"Lower."

Lena’s professional voice is smooth as honey, and as cool. Isabelle feels sweat beading on her brow as she pushes her hips forward a little further, arches her back a little more. The ballet room is upside down, and terribly wobbly.

Lena moves into her field of inverted vision, inspecting her pose critically. "You’re shaking."

"Out… of… shape," Isabelle gasps; a mistake. The air she wastes on talking upsets her balance. The floor rushes up to meet her.

The arm around her waist that catches her is a surprise; so is Lena’s impish grin.

"We can work on that."