Hope

“Again,” Eleanor says, her voice sharp enough to slice the air between us.

I groan, dragging the back of my hand across my forehead. “Eleanor, we’ve been doing this all day.”

“All day,” she repeats, as if the words are a challenge. “And yet your footwork still falters every fourth measure.”

“That’s because my feet are dying,” I mutter, but I take my position anyway. The lady assigned to dance with me—her name might be Margaret or Mary; I can’t even remember anymore—steps up with that same placid, unreadable face she’s worn since morning. Not a flicker of emotion. Not even a hint of boredom or irritation. Just… nothing....