She waits, silent, watching, careful not to get oil from her hands on the heavy black curtains in front of her. Her intricately braided and bejewelled hair is immaculate, every strand perfectly in place. Her costume sparkles with a thousand angels' tears. Tears too threaten to spill from her eyes — she reaches up and brushes them away hastily, before they can run into eyeshadow and mascara and blush and leave marks. This is it. No more early-morning or late-night company classes; no more endless technical rehearsals; no more bun pins or relentlessly tight hairstyles shooting fire into her skull. No more runs in tights; no more itchy rehearsal tutus; no more bunions or blisters or bleeding toenails.

No more inseparable camaraderie that only forms between those that perform on stage together. No more weightlessness of partnering, no more lifts or jumps or pirouettes. No more pointe shoes.

One more dance, and one more bow. One more curtain call, one more finale that rouses the whole house to applause, and perhaps even a standing ovation, which is somehow meant especially for her.

I should be glad, she thinks. I should anticipate with pleasure the open days ahead of me. Time to raise a family, time to treat myself a little. Time to find a new love.

She tugs at a loose sequin, and it resists for a moment before popping off and slipping to the floor. Her stomach twists unexpectedly and she chokes back a sob. She tries to steady herself. Deep breaths. She forces her eyes to the stage, to the dance she knows like only someone who has danced it for 15 years can know. A flourish of fanfare signals the end of the movement.

The house explodes with roars of applause, that unique kind of energy only a closing-night crowd can possess. Satin and velvet, red, purple, and blue, gold and silver all blur together as the dancers bow and exit, smiling. The lights go down, immersing the magical landscape in darkness. On cue, four or five sidestage crew rush past the waiting dancer, and within moments the stage has been cleared for the finale.

From the shadows behind her comes a tall, smiling young man, dressed to match her in shimmering gold and white. He glances at her face, then without a word comes to stand beside her, arm around her. She draws in a shaky breath. Needing something to do, she rolls up on demi-pointe, then pointe, back down through demi, down to flat, using his shoulder to steady herself. The familiar action, movement she has done nearly every day for 20 years, calms her a bit. She offers her partner a tentative smile, and his eyes tell her: You can do this.

Cue the final waltz! Now come the dancing lords and ladies; now the polichinelles, apple-cheeked and smiling; now the jingling candy canes with their striped hoops and bells; now the waltzing marzipan, yellow and pink and frilly white. The music shifts, hinting at each theme as the stage fills with dancing and music and light.

She ticks off the dances as they come: Spanish chocolate and Arabian coffee, Chinese tea and fluttering rose petals. She takes a breath and puts on her very best smile. Her partner takes her hand and squeezes it gently as they enter together, walking slowly, proud and regal. She points her toe, waiting. Ready.

As if signalled by some unseen voice, off they go, leaping, spinning, stepping as one. Then she's high above his head, his strong arms around her waist. She will not fall.

Now she's floating back down to the ground. Her partner sets her gently back down on her toes and promenades her slowly around in a circle. He steps back and she balances in arabesque, strong and sure on one toe.

All too soon, they are joined by the rest of the waiting dancers, through the grand waltz, simple steps she's danced ever since she was old enough to not be a mouse or an angel; through the false ending — with a detached sort of amusement she notes that the audience starts to clap, then falters, as they do every time — and the children dancing Marie and Franz are standing by their sleigh, waiting. She bends to kiss the girl on the cheek and offers her hand to the boy, who takes it solemnly. They bow and curtsy and climb into the waiting sleigh.

Then, almost without thinking, soft bourrees through the final chords as the sleigh carries the children high above them, drifting away. She turns slowly in her spotlight, arms gracefully floating by her sides, an ethereal smile on her lips, tears sparkling in her eyes.