her brows, her neck. Exhaling languidly, she says, "I guess it doesn't have to be ballet... I do enjoy contemporary, too."

"Great! Because I know this dance company in Obertraun, they're world class – like they actually go into world level competitions and are hired by movies, plays and documentaries and shit," Noemi rambles, only pausing in between to suck in a quick breath. She continues, "I really think you should audition! You could take the early ferry every day to get to your dream job... think about the prospects, think about—"

Emerynne cuts off her rave, "wait! Hold on! Aren't you thinking too far into this? I mean, we don't know if they'll even hire me."

"Okay, but promise me you'll audition at least." Clasping her hands together, Noemi beseeches, pouting. "Please?"

"Oh, come now." Emerynne can't help but roll her eyes. "Fine."

Letting out a squeal that makes Emerynne jump, Noemi throws her arms around her neck, yelling, "oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! This is so exciting." She draws back, her hands still holding Emerynne by her shoulders, and asks, "can I go with you? For emotional and moral support."

Laughing, Emerynne now pulls Noemi into a hug. "I'd appreciate that, to be honest."

She hears Noemi murmur, "this is what friends are for."

Losing heart on her dream is one of Emerynne's demons, and now she is sure she doesn't have to fight it alone. She has Noemi.