by Kerri Turner
Mathilde had divulged the secret of the fouettés to Valentina—a fact that not only told Valentina their friendship was true, but also that she wasn’t considered a threat to Mathilde’s career—and she had worked tirelessly in her studio since, perfecting the motion of keeping her head looking forward for as long as possible before whipping it around to look at the same spot again. She had managed to get to thirty-two only a couple of times, and tonight would be her first attempt in front of an audience.
Valentina was so focused on what was to come that it took a moment for her to realise that only one pair of hands were clapping. Luka released her from the arabesque, handing her forward to curtsey to an unresponsive crowd of at least two hundred. The small Hermitage Theatre was so quiet that she could hear her footsteps echoing beneath Rasputin’s solitary applause. As she bent her knee in thanks, she saw the monk stand up.
‘Why do you not applaud?’ he demanded of the soldiers, his voice booming in the silence of the room. ‘You should show your gratitude.’
Valentina straightened from her curtsey. Luka came up behind her, taking one of her hands, the other on her waist; ordinarily they would curtsey and bow together now, but they both hovered where they were, indecisive. Peering into the darkened auditorium Valentina could see the Grand Duchesses perched on seats either side of Rasputin. Olga’s face was stricken, those of her sisters etched with nervousness.
‘Well?’ Rasputin demanded. His heavy brow was sinking, making his eyes almost disappear.
Many of the soldiers refused to look up. They stared at their feet, or picked at their nails. Finally, one stood. His position on the tiered seats made him almost the same height as the monk, although they were separated by quite a distance. He leaned heavily on a crutch, and pointed one shaking hand directly at the stage. Valentina could see his fingers were gnarled and discoloured from old frostbite. Amputation was likely around the corner. Her stomach churned, and she leaned into Luka, grateful for his solid presence.
‘It’s unnecessary spectacles like this that keep the rest of the country poor,’ the man said in a surprisingly strong voice. ‘Why should we be grateful for this peek into their sheltered lives?’
Those around him murmured in agreement, lifting their heads to shoot looks at Valentina and Luka that had an almost physical impact.
‘You dare to question the generosity of the Grand Duchesses and the Imperial Russian Ballet—the Tsar’s own daughters and dancers?’ Rasputin spoke calmly, but his eyes were wild.
At a flick of his wrist, guards appeared out of the shadows along the curved back walls, where they had blended in between the sculptures of Apollo and his muses. With rapid steps they leaped down the tiered seating, making for the Grand Duchesses.
‘The mad monk shows his true powers,’ the standing soldier yelped.
Most of the other men were on their feet now, some even advancing on Rasputin. The Grand Duchesses were being ushered away by the guards, and as Luka pulled Valentina back from the edge of the stage she caught a glimpse of the distraught white face of the Grand Duchess Olga.
‘I think we should go,’ Luka whispered urgently in her ear.
‘Who is the real Tsar? For we see no Nicholas here, only a monk giving orders!’ the soldiers were now shouting.
‘Arrest them,’ Rasputin responded in a commanding tone.
The guards who weren’t escorting the Grand Duchesses jumped into action, tackling soldiers who were barely able to fight back. Men with damaged limbs and scarred faces were dragged outside where a trip to the prison awaited them. Rasputin stood tall among the chaos, a smile hovering on his angular features, looking every bit the ruler he wasn’t supposed to be.
Luka’s arm wrapped around Valentina, crushing the black tulle skirts of her tutu, and he guided her into the wings and towards the dressing rooms. It took a moment for her to realise he was speaking.
‘What is the monk thinking? His response is so far outside the realm of rationality.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Valentina pulled herself free. She no longer needed Luka’s support; they were safe backstage, especially with Rasputin’s guards taking such swift action.
‘Rasputin! How could he arrest those men after they’ve given so much for our country? They’re soldiers, and most of them crippled at that!’
‘They insulted us,’ Valentina said, stopping outside the door to her dressing room.
Luka had stopped too. She didn’t think he would come inside and rage, the way Maxim would have, but he was giving her an incredulous look she didn’t like.
‘They chose not to applaud, that’s all. And can you blame them, if you really think about it? Isn’t there truth in what they were saying?’
‘I don’t care to think about it. We were honoured to be invited to dance here, as they should have been honoured to be invited to watch something that would otherwise be out of their reach. Grigori Rasputin’s response might have been a touch heavy-handed, but what else was he supposed to do?’
‘A touch heavy-handed? Valya, those men out there gave their limbs for us. They gave up their brothers and sons and friends so we can be safe. And you and Rasputin are offended by a little rudeness and some valid questioning?’
‘Don’t oversimplify the matter so,’ Valentina snapped before she could stop herself.
She braced herself thinking she’d feel the quick sting of skin on skin. But Luka was not Maxim. With a disgusted look, he turned his back on her and marched to his own dressing room. He didn’t even slam the door behind him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Luka lay on his back, Valentina’s weight numbing his arm. Sweat clung to them both in trembling droplets. He was staring at her ceiling, noticing how it didn’t bear any stains of previous owners as the one in his apartment did.
‘We should get moving,’ Valentina said, and sat up.
Her bobbed hair was standing out on one side, and laughing he pushed it back down gently, savouring the silky feel of it against his fingertips.
‘Will Maxim be returning?’ he asked.
Valentina had taken to sending word for Luka to visit her whenever she was sure of a few hours free of her protector, but there was always the possibility he would return early. She had pointed out a number of places Luka could hide should that ever happen.
‘No. I meant that we need to make sure we don’t weaken over the off-season. Now that we no longer have the Hermitage performance to rehearse for.’
She avoided his eyes as she said this. Neither of them had spoken about their disagreement since the performance. Luka hadn’t changed his opinion about Rasputin’s actions, and didn’t want to discuss it in case she hadn’t either.
‘You know I love to dance given any opportunity,’ he said. ‘But the Mariinsky studios seem so far away today, and I’m so relaxed …’
‘We don’t need the Mariinsky. I have a studio.’
Luka sat upright so suddenly he almost knocked Valentina off the bed. She glared at him, and shifted so she was further away.
‘What do you mean you have a studio? Where?’ His body tingled with anticipation, the ghosts of the movements he knew so well already teasing his limbs.
Valentina waved her hand casually in the air. ‘Here, of course.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before? We could have interspersed our rehearsals for the Hermitage with other enjoyable activities.’ He was teasing, and Valentina picked up on his playfulness.
‘That’s exactly why. Do you think my body could have kept up with such exhaustion?’
As if to demonstrate, she flopped facedown on the bed. Luka poked her in the backside. She squeaked, slapping a hand around to stop him, and he laughed.
‘It’s easy for you to be energetic. You’ve only got one person to please,’ she mumbled, her voice muffled by the pillow. A second later, she rolled over and sat up, her white skin flushed pink from pleasure, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘Come on then.’
They dressed qui
ckly, then Luka followed Valentina out of her bedroom to a green and yellow wallpapered dining room. A heavy timber table stood in the centre with velvet-seated chairs circling it. Along one wall was a pair of wooden double doors, which opened on smooth hinges. Behind them was a small ballet studio. A long wooden barre lined one wall, and mirrors reflected back at them at the front of the room. A piano stood in one corner. There were no windows, but paintings of dancers hung on the walls in heavy gold frames.
Luka stepped into the room and breathed in deeply. He took long, slow steps around the space, running his hand along the barre.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he murmured. ‘It really is a proper ballet studio.’
‘What were you expecting? I said it was.’
‘I know. But to have one in your own house …’
‘Anna Pavlova had one when she still lived in Russia. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t too.’
Luka faced the barre and rested his feet in first position. He bent his knees into a demi-plié and it was like greeting an old friend. He looked at Valentina, who was still standing in the doorway. She was regarding him with a peculiar expression.
‘What?’
‘You should see your face. You’ve barely taken one dance step and already it’s come over all … I don’t even know the word for it. But it makes me sure you’ll rule the ballet world one day. Perhaps even have your own company, like Diaghilev.’
‘I rather like that idea. Perhaps I will. And when I do, for having been the first believer, you can be its star.’
‘Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep, for I’ll hold you to them anyway.’
‘I’ll keep it. There’ll be a rule in my company though, a rule not even Diaghilev has. No dancers will have protectors.’
The moment he said it, Luka knew he’d gone too far. Amusement fell from her face as though it had been slapped away. He drew in his breath, wondering what he could say to undo the slight. But then she began to laugh. It was a laugh that lacked mirth, true, but it was a laugh nonetheless.
‘Good luck finding dancers for your company in that case,’ she said.
She joined him in the studio, and talk stopped for a long time as they went through exercises ingrained in their bones. Then, a couple of pas de deux they’d experimented with but chosen not to perform at the Hermitage. Valentina showed off the thirty-two fouettés she’d never got to dance on stage, and Luka applauded with genuine awe. It was perhaps the longest amount of time they’d ever spent together alone, and he found himself wishing there were more days when Valentina was guaranteed of Maxim’s absence for such a long stretch.
‘I’ve just remembered something, and if I don’t get it now I know it’ll slip my mind again,’ she said after some time.
Luka was lying on the floor, arms and legs splayed. Valentina stood over him, her face red and glistening with sweat beneath the colourful scarf that kept her bobbed hair in place. She poked him in the side with her toes, and he grabbed her foot and pretended to yank it. She had taken her pointe shoes off and he could feel the calluses beneath his palm.
She yelped, then gave him a soft kick. ‘I’ll be right back. Wait here.’
Luka forced his liquid muscles to clamber to a standing position. If he sat for too long, his limbs would stiffen. Already, the sweat that dampened his clothes was making him feel chilled. He paced the studio while he waited for Valentina, his feet making only the barest of sounds on the timber floor.
‘Here it is,’ she said, slipping back through the doors and holding her hands out in front of her.
A coil of hair had escaped her scarf, and Luka longed to reach out and touch it. Instead, he made himself look at her hands. In her palms was a small green velvet bag with a drawstring top.
‘What is it?’
‘A gift. Open it.’
Luka took the bag tentatively from her. It was soft and supple to touch, heavier than he would have thought. He glanced up at her, waiting with her fingers steepled together, then slowly opened it. Nestled inside was a rose-gold pocket watch. Luka tipped it onto his hand, and sunlight danced up the chain’s links. A curling intricate pattern was engraved on the top, and the little door on the front popped open on smooth hinges.
‘It’s a Buhré watch,’ Valentina said, as if Luka would know what that meant. ‘A thank you. You know, for the Hermitage.’
She gave a one-shouldered shrug, and Luka wondered if it was a thank-you gift or her attempt at apologising for their argument.
He ran his finger over the glass covering the watch face. ‘I’ve never owned anything so fine in my life.’
Valentina seemed pleased by this. ‘You can also use it to keep track of the time until I arrive back at the ballet.’
The higher-ranking dancers often delayed their return to the new season as a way of reminding everyone of their stature.
Transfixed by the unexpected present, Luka closed the little door and spoke without thinking. ‘I’d prefer it if you just came back with the rest of us, so I could see you more.’
Valentina made a little sound, and he looked at her. Her smile had disappeared. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t thanked her properly and was instead seeming to ask for more.
‘Thank you for the watch,’ he rushed to say, but his voice suddenly sounded awkward. He tipped the watch back into the velvet bag and pulled the string tight, but that too somehow looked dismissive.
‘You’re welcome.’ Her smile was back in place, but it was the false smile Luka was beginning to recognise.
He didn’t want her to go cold and reserved again. On impulse, he grabbed her around the waist and kissed her. She remained stiff against his body for a second, then relaxed, twining her arms around his neck, not minding he was still damp with sweat.
His heart gave a flicker. It was not the usual surge of desire, but something more. He told himself to ignore it and enjoy the moment.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Luka and Xenia were seated on crates at The Wandering Dog, lunching on pâté and salad. In one dimly lit corner a man with a violin was trying to get a melody right, and failing miserably. No one seemed to pay him much mind.
‘How was the Hermitage performance?’ Xenia asked. She had already filled Luka in on her unsuccessful attempts to get a placement with a foreign company for the off-season, and was now turning the conversation over to him. ‘I read in the newspapers that some arrests were made due to a riot or uprising of some sort. Is that true?’
‘As close to true as it can be without telling the full story,’ Luka responded.
He winced as the violinist hit a note too sharp. The sudden thought of how much Pyotr would laugh at the man’s pitiful attempts took hold of him and a chuckle tickled his throat. Then sadness took its place as he remembered Pyotr would never laugh again. He tried to focus back on Xenia, and what she’d been asking.
‘The soldiers didn’t feel grateful for the performance as they were expected to, and Rasputin didn’t take kindly to it. So he arrested a group of unarmed men with missing limbs.’
Xenia’s eyebrows rose and she gave a low whistle. ‘That must have been something. I can’t imagine how Valentina Yershova responded. Probably by holding them down for Rasputin so they couldn’t get away.’
‘No, she’s not like that at all.’ It was true Valentina hadn’t exactly been full of sympathy for the soldiers, but Luka felt the need to defend her anyway. ‘She put so much work into the performance, and it was all for their benefit. So yes, she was a little disappointed with how it came off, but that’s understandable.’
‘All for their benefit? Come, Luka, you don’t believe that.’ Xenia laughed as she raised a granyonyi stakan of vodka to her lips.
When Luka didn’t join her, she lowered it again, staring at him. He had the uncanny feeling she was trying to read something in his face, and he shifted his gaze to his own glass.
‘Bozhe moy,’ she whispered. She glanced around them, then inched her chair closer. ‘Luka, please te
ll me you’ve been nothing more with her than dance partners?’
Luka raised his own glass and threw its entire contents down his throat in one swift movement. It was good quality vodka, and he signalled for a second one.
‘Luka, would you look at me?’
Unable to avoid her any longer, Luka met her eyes. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but his face was beginning to warm.
‘Oh, Luka, why? Don’t you know who that woman’s protector is?’
‘An art critic. He has nothing to do with me.’
‘But he wields mighty influence because of who he knows. Why would you play such a dangerous game? And for her?’
Luka knew Xenia was right about Maxim. The man had already threatened his career once. But it was harder to feel the threat when it was the off-season and he’d received another year’s contract.
‘I can’t explain it. I suppose … I don’t know how, but she makes me forget, Xenia. About Pyotr, and my father. My grief and anger and guilt fade a little when we’re together.’
Xenia shook her head, lips pressed together. ‘I should have known something was happening from the moment I saw you. Since that Christmas we spent together, you’ve often looked at me like a hungry man looks at a piece of bread. Oh, yes, I noticed, and I’m not ashamed to admit I liked it. For a while I even questioned if perhaps I was wrong about us, that it could be different. But today when you walked in, you didn’t look at me the same way. I should have known instantly.’
Luka’s second vodka arrived, and he was glad of the interruption. He didn’t know if he should apologise to Xenia or attempt some comforting words. Instead, he said nothing.
Xenia sighed and straightened up, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘Just promise me one thing, Luka. I know you would be able to “forget” with any other woman. Valentina’s charms aren’t unique to her, and another woman would come with a lot less danger. Promise me you will think about that.’
Her gaze was steady, challenging. Luka knew it was because she cared for him that she asked this. It couldn’t hurt.