Svetlana saw her mother truly then. Not as a selfish creature but a creature of circumstance. Unquestionable privilege had molded her for nearly five decades to place her own desires first, with every need being met before she asked. It was a life Svetlana was well acquainted with, yet a revolution had forced her to alter her outlook. Perhaps it was the advantage of youth where the grasp of changeability was more mobile. Advancing years tightened its grip on the unchanging past.
Svetlana averted her glare from her mother and took a fortifying breath. “Enter.”
The door opened and Sheremetev pushed in belly first. “What are these raised voices?”
Mama was off the settee in a flash and gripping Svetlana’s shoulders. “We were merely talking costumes and how I think this one could use gemstones to make it come alive.”
Svetlana neatly shrugged her off with the appearance of adjusting the shoulder flounces of her dress. “I think gemstones would be hypocritical as this is traditional peasant garb.”
“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
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. “
“
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.