Madame Naumov clapped lightly, and the chattering flock of young girls in her studio immediately quieted and rushed to the wooden bars along the mirrored walls. Although all under the age of ten years, they had been her students long enough to know what she expected from them once class began.<br/><br/>She made a tall, elegant figure in the center of the room, clad in a simple black leotard, her blonde hair bound in a bun at the nape of her neck. This late in the day, a few errant strands of hair had escaped confinement and made a wispy halo about her head.<br/><br/>The girls’ seasonal recital was coming up soon in a few weeks, and she led them through their warm-ups and drills, demonstrating the proper stretches along the barre, her shapely legs extending with practiced dexterity. Madame made the rounds to each girl in turn, correcting each plié and transition throughout the five positions.<br/><br/>“…Coupé,  pas de bourrée…” Madame’s clear voice rang out as she led the young pupils through the basic movements of their recital routine, correcting their missteps with gentle suggestions. There was no need to be harsh, especially not with students so young.<br/><br/>***<br/><br/>“But I think the tutus would look<em>so</em>much better in bubblegum rather than baby pink…” The high-pitched voice of one of her students' mothers whined in Madame Naumov’s ear, the woman following her into her office after the final practice of the day.<br/><br/>“I’m sure you’re correct, Mrs. Moore.” Yelena was diplomatic, the faintest hint of a Russian accent coloring her words. “But we’ve already ordered the girls’ dresses; with the performance so close, it’s much too late to order new ones.”<br/><br/>A few more protests, and Mrs. Moore was directed outside, her mission unaccomplished. The ballet instructor fetched a bottle of water and took a quick bite of a granola bar from her office before returning to the practice room, ready to meet one of her older, most promising students for private lessons.