“How fortunate I should come by at this time for I have just the thing.” Sheremetev snapped his fingers, creating more of a thick meaty sound than a crisp snap. “Leonid!”
Leonid bustled into the dressing room holding a black box. He placed it on the vanity counter in front of Svetlana. “For you, Angel.”
With apprehension, Svetlana untied the white ribbon and lifted the lid. Nestled within tissue paper was a ballerina costume of white gossamer tulle, feathers, and pearls.
Sheremetev moved closer, eyes glowing as he gazed at the delicate piece. “I had it created based on Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. You will be my Odette. Perfect. Innocent. And beautiful above all others.”
Svetlana’s stomach roiled at the thought of being that man’s anything. She gently pushed the box to the edge of the vanity. “Once more, you are too generous. I cannot accept this gift and am sorry for the effort you went to since I will not be dancing for much longer.”
The glow in his eyes flickered like a shadow crossing the moon. “As you say. At least will you not try it on?” Sheremetev’s gaze slid to Mama, then back to her. “While we are waiting, Leonid, go to my office and fetch my accounts ledger.”
Leonid hesitated, knowing as well as Svetlana it was a threat to force her to do his bidding. Powerful men loved nothing more than dangling their power for all to see. Svetlana was no fool. While every fiber of her being protested, she obediently slipped behind the privacy screen and wriggled into the costume. It fit like a glove. She stepped out to a collective gasp.
Sheremetev beamed like a proud owner. “Prekrasnaya.”
“Da, beautiful, Angel,” said Leonid.
Tears filled Mama’s eyes as she clasped her hands together. “You remind me of the night you first stepped out into society. Dripping in white and pearls for innocence. It was the night you captured Sergey’s heart for good.”
“Angel, are betrothed you?” Leonid’s anxious face reflected in the mirror.
“No. Sergey is a dear friend.” Svetlana smoothed a feather as memories tumbled one over another. Sergey’s face wreathed in fire. The train station. The Reds dragging him back. “He was taken by the Bolsheviks as we escaped Petrograd. He promised to meet us here in Paris.”
“And so he will,” Mama said as she dabbed at a stray tear.
“Leonid, take Princess Ana to my table for a glass of sherry. On the house. It will comfort your spirits.” Before a protest could be offered, Sheremetev ushered Leonid and Mama from the room, then offered his arm to Svetlana. “Come with me.”
“I should change.”
“The costume maker informed me you’ll need to walk in it to ensure all the stitches and boning are correct. I do not understand her meaning, but I assume it is all important to the comfort of its wearer.” He adjusted his dinner jacket. The cheque book flashed from where it rested in his inner pocket. It taunted her with power, manipulating her into obedience. She hated it.
He guided her down the hall. This time the waiters cast their eyes down in respectful deference. On the other side of the curtain, a woman sang a sad love song. A catalyst, she’d learned, for the ordering of more vodka. There was only one thing Russians loved more than sadness and that was vodka to drown said sorrows in.
“The band is playing Tchaikovsky next. In honor of you.”
“I have danced already this evening.”
“Please, one more. The costume is already on.” He motioned for her to turn around. When she did so, he slipped a mask over her eyes and tied the ribbons behind her head, then gently pushed her in front of the mirror hung for performers to check their appearance before taking the stage.
Svetlana’s fingers curled into her feathered skirt as anger poured molten through her veins. It was a delicate mask made of stiffened Venetian black lace. Black diamonds studded the winged tips.
“They will come from all over Paris to see the Russian swan dance on my stage.” His face hovered in the mirror over her shoulder. “You will dazzle them.”
“I danced on the stages of Petersburg, not before drunken ex-aristocrats.”
“Think of it as staying in practice. For when I introduce you to Sergei Diaghilev and his Ballets Russes, the epitome of Russian culture here in Paris.”
A gasp sprang to her lips. The impresario Diaghilev was known for his groundbreaking artistry and collaboration with masters in choreography, composition, and dance. To dance for the Ballets Russes was to achieve the highest honor for a Russian artist outside of their homeland. Perhaps if she were to gain the approval of Diaghilev she could earn a wage to repay the debt owed Sheremetev and no longer rely on their dwindling jewels for basic survival.
“If I dance tonight, you will introduce me to Diaghilev tomorrow.”
“I see this delights you. Proper introductions will be made at the earliest convenience.” The corners of Sheremetev’s mouth turned up, dimples in the dough. He turned to leave. “I’ll inform the band you’re on next.”
The stage spotlight bled through the curtain, washing Svetlana in muted red as she waited. No more being coerced into dancing for others. After tonight she would secure a respectable way to settle their account at the White Bear and be done with the horrid place for good. One more dance. That was all.
A woman sat on a stool a few feet away, neatly tucked between a stack of chairs and crates of wine. Cigarette smoke curled from her lip. Her slouched posture and brightly rouged cheeks looked familiar.
“Hello again, Duchess. I see land on feet.” The working woman she’d met on the street. From the looks of things, work had not been kind of late.
“Tatya, was it? A surprise to see you here.”
“Not surprise when this where all Russians come for good time.”
Svetlana searched for something appropriate to say, but what did one say to a girl of her station? How does the night fare?
“I don’t believe the guests are allowed backstage. You’ll enjoy the show more from the tables.”
“I no guest.”
“You work here?”
“Da. He ready in minute.” Tatya took a drag of her cigarette and sank farther into the smoke. “You?”
Svetlana shook her head. Never did she wish to claim working here. “I’m doing a favor for Mr. Sheremetev.”
Tatya barked with laughter that stuttered into a cough. “We all favors for Mr. Sheremetev. You prettiest yet.”
One of the locked doors along the hallway opened and a jacketless man with the front of his shirt unbuttoned motioned at Tatya. The woman jumped off the stool and ground her cigarette under her heel. She sauntered by Svetlana, tweaking one of her feathers.
“Showtime, Duchess.”
* * *
“Is it done?” Marina asked sleepily from her pallet on the cold floor as Svetlana and Mama slipped into their makeshift quarters.
Svetlana groped for their single candle and a match. A tiny light sprang to life, producing a halo of orange that didn’t quite reach the entirety of the space. “Nearly, kotyonok.”
Marina yawned and stretched, mimicking her nickname of little kitten. “I’ll be glad when you don’t go there anymore. It’s lonely without you.”
Guilt swelled in Svetlana’s chest. There was only one way to alleviate it, but it came at the price of her pride. One look at her little sister’s pale face and she moved past her spat with Mama. Svetlana would paint herself and twirl like a bawd as many times as it took to remove her sister from this place.