* Author : Sam W. Pisciotta * Narrator : Nicola Chapman * Host : Matt Dovey * Discuss on Forums PodCastle 805: The Somnambulant is a PodCastle original. CW for assault Rated PG-13 The Somnambulant by Sam W. Pisciotta   The moon sits plump within a windowpane as if plucked from the sky and framed for safekeeping. Bound by forces beyond our control, the moon and I share a yearning to pull free. I touch my finger on the icy glass and dream of leaving this place. But I’m often reminded that such dreams are not for me. Waiting in the small antechamber, I rise to the tips of my toes, an elevé to focus the mind — legs quiet, core taut, head tilted just so. A dancer’s body. Countless hours of plié, relevé, and sauté. I hold this pose and listen. Murmurs from the next room. The clink of wine glasses. A shred of laughter. Outside, the final night of winter. The tight drone of propellers slices the evening air as the bulk of an airship moves to block the moon’s full light. The last of the guests have arrived. Father enters the room. He glowers and pulls me toward the closed door leading to the dining room. “Katya, what are you wearing? Where’s the gown I laid out for you?” Icy-white layers of tulle drape from my hips, a romantic tutu in the style of Taglioni flowing just past my knees. A white leotard beneath a soft-pink bodice, and slippers laced with pink ribbon. Perfection. My feet move into the fifth position. I bend at the knees and push into a small assemblé. Since that night in London’s West End at Her Majesty’s Theatre, I have lived for one purpose. This evening, I’ll find my soul and gain my freedom. Father grasps my elbow and wrenches me closer. “Enough,” he says, his voice exerting control. “Damion Bennett must die at precisely eight-thirty this evening. Do you hear me? Precisely eight-thirty.” My arm flinches within his grasp. “Father, why are you hurting me?” He knows this evening’s importance. He straightens and steps forward to wedge me against the door, its brass knob jarring into my back. “Do you understand what I’ve said? Eight-thirty. The toxin must be administered with precision. He must not die one minute too soon or too late.” “I’ve prepared countless hours for this.” He softens, caresses my arm. “I know, my dear. You’re ready.” I smile at his misunderstanding. “I’ve prepared a pas d’action from La Somnambule.” He shakes me at the shoulder. “Stop it. You must focus.” “But I don’t even know Damion Bennett,” I say. “You promised I could dance tonight.” “Concentrate on Bennett. Or I’ll disassemble you and build another girl who does as she’s told.” And there it is. My father’s lack of love. His belief that I’m no more than a thing, a tool, a weapon to further his agenda. He’s right, of course. I’ve no right to call myself human. But to dance — to stir the ether and conjure me a soul, to breathe spirit into the hollowness of my existence, that will change it all. I have seen the power of art with my own eyes. Father’s voice warms. “I wonder if you realize how important you are to me.” His firm hand slips behind my shoulder. “I love your energy, but I’ve indulged you too much. Ballet is not your raison d’être. We both know why you exist. You won’t disappoint me tonight, do you understand?” I wilt beneath the weight of his stare, a child in her creator’s shadow. I force myself to meet his eyes. I have never before sought to disappoint him,