Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  She ground her teeth stubbornly.

  Well, this time he's made a mistake. I won't be bought. Not for money, jewels, or anything else he might try to tempt me with. Or my daughter.

  She and Tamara had been satisfied with their bleak existence, because they had known no other way to live.

  But now we know what is hidden on the other side of that damned coin.

  Tamara squirmed like a wet eel in her arms, piteously howling to get back to the magical locomotive. Gently Senda planted a sombre kiss on her daughter's forehead before handing her to Inge, who set the child back in the seat of the locomotive.

  Tamara's howls turned into squeals of delight and she clapped her hands in anticipation. 'Momma!' she screamed happily. 'Look, Momma!'

  Inge flipped the switch and Tamara whirred past on the locomotive headed straight for Mad Ludwig's miniature castle. Senda watched the tunnel entrance swallow the train and joined the Countess at the door.

  'Let's go to the theatre,' she told Countess Florinsky in a strained, world-weary voice. 'Let's get the show over with.'

  Senda parted company with Countess Florinsky outside the stage door. 'My dear, you are a vision!' The Countess was positively glowing with unrestrained excitement, and held both of Senda's hands in hers, squeezing them affectionately. 'You are indisputably going to radiate on that stage!'

  Senda tightened her lips apprehensively. 'I hope I'll be adequate,' she murmured.

  'Nonsense! You'll be heavenly!' Another warm squeeze of the Countess's hands punctuated her faith in Senda. 'I have every confidence in you, and so should you.' The Countess embraced her warmly, and Senda wished she could return her embraces as easily, but other than Grandmother Goldie, her family had never shown much affection, seldom ever touched, so she felt that her returned embraces were rather limp.

  Countess Florinsky had a few last well-meaning words of advice. 'Now, remember, my dear,' she bubbled, 'if you want your lips to look redder and fuller, just bite them gently. But whatever you do, don't draw blood! If you wish for slightly pinker cheeks, pinch them slightly, but not in public, I daresay. Oh! And one more thing!' The Countess dug around in her bosom and fished out a tiny glass vial filled with an amber liquid. She placed it in one of Senda's hands and made sure Senda's fingers closed around it.

  Senda brought her hand closer to her face and slowly unclenched it. 'What is it,' she asked jokingly, 'hemlock? In case I should fall flat on my face?'

  Countess Florinsky fluttered. 'Oh, my dear! You daren't speak that way! It makes me feel quite faint, you know. You'll be a great success, I know it. That vial contains a bit of rosewater. The Grand Duchess Xenia herself has it imported from Floris of London. It's divine! Dab a drop behind your ears, and another in your bosom, and it will drive men literally to distraction. But just a dab, mind you. It's quite concentrated, and you don't want to smell like one of the women on . . . Anyway, I must fly. See you soon. And the best of luck!' The Countess held up her crossed fingers, then uncrossed them and waggled the fingertips of one hand in that peculiar way of hers before waddling away with startling speed for someone so short.

  Alone now, Senda turned to the stage door with trepidation. A flurry of muffled, shouted orders, scraping furniture, and excited, high-pitched chatter reached her ears. Her knees were wobbly, and she felt as if her feet had been permanently glued to the spot, making it impossible for her to take that single step required to reach the door. Sickly fears and anguished emotions raged in her bosom.

  She was terrified to go backstage. The upcoming performance was strain enough on her fragile nerves, but having to face Schmarya in her new splendour was an even more frightening thought. She wanted desperately to share things with him, not create an unbridgeable chasm. God knows, she thought, enough of a gulf had separated them lately. How was he going to react to her metamorphosis? To her having been invited to the ball, and his having been left out? How was she going to explain? She visualized his accusing eyes, his quivering clenched knuckles—the anger which he used to mask his hurt.

  Sighing painfully, she finally composed herself, forcing her slumping shoulders square and raising her drooping chin in an effort to arm herself with the only weapons she knew to do battle with. Hastily she tugged the bodice of her gown higher, steeled herself, and yanked the door open before she could change her mind. She let out a gasp.

  Schmarya stood on the other side of the door. He was obviously as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

  She almost laughed aloud with hysterical relief. He was dressed as she had never before seen him, in sartorial splendour: an exquisitely tailored black suit with a detachable wing collar, tails, and white tie.

  For a long moment they ogled each other's new finery with critical eyes. Then simultaneously they burst out laughing, and any hard feelings either of them might have been harbouring vanished miraculously into thin air.

  'I feel like a penguin,' he growled in mock anger, showing her his tails.

  'But you don't look like one,' she said soothingly. She swept closer to him, her gown rustling richly, and she instinctively straightened his tie. Then she took a step backward and looked down at herself. 'Don't feel so bad. I feel like an expensive doll.'

  'And you look it. My compliments, madam.'

  They laughed and held each other close, something they hadn't done in so long that even now her heart ached for having missed his wondrous, loving embrace for so long. She marvelled with pride at how truly handsome, how virile he looked. His hair had been trimmed, his fingernails manicured, and his teeth flashed whitely against his naturally healthy complexion.

  'Black suit and golden hair,' she murmured softly. 'Mmmmm, a rather disquieting combination.'

  'Well, it looks like we've both been invited to the ball,' he said casually.

  She smiled and touched his cheek with her hand. 'And to think that I was beginning to feel quite guilty that you'd been left out.'

  'It sure surprised me,' he said. 'There I was, sound asleep, when I was rousted out of bed and rushed to a fitting room, where an English tailor from Nevsky Avenue was waiting.'

  She smiled at him. 'With assistants,' she said slyly.

  He laughed. 'With assistants.'

  She shook her head wonderingly. 'How many fitting rooms do you think there are in this palace?'

  He shrugged. 'Beats me. One for men, I suppose, and one for women.'

  'Probably even one for children.'

  They laughed again. It was good, so good, she thought, to share something again.

  Unexpectedly, she caught her breath as he drew her into a shadowy corner, away from prying eyes. Gently he nuzzled her neck. 'Promise me the first dance?' His lips were warm and moist against her cool, fragrant skin. His breath was fresh, scented with cedar.

  She gazed at him and prayed: Oh, God! Please let it be like this from now on. Let us share our laughter and our love, our very souls . . .

  But this litany was soundless, and what Schmarya saw were mischievously fluttering vixen eyes. She tossed her head capriciously. 'Maybe I'll be so popular you'll have to stand in line and wait your turn.'

  'Bitch,' he said good-humouredly.

  Suddenly she clutched his arms in such a tight grip that she left wrinkles on his sleeve. 'Oh, Schmarya, I'm so scared,' she whispered. 'All those people I'm going to have to face. What . . . what if I make an ass out of myself?

  'You?' He threw back his head and laughed, deep, rich, reverberating peals of laughter like in old times, and suddenly it was like old times. 'If I know you, and I think I do, you'll have the audience wrapped around your little finger.'

  Slowly she extricated herself from his embrace. T'd better go hone up my lines. And I've got all that greasepaint to smear on . . . Schmarya! Let me go!' She giggled with delight as he captured her in his steely arms.

  'On one condition.'

  She raised her brow questioningly.

  'That you kiss me first.'

  'I love you, Schmarya,' she whispered.<
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  He kissed her lightly on the forehead, nose, ears, and lips. Then he kissed her deeply, long and fierce, his strong hands pulling her so tightly against him that even through all the layers of fabric, she could feel the bulge of his erection.

  'I love you so much,' she gasped, her heart pounding, tears of joy in her eyes. 'I’ll love you forever. For eternity.' Then she whispered intensely: 'You're getting me excited! Now, stop it! My legs are already wet. What if it seeps through the gown?'

  Suddenly he released her and grinned devilishly. 'Let it.'

  'Schmarya!' She feigned shock.

  'There's a little storeroom in the back . . .' His voice, a soft, appealing challenge, drifted languidly into the unspoken world of promises. 'It's empty. And the door locks.'

  'Someone will notice.' But she didn't glance about.

  'Let them.'

  She met his challenging gaze and held it. 'Then by all means,' she concurred, before practically yanking his arm out of its socket. 'What are you waiting for?'

  'This.' Effortlessly he swept her off her feet and carried her to the little storeroom. It was dark and cold and smelled musty, but she didn't care. When he set her down and slid the lock in place, she could only stand there rooted to the floor, her heart surging. She felt like a giggling young lover sneaking away to a tryst. As she used to do in the Pale.

  'I want you to touch me,' she said softly, reaching behind her and undoing the top of her gown by feel. Then she could feel his hands.

  She sucked in her breath, visualizing him in this dark cocoon, his fingers brushing her breasts, his lips rolling her nipples between his teeth. Then she felt him lifting up the full heavy skirt of her gown. 'Hold it up,' he said, 'while I undo your underwear.'

  'Just make sure I don't get this gown dirty.'

  'Women.' He laughed. 'Here we are, about to make love, and you only care about your dress.'

  That's not true,' she said soberly. 'I care for you.'

  'I know that.' He kissed her deeply, and then he felt beneath her gown, pawing his way past layers of petticoats and finally unfastening the silk panties with their single fragile button.

  Something tinkled to the floor.

  'Damn!' he swore.

  'What is it?' she asked.

  'The button popped off your panties.'

  'I told you to be careful!' she hissed. 'Now what will I do?'

  'Nobody'll notice if you don't wear them.'

  And then he felt her curly pubis. She let out a moan and heard him fumble with his trousers. Then suddenly she could feel his swelling hardness growing even bigger and harder against the juncture of her legs. She reached down to touch it, her hand gripping the familiar firm, warm thickness. She thought she could hear his breath quickening.

  She held the gown up higher. 'Put it in,' she said. Then, as she felt him sliding himself inside her, she gasped. 'Oh, God,' she moaned. 'That's so good.'

  Eagerly she thrust her hips, letting him stand still as she slid herself along the engorged shaft, jamming him inside her, sliding herself off, jamming him back inside.

  Finally he could stand it no longer. He let out a gurgling moan and breathed hoarsely, clinging to her now, as if for dear life, his own in-and-out thrusts turning pitiless and savage as he threw all his weight against her vagina.

  In and out he slammed, and her mouth gasped in delirious pleasure as she felt wave after crashing wave of orgasm roll through her. 'Oh, yes!' she whispered. 'Oh, yes, yes, yes!'

  And she could feel him climbing closer, ever closer to his own orgasm. Overwhelmed by his onslaught, she picked up his rhythm and desperately began hammering herself against him. Faster, faster they thrust, his great engorged being swelling up even larger as he rode her furiously. And then he bellowed as if he'd been wounded, reared back, and hurled himself into her for one last time, letting his excruciating warm stream of liquid mingle with hers.

  He still clung to her, groaning at the afterjolts of pleasure, the spasms racking his body, and then caught his breath. She could feel him growing smaller inside her, and she let out a little gasp of disappointment as his penis slid from within her.

  'That was too fast,' she panted.

  'We still have time,' he whispered between gulps of air. 'I haven't used my tongue yet.'

  She smiled to herself. She couldn't remember when she had last been filled with such indescribable joy.

  It was indeed a night of wizards and fairy godmothers and magic.

  Chapter 8

  The performance of The Lady of the Camellias was scheduled for eight o'clock.

  Since six o'clock, guests had begun drifting to the palace; as eight o'clock approached they were arriving in droves. Countess Florinsky dispatched a messenger backstage to announce that the start of the play had been postponed an hour. This news was greeted by a chorus of groans from a jittery cast, but the message, shouted to Schmarya and Senda through the storeroom door, was greeted with delight, at least by Schmarya.

  Outside the Danilov Palace, the coral strands of the aurora borealis hung like a succession of muted, shimmering silk veils in the crystalline black night above the onion-domed spires. The weather had cleared completely, as though a royal edict had specified a glorious night for the Princess's birthday celebration. The ice-sheathed circular drive was lined on both sides with thousands of festive electric bulbs glowing with the Princess's favourite colour, sapphire blue, and was jammed with a steady procession of stately cars and horsedrawn coaches bearing the guests come to help celebrate. Other, more enterprising guests took an alternate route in small red horse-drawn sleighs, skimming the frozen Neva on hissing runners and gliding into the parkland through the giant palace gates. But no matter from which direction they came, they were treated to a most breathtaking spectacle. Both the front and rear facades of the palace were strung with sapphire-blue electric bulbs in the shape of the Princess's monogram; the huge stylized IND's—Irina Nicolaevna Danilov—seemed suspended in midair, each letter three storeys tall.

  If enough electricity to light a small town glittered outside the palace, candlelight reigned supreme inside; the crystal-and-gold chandeliers and candelabra flickered their rich golden glow on the corridors, staircases, and grandiose public rooms, which echoed resoundingly with excited conversation, gracious music, and an abundance of good cheer. Many a kingdom's worth of diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies outglittered each other as the guests, many of the ladies in white satin, swept into the great Colonnade Hall, where they were met by an army of servants who took their ermine, sealskin, lynx, sable, and fox coats. From the second floor gallery set between the jasper columns which gave the hall its name drifted the gentle strains of baroque chamber music. No one carried gifts; for the past week, a steady procession of deliveries from St. Petersburg's finest shops had filled an anteroom to overflowing.

  Leaving their wraps behind, the guests ascended the neobaroque grand staircase, its marble steps red-carpeted for this special occasion, at the top landing of which they were required to queue up until the majordomo announced their entrance into the Malachite Room.

  After paying their respects to the regal Princess, who was flanked by the Prince, Count Kokovtsov, and the Princess's baptizer, the ancient and resplendently bearded archbishop, the guests mingled in animated groups, spilling into the adjoining Agate Vestibule, where a black jazz quartet from New York played the latest rage in American music. In the Blue Salon an orchestra of stirring balalaikas animated spirits with rousing, traditional Russian folk melodies, and in the Cabinet Doré, a jewel box named after its profusion of ormolu mouldings and furnishings, a string quartet played sedately elegant music in keeping with its severely classical decor. Liveried servants circulated with gold and sterling trays bristling with cut-crystal champagne glasses filled to overflowing with bubbling Louis Roederer Cristal, the same imported French champagne delivered to the Czar; on tables, enormous silver bowls set in huge tubs of ice held forty kilos of grosgrain beluga caviar.

  After t
he reception, the guests were gently herded to the private theatre, where the chamber orchestra from the Colonnade Hall now appropriately played the overture to La Traviata, Verdi's opera based on The Lady of the Camellias.

  Behind the thick, muffling red velvet puff curtain which had yet to rise, the audience's excited anticipation could be both heard and felt.

  Electricity crackled in the air.

  Unnoticed by the audience, Senda carefully pushed the edge of the puff curtain aside a crack. She peered out at the theatre through one roving eye. The rows of gilded Louis XVI seats had already filled up. It took her by surprise that there were more people than seats: the backs of both the orchestra section and the balcony were crowded with people standing. Still, the two drapery-swagged boxes, swelling from the walls on either side of the proscenium like immensely ornate bombé chests, were empty.

  A murmur swept the theatre, and all eyes focused on the left box, just above her, from which the Prince had applauded and addressed her during rehearsals only yesterday. The Danilovs and a party of four, who Senda was certain constituted the most important guests, were making a late but grand entrance.

  Intrigued, Senda studied the woman who must be Princess Irina, for she led the way into the box with exquisite natural grace. She was slightly older than the Prince, pale-skinned and fragile, and there was something watery and translucent about her. She wore a pearl-beaded gown of silver and pale blue brocade, and the faded yellow hair piled atop her head was completely encircled by what appeared to be a tiara—if tiaras could be made of polished ice. Around her thin, patrician throat she wore a lacelike choker of more ice; a larger baroque pearl necklace hung down into her décolletage, as did an even longer simple string of enormous pearls. Most other women among the audience were similarly bejewelled, though these particular chunks of glittering ice were by far the largest, and thereby probably the most valuable. At first Senda didn't know what to make of the jewels—she had never seen any like them. But she knew instinctively what they had to be, although she had only heard tell of them: diamonds.