by Yvonne Eliot
She pirouetted daintily, small feet perfectly pointed. Her arms were as graceful as butterfly wings, seemingly about to send her into effortless flight. As the music rang its final chords, she dipped into a deep curtsy and held the pose, waiting. Applause broke out amongst the court. It was agreed that she was the finest dancer the court had yet seen, well deserving of presentation to the prince. He beckoned to her, and she approached with great humility, allowing herself only the briefest of smirks before her dagger struck his heart.
Yvonne Eliot is in the process of transforming her writing from an avocation to at least some semblance of a vocation.