Her whole body trembled towards him; her mind, running ahead, had put her in his arms, held close against him, safe, belonging, loved, warm; was holding him with all her strength, never to let go again. It would have been impossible then for either of them to have done or said anything remotely resembling a normal social exchange in a jeweller’s shop, had not Adonis at that moment barked a warning cough; and the next instant D’Avila, having finished with Count Razumovsky, was beside them, inclining his head in a way that was part courteous greeting, and part a tactful way of not noticing that they had been holding hands.
‘Madame Tchaikovsky,’ he said in his curious Castilian French, ‘what a pleasure and privilege to see you here! I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. How may I help you? And Monsieur de Kirov – a rare pleasure indeed, monseigneur!’
Their hands had parted. Anne faced D’Avila with astonishing calm.
‘I have come to try to choose a present for the Count,’ she said graciously. ‘Something unusual, to mark a special occasion.’
D’Avila looked intelligent, almost conspiratorial. He nodded attentively. ‘Bien sûr, Madame! And what form shall this present take? A ring, perhaps? Monseigneur has just the kind of hands that most elegantly display a ring to the best advantage!’
Anne saw just in time the direction of his eyes; met the Count’s wicked gleam of amusement at the misunderstanding, and stifled the laughter that suddenly, for the first time in so very long, welled up inside her. ‘That is true,’ she said in a voice which barely trembled, ‘but I think my husband already has more rings than he can wear.’
The tips of D’Avila’s ears grew pink. ‘Then madame,’ he readjusted almost without pausing, ‘perhaps a snuffbox? I have some quite delightful boxes – one with the most exquisite grisaille paintings on the panels – quite curious scenes.’ His emphasis on the word revealed that curious in this case meant obscene. ‘There is not another like it in the world, I assure you, madame!’
Yes, it was the sort of thing Basil would like, she thought; and it would make a talking point, and be a daring present from a wife to a husband. But she could not buy such a thing, admit her husband’s taste, in front of Kirov. He would know perfectly well what D’Avila, the old sinner, meant by curious. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I think something more unusual. You had a jewelled dragon once, Monsieur D’Avila, as I remember, that came from Cathay?’
‘Ah yes, madame! A rare piece – the property of a Chinese Emperor. Unfortunately, too expensive for the private purse. We were quite in a worry what to do with it. When a thing becomes priceless, madame, it becomes, in a curious way, worthless.’ He looked reflective.
‘And what did you do with it?’ Kirov asked.
‘I suggested to Monsieur Fontenarde that it had better be broken up and melted down to be used again, though that would have been a great shame.’
‘Indeed,’ Kirov murmured.
‘Oh yes – it was a remarkable piece. So Monsieur Fontenarde decided in the end to present it to the Emperor.’ He sighed. ‘A fitting end for such a remarkable piece,’ he concluded glumly.
‘Well, I have no desire for something beyond price,’ Anne said. Absurd laughter was bubbling up inside her, and she knew it was simply because he was here, standing beside her – simple, unreasoning reaction to his presence. ‘Have you no smaller dragon? One that it is possible to value?’
D’Avila knew he was being laughed at, and drew on his dignity like a coat. ‘No, madame, I regret absolutely–’ he began, and then stopped, thought, and lifted a finger. ‘Attendez! There is something. It came in yesterday from a merchant we sometimes deal with – widely travelled – part of a horde of treasure left by a Persian warlord. It is not new, you understand, madame – by way of being an antiquity, in fact, but unusual, and quite fine, quite fine. Perhaps…?’
‘Please,’ said Anne graciously.
‘Then, if you would step this way,’ D’Avila said, extending his hand towards the back room. Anne flickered a glance at Kirov, asking him to stay with her, and he answered it with a glint of the eye which said he wouldn’t miss it for the world.
In the small back room, D’Avila sat her at the table, and drew out a bunch of keys from his fob. Selecting one, he opened a cupboard in the corner, and took out a bundle wrapped in green cloths, which he brought over and placed on the table in front of Anne. It was evidently heavy – he carried it in both hands, and it filled them. Reverently, he pulled the cloths away, and stepped back to allow Anne to look her fill.
‘Persian work,’ he said at last when she didn’t speak. ‘The treatment is a little primitive perhaps, to our eyes, but the work is very fine.’
It was a tiger. About eight inches long and four high, made of gold; head low between its shoulders, it prowled, the mouth open, the tip of the tail just curling up alertly. The gold of its solid yet sinuous body was of two colours, the darker gold making the stripes, and the eyes were emeralds. It was a beautiful thing, alive, full of power.
‘I have other things,’ D’Avila began, feeling Anne’s silence must be disapproving, but she interrupted him.
‘How much is it?’ she asked, and then, without waiting for him to answer, ‘I must have it. It’s perfect!’
D’Avila, who had opened his mouth to name a preposterous price, was so taken aback he closed it again. This was not the way the game was supposed to go: there should be at least half an hour of delicate, oblique bargaining ahead before they closed on a price a little more than half the first one he named. But she had taken the pleasure out of it for him now. Almost sulkily, he named the price he had expected to get in the end, and though it was very high indeed, Anne agreed to it almost absently.
‘I’ll have it sent to Byeloskoye, madame,’ D’Avila said gloomily.
‘No, I’ll take it With me,’ Anne said quickly. She did not want to part with it; but now Kirov intervened, touching her wrist lightly.
‘Have it sent,’ he said. She looked up into his eyes. ‘It’s inconveniently heavy, you’ll find,’ he murmured. Her heart stopped and started again.
‘Very well,’ she said to D’Avila, ‘send it; but make sure it is given to no one but my secretary or my maid. I wish it to remain a surprise until the Count’s birthday.’
They stepped outside into the sunshine. Anne was astonished that it was still the same day, that the sun was almost in the same position. So much time seemed to have passed: she hardly felt like the same person. So few words had passed between her and Kirov, and yet the brief transaction had rolled back the intervening years, had placed them on a footing of intimacy they had done nothing to deserve. She was at ease with him, as though they had been married twenty years. All the same, her blood seemed to be singing, each indrawn breath was like the air at the top of a mountain.
She looked up at him and said simply, ‘What now?’
He regarded her in silence for a moment. His eyes seemed to penetrate past hers and into her mind, as if seeking information, or perhaps assurance.
‘Can you trust your maid?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Yes,’ she said doubtfully – not because she was unsure of Pauline, but because she didn’t know what he was planning.
‘Send your carriage home,’ he said, ‘and come for a drive with me. Your maid will ride with us, and Adonis will drive us.’
Yes, she thought, I can trust Adonis, I see that. ‘Very well,’ she said, and beckoned her footman to her.
The Count’s carriage – an elderly landaulette, obviously a hired coach, but with a decent, if unremarkable pair of horses – was standing a little further down the road, with a driver dozing on the box. While Anne dismissed her own carriage, the Count paid off the driver, and Adonis climbed up and took over the reins. There was not room for three inside the carriage, and Pauline, with a doubtful look at Adonis, was obliged to sit on the box beside him.