The Ice Swan полностью

At the Blue Palace the ballroom had been her favorite place, aside from the outside flower garden, which spun its own delicate magic. As any proper Russian aristocrat, Svetlana was brought up in the art of dancing. The waltz, allemande, galop, mazurka, and quadrille. She could perform them in her sleep, but late at night when everyone was abed, she would slip down to the ballroom for the dancing that set her free. Intricate pirouettes, grand jetés, assemblés. Starting off in delicate movements of the adagio where her limbs flowed from one position to another like water, then faster and sharper to the allegro until her energy was spent and the lyrical music in her head would crescendo to an end.

Constance’s phonograph sat untouched in the corner of the room, silenced due to mourning. She’d brought it back from her latest trip to America. Crossing to it, Svetlana rifled through the stack of disc records as an urgency rippled through her like the slow flap of birds’ wings. Fast and faster the wings flapped until she thought they would burst straight out of her.

She’d been in mourning far too long. For Russia, for her life lost to the Revolution, the hardships, and deaths. Not since Sheremetev had she brought herself to dance again, and then the peace of moving had been tainted by his twisted usage. She wanted to feel alive again; she needed to feel herself come alive to the music and steps and an unyielding floor beneath her feet that transported her to a stage of magic and stardust.

Slipping the disc onto the machine, Svetlana touched the needle to the black grooves. The haunting harmony of Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde floated out the tale of the foretold lost lovers in delight. Svetlana stretched her arms out to greet the chilled air in a dancer’s embrace as her feet slid to fifth position with opposite toe to opposite heel. A tremble ran up her legs, swirled around her stomach, lengthening along her spine until her scalp tingled with anticipation. Weighted burdens fell away as she came into herself. Her slippers glided effortlessly across the floor, the velvet fold of her robe rippling around her like water rings on a pond’s surface as the music’s rhythm flooded her soul.

Svetlana closed her eyes and gave herself to the stardust.

*  *  *

“Ye’ll be wanting me to ring for Glasby, aye, Yer Grace?” The old stable master took the horse’s reins from Wynn and gave the animal a pat on its sleek neck. Snowflakes puffed from his mane.

“No. I’ll manage.” Wynn unstrapped his small valise from behind the saddle. The handle was cold and wet from the snow. “I left my trunk at the train station. Have one of the grooms run to fetch it tomorrow morning.”

“Should’ve called for us and we’d’ve picked ye up instead of ye riding through the night hours.” Judging by his hastily tucked shirt and hair standing on ends, the man had been fast asleep when Wynn decided to ride home unannounced.

“I’m sorry for waking you. After the London rain and stuffy train compartment, I needed the fresh air on my face. Been too long since I’ve ridden.”

“London be for the stuffed shirts.” The stable master scrunched his nose in contempt. No love was lost for their neighbors past the southern border. “’Tis glad we are to be having ye back, Yer Grace.”

“Always glad to be back.”

Gripping his travel bag, Wynn strode across the well-tended yard pearlescent with freshly falling snow. Thornhill stood quietly in midnight shadows with a blue moon striking against its familiar corners and turrets. A welcome sight after his week of failure. The medical board had come to no conclusion and decided to reconvene at a later date when tempers weren’t raging. Many of the highly respected physicians in attendance had resorted to name-calling and vilifying the mental stability of one another. Horrifying as the scene had been, Wynn was grateful to have been forgotten in the melee. For good or bad, cardiology got people to talking.

Wynn slipped in the kitchen door and immediate warmth embraced him from the cooking fire, smoored down to its last embers of cherry red. Wynn squatted in front of the hearth and held out his frozen fingers. Leather gloves were well and good, but slushy winter air had a way of penetrating to a man’s bones.