“At least it is… agreeable,” I said.
“It’s a prison.”
“I know. I’m trying to be comforting.”
“You’re trying to absolve yourself from guilt of leaving me while you and your friends ran away.”
It was true, I realized, even though it was something I tried not to think about for a long time now. “I couldn’t have done anything to help you,” I said. “You know that.”
He kept quiet, smiling.
“Is there anything you can do to help us?”
The look he gave me was a hair short of annoyed. “I am doing what I can, but as you can see, I am rather limited by current circumstance. I will however offer you this advice: you Europeans have an unfortunate tendency to assume the rest of the world exists to assist you and to help you. But please remember as you travel that the Chinese people you will encounter have excellent reasons to neither trust nor help you. And the emperor — you must have compelling reasons for him to approve of your proposed alliance, he has his own problems, what with the East India Company and the Taipings. He is quite busy; but if you will, please let him know that I am well and my rescue is not an urgent matter, although I do hope he could get to it eventually — if your aunt’s attempts do not succeed, of course.”
I blushed — I could feel my cheeks heat up and glow crimson. “I did not mean to imply that I consider myself in any way more important than you.”
“Your Englishman certainly does,” Wong Jun said.
Just then there was a knock on the door, and Mishkin’s round, smiling face that reminded me of an especially ripe and red apple looked in. “I’m afraid I must interfere,” he said. “This visit had gone on longer than I agreed to, and the lady must be going.”
I took Wong Jun’s pale hand in mine and gave it as strong a squeeze as I could. “I promise I’ll do anything I can.”
“I believe you,” he said, gripping my hand firmly in return.
As Mishkin escorted me through the winding corridors in reverse order, I felt lightheaded and barely answered his prattle. Wong Jun’s letter nestled safely in the pocket of my jacket, and I could not help but brush my fingertips against every now and again, just to make sure the feel and rustling of the paper and the smell of ink remained real. I was still foggy on Wong Jun’s relationship to Qing dynasty, but the fact that he expected the emperor to know him made me feel optimistic. I had decided even before I left the Ravelin that the letter was a cause for celebration, and promised to take Eugenia to the opera as soon as it was practical, and before of course I had leave the country and start peace negotiations with China.
Chapter 8
The excursion to the opera occurred sooner than I had expected. My bare mention of the possibility to Eugenia provoked a terrifying outbreak of enthusiasm and emotion. She was tired and disheartened, desperate for a distraction as the first snow, angry and biting, sifted from the clouds. Her fruitless daily visits to various offices and failure to make any progress were humiliating by themselves, but she was also not used to being rejected. She had always had access to the emperor, and now that it had suddenly taken away angered her. Her usual stubbornness left her no recourse but to continue knocking on locked doors. What she hoped to achieve, she never told me. I wasn’t the only one with secrets then.
So the opera seemed like a salvation, but preparations were needed. Usually indifferent to clothes, Genia insisted that we have new dresses sewn for the occasion. We found a seamstress she felt suitable, but the woman charged twice as much as others. Eugenia, contrary to her usual level-headedness, decided she would be the one. Her name was Maria Verbova, and she commanded an entire army of girls, all dressed in plain but well-made checkered dresses and white caps. Her atelier had appearance of efficiency and expensive simplicity.
Eugenia was usually thrifty, but the prospects of attending the opera excited her into ordering two very expensive dresses (although she did note they would serve as ball gowns as well). She kept to her usual widow’s black, and I wondered if she wore it on my mother’s behalf. I do not remember my mother wearing anything but pastels; she grieved for my father deeply when he passed away, but did not seem to think that changing the color of one’s clothing made a difference.
For me, we decided to go with a silver-gray taffeta, with just a hint of pearly sheen. I never understood how people could become so enchanted by fabric until that day — looking at that taffeta was like looking into the autumn sky over St. Petersburg, at clouds so low they tore on the cathedral crosses and the Admiralty spire; it was like gray river reflecting that sky. I asked for white lace, to remind me of the frothy water whipped by the rising submarine hulls. They made my skirts wide and flounced, and the bodice clung to my shoulders, while mercifully covering most of my chest with lace and ruffles.
“It’s very nice,” Eugenia said. “A good color for you — it reminds me of a sword blade.”
That week, I went to my usual classes and for fittings afterwards. By Saturday Eugenia and I had new dresses, and tickets had been procured. Despite Eugenia’s humiliation and disgust with everything, she made sure our tickets were for the balcony, to the right of the emperor’s private box.
Getting dressed took longer than usual — the dress required an unreasonable number of starched petticoats, and Anastasia had to spend a few minutes making sure that the lace of the hem lay evenly. I ruffled the lace at the neckline, making it looked even more like foam.
We arrived to a full house, and I was simultaneously dismayed and thrilled to see that Dame Nightingale, Mr. Herbert, and Jack were present as well. They were seated in a balcony across from ours, and I smiled and nodded to them. It was a perfect opportunity to point Jack out to Eugenia and I did so.
She squinted at the trio through her lorgnette, and whispered to me, “Is this the Englishman who always walks you home?”
“Yes,” I said. “What do you think?”
“A bit stringy,” Eugenia said. “Then again, I don’t suppose you’re intent on cooking him, so it shouldn’t matter all that much.”
I laughed and covered my face with my fan — I didn’t want Jack to think I was laughing at him, even though I was. “And that lady in pearls and a blue dress is Dame Nightingale,” I said to Eugenia. “She’s with their Secret Service.”
“She is one of the spies then,” Eugenia said and gave a slow, bitter laugh.
“She is,” I said. “I got the impression that the man next to her is the reason. She is doing it to help him.”
“Surely there are other ways to help loved ones,” Eugenia said, frowning. “Besides, a little selfishness in certain people would be a blessing to the world.”
“I’m sure some are saying the same about you,” I said.
She laughed. “Indeed, I’m sure some people would be quite happy if I left the public sphere. But I am getting better — I have decided to only concern myself with matters that affect my blood relatives.”
“Funny you should mention it,” I said. “But I was going to ask you to interfere on behalf of Wong Jun.”
“I’ve been trying.”
“You haven’t been giving bribes or pulling favors.”
Eugenia looked shocked, and her lorgnette trembled. “Sasha! How can you even suggest that!”
I shrugged, feeing my shoulder slip out of the taffeta and then dip back again. “It doesn’t matter, Aunt Genia. No one is playing by the rules anymore, not the emperor, not the English. You’re the only one who perseveres.”
“Sometimes one’s integrity is the only thing one has left.” She turned away, sighing, and pointed her lorgnette at the orchestra tuning their violins in the orchestra pit. I thought the time was right to talk to her about my expectations for her help.