Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (21 page)

More than ever now, she was firmly convinced that Madame
Lamothe did indeed possess a league of diabolical, unearthly
powers.

Senda daringly moved her hips from side to side, feeling not
only the luxuriant sensuality of the gown as it swayed smoothly
with each rhythmic motion, but a thrill of exhilaration. Then
on a sudden impulse, she pirouetted on the toes of the slippers
Madame Lamothe had magically conjured up, and the taffeta
shimmered and billowed about her legs.

Her eyes sparkled, radiating pleasure she had never known
existed. She looked spectacular indeed, and
she
felt
beautiful.
From within.

Earlier, while needles were positively flying, Senda had
bathed, and then the Princess's English hairdresser, Alice,
had done her hair, pulling it tightly back from her face and pinning it up with barrettes. A last silk camellia crowned her
forehead like a tiara.

Spellbound with herself, Senda saw Madame Lamothe and
her assistants recede into the background as if they were ghosts
in a dim dream. Forgotten were the observant, critical eyes.
Senda discarded the last vestiges of her inhibitions, daintily
pinched the skirt between thumb and forefinger, and began
waltzing around the room, humming softly to herself.

Just as she danced past the fitting-room door, it burst open
without warning. Startled, Senda froze in mid-step and stared
wide-eyed at the intruder.

A breathless Countess Florinsky, gowned in age-yellowed
brocade encrusted with seed pearls on the bodice, froze, as
had Senda, the closed silver fan she carried in one hand poised
in midair. Two golden medallions, like gleaming earmuffs,
covered the Countess's ears, and these were attached to each
other by a wide gold band sprouting a gloriously excessive
concoction of fluffy white egret feathers atop her head.

Time came to a standstill. Nothing breathed. Nothing
moved—nothing except the egret feathers, which swayed and
quivered on the Countess's startled head. Silence reigned,
save for the gilded clock on the mantle which ticked away
unperturbed, each tick seeming to grow louder and louder, building up to a climax. Unexpectedly, the clock chimed the
hour. Everyone jumped, and reality once again descended
upon the room.

'What's wrong?' Senda cried, staring at the Countess's
stunned expression in dismay.

'What's
wrong?'
The Countess found her feet, flung open
her arms, and rushed forward, embracing Senda with her
plump arms. She cocked her head sideways and smiled happily
at Madame Lamothe. ' ''What's wrong?''
'
she asks. Imagine!' The Countess's face glowed, and she permitted herself a spurt
of laughter.
'You,'
she emphasized, pressing Senda even
closer, 'you're so lovely that I think I shall
cry
at any moment.
Normally I save my tears for weddings and funerals. Oh, my
dear, you are glorious! You will indubitably be the belle of the
ball!'

And with that, the Countess lifted her chin, resolutely took
Senda's arm, and led her out, wondering how on earth it was
possible that this humbly born and innocently bred girl could
possess that bewitching, captivating charm and glamour every
one high-bred and highborn worked so hard to achieve—and
most of them with scant success.

Already the muted sounds of partying emanated from a
distant wing of the palace.

The sounds brought Senda a new attack of gnawing misgiv
ings. Only minutes before, in the excitement of those magical
reflections miming her every move in the mirrors, it had
seemed that the Cinderella gown and her newly pinned-up
hair were weapons enough to vanquish any and all terrors she
might have to face. But now she was incapable of enjoying
the dreamy metamorphosis wrought by Madame Lamothe's
extravagantly fertile imagination and fanciful, nimble fingers.
Each sober step she took was an effort, bringing her closer
and closer to the ordeal she began dreading with a rising pas
sion: facing her audience and carrying an entire play.

Resolutely she raised her chin, but a sickening, sour feeling
coiled itself venomously in the pit of her stomach.

No matter how hard she willed herself to ease the tension,
her nerves were still stretched as taut—and were as fragile—
as a crystal violin's blown-glass bow.

Senda made her request of Countess Florinsky on the way to
the theatre. 'Could you show me to the nursery?' she asked.
'I must stop by there,' she told her firmly. 'I haven't seen my daughter since the nurse, Inge, fetched her early this mor
ning.'

Countess Florinsky hesitated in mid-waddle for a moment,
and then her wobbling plumes nodded their acquiescence. It was a small-enough request, and there was just enough time.
The Princess's birthday celebration had been carefully orches
trated, but despite the minute-by-minute planning—cleverly juxtaposing the performance of
The Lady of the Camellias
between the caviar-and-champagne reception and the mid
night dinner-ball—the festivities were getting off to a late start.

As they neared the nursery, they heard a strange whirring
noise, punctuated by a child's shriek of delight. Senda
exchanged startled glances with the Countess and then, since the nursery was not guarded by doormen, slowly turned the
handle and opened the door. She could only gasp and stare in
amazement into the room.

This was no ordinary nursery, she realized in one glance. This was a huge zoo of silent stuffed animals, turreted castle-
like playhouses, and literally hundreds, if not thousands, of
toys. And Tamara, her beloved daughter, whom she had been
so certain was screaming grievously for her, was having the
time of her life. The little girl was happily seated astride a
large, authentically detailed electric-powered locomotive
which ran on narrow-gauge foot-wide tracks around the room,
pulling three empty wagons, each of which was large enough
to seat another child in slat-railed safety and tufted, cushioned
splendour. In the centre of the room stood a doll's house
carved of malachite, trimmed with filigreed gold; the rails passed through its tunnellike entrance at the front, emerged
out the back, then ran in a figure of eight between the wide
spread stance of a giraffe that towered to the sixteen-foot
ceiling. All around the room, the tracks were lined by hand
some carved wood rocking horses, mammoth furry elephants,
period dolls of all sizes in assorted finery, uniformed toy soldi
ers with cannon and wooden swords, and faithfully repro
duced dollhouses with miniature rooms that boasted
minuscule tassels on curtains and tiny electric crystal chandeliers. In that first breathtaking glance at this magical minia
ture kingdom, Senda noticed small children's chairs set around
a perfectly laid-out tea table, with child-size dishes, silver
ware, and a distressingly real assortment of cookies, cakes,
tortes, tarts, candies, and whipped cream. Cookies
and
cakes?
Candies
and
whipped cream? She had never heard of all of
them served at one sitting.

Senda felt a surge of anger toward Inge, the nurse, but then
realized she was reacting to the display of wealth and luxury
which she could not provide Tamara. It intensified the hunger they had so often felt and the battle they waged with the bitter
elements just to stay alive.

'You see?' said the Countess, 'there's nothing to worry
about. She's enjoying herself immensely.'

Senda could only nod. What child wouldn't enjoy this world
of sugarplum dreams? Inge, the beaming nurse, stood up, bobbed a curtsy, and reached for a switch high on the wall—
so high that no child could reach it, Senda was gratified to
notice. The whirring died away and the train slid to a halt.
Tamara instantly began sobbing and throwing her tiny fists
about in a tantrum.

Senda was shocked. Her Tamara never threw tantrums.
Never! Nor did the angry wailing let up even as Inge picked
up Tamara and deposited her ever so gently in her mother's arms. Senda tried to comfort her child, but for once the little girl would not be pacified. Her own daughter did not seem to
recognize her! And why should she? Senda wondered. I must
look a stranger to her. I've never been dressed in such finery before, or had my hair done in this particular fashion. And then she realized that this was not what lay at the root of the
problem. For the moment, at least, Tamara did not want to
be in her mother's arms. She had been seduced by the train,
and wanted to be back on it.

Yes, Schmarya had been right. It had been a terrible mistake to come here. Before having been exposed to this blatant
luxury, they had all been so satisfied, never noticing what they
had missed, and they had been so grateful for so many little
things.
Any
little things. Even Tamara, in her young life, had
never acted as spoiled as she had on this one single day. On
the road with the theatre troupe, eking out the most meagre of existences, they had somehow been happier. Closer. Used
to poverty, they were now glimpsing the other side of the
coin—everything that money could buy, things which they
could never dream to enjoy again. And Senda sensed that
somehow their lives had been altered and that none of them
would ever be the same again.

She glanced down at the squirming bundle in her arms, and
for the first time noticed Tamara's clothes. Her little girl had
been bathed and newly clothed in a tiny outfit suited for a
princess.

Angered, Senda shut her eyes for a moment. 'These
clothes . . .' she murmured. 'They're not hers.'