Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (22 page)

Inge shook her head. 'No, my lady,' she said apologetically.
'I was told to choose something appropriate from the
children's wardrobe next door. It seems there haven't been
children here in decades, so perhaps they're a little out-of-
date . . .' Flustered, Inge fidgeted with her hands.

Senda laughed quietly, without humour. She wasn't surprised to find that she was shaking. 'It's not that,' she assured
Inge quietly.

It's that the best I could ever do for my own daughter was
scrounge up some rags to dress her in and pray that they would
keep her warm enough.

Again she found herself wishing they had never come here.
She wished she didn't have to face this little princess who
was her daughter. It shamed her to have to face yet another
reminder of how she'd failed to provide as a mother. She was
also certain that Schmarya and the rest of the troupe had not
been showered with fancy clothes like she and Tamara had.
They would be envious.

She shivered, trying to remember the Prince's exact words in the theatre. What had he said? Something about always
getting what he wanted.

He wants me. He thinks a new gown and entertaining my
daughter will buy me, just as he tried to buy me with that neck
lace.

She could see it so clearly. The sardonic Prince who always
got what he set his sights on; herself, young and seemingly available. Actresses were always thought to be easily avail
able. And widows.

She ground her teeth stubbornly.

Well, this time he's made a mistake. I won't be bought. Not
for money, jewels, or anything else he might try to tempt me
with. Or my daughter.

She and Tamara had been satisfied with their bleak exist
ence, because they had known no other way to live.

But now we know what is hidden on the other side of that
damned coin.

Tamara squirmed like a wet eel in her arms, piteously how
ling to get back to the magical locomotive. Gently Senda
planted a sombre kiss on her daughter's forehead before hand
ing her to Inge, who set the child back in the seat of the
locomotive.

Tamara's howls turned into squeals of delight and she
clapped her hands in anticipation. 'Momma!' she screamed
happily. 'Look, Momma!'

Inge flipped the switch and Tamara whirred past on the
locomotive headed straight for Mad Ludwig's miniature
castle. Senda watched the tunnel entrance swallow the train
and joined the Countess at the door.

'Let's go to the theatre,' she told Countess Florinsky in a strained, world-weary voice. 'Let's get the show over with.'

Senda parted company with Countess Florinsky outside the
stage door. 'My dear, you are a vision!' The Countess was
positively glowing with unrestrained excitement, and held
both of Senda's hands in hers, squeezing them affectionately.
'You are indisputably going to radiate on that stage!'

Senda tightened her lips apprehensively. 'I hope I'll be
adequate,' she murmured.

'Nonsense! You'll be heavenly!' Another warm squeeze of the Countess's hands punctuated her faith in Senda. 'I have
every confidence in you, and so should you.' The Countess
embraced her warmly, and Senda wished she could return her
embraces as easily, but other than Grandmother Goldie, her
family had never shown much affection, seldom ever touched,
so she felt that her returned embraces were rather limp.

Countess Florinsky had a few last well-meaning words of
advice. 'Now, remember, my dear,' she bubbled, 'if you want
your lips to look redder and fuller, just bite them gently. But
whatever you do, don't draw blood! If you wish for slightly
pinker cheeks, pinch them slightly, but not in public, I daresay. Oh! And one more thing!' The Countess dug around in
her bosom and fished out a tiny glass vial filled with an amber
liquid. She placed it in one of Senda's hands and made sure
Senda's fingers closed around it.

Senda brought her hand closer to her face and slowly unclenched it. 'What is it,' she asked jokingly, 'hemlock? In
case I should fall flat on my face?'

Countess Florinsky fluttered. 'Oh, my dear! You daren't
speak that way! It makes me feel quite faint, you know. You'll
be a great success, I know it. That vial contains a bit of rose
water. The Grand Duchess Xenia herself has it imported from
Floris of London. It's divine! Dab a drop behind your ears,
and another in your bosom, and it will drive men literally to
distraction. But just a dab, mind you. It's quite concentrated,
and you don't want to smell like one of the women on . . .
Anyway, I must fly. See you soon. And the best of luck!' The
Countess held up her crossed fingers, then uncrossed them
and waggled the fingertips of one hand in that peculiar way of
hers before waddling away with startling speed for someone
so short.

Alone now, Senda turned to the stage door with trepidation.
A flurry of muffled, shouted orders, scraping furniture, and
excited, high-pitched chatter reached her ears. Her knees
were wobbly, and she felt as if her feet had been permanently
glued to the spot, making it impossible for her to take that
single step required to reach the door. Sickly fears and angu
ished emotions raged in her bosom.

She was terrified to go backstage. The upcoming perform
ance was strain enough on her fragile nerves, but having to
face Schmarya in her new splendour was an even more fright
ening thought. She wanted desperately to share things with
him, not create an unbridgeable chasm. God knows, she
thought, enough of a gulf had separated them lately. How was
he going to react to her metamorphosis? To her having been
invited to the ball, and his having been left out? How was
she going to explain? She visualized his accusing eyes, his
quivering clenched knuckles—the anger which he used to
mask his hurt.

Sighing painfully, she finally composed herself, forcing her
slumping shoulders square and raising her drooping chin in an
effort to arm herself with the only weapons she knew to do
battle with. Hastily she tugged the bodice of her gown higher,
steeled herself, and yanked the door open before she could
change her mind. She let out a gasp.

Schmarya stood on the other side of the door. He was obviously as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

She almost laughed aloud with hysterical relief. He was dressed as she had never before seen him, in sartorial splen
dour: an exquisitely tailored black suit with a detachable wing
collar, tails, and white tie.

For a long moment they ogled each other's new finery with
critical eyes. Then simultaneously they burst out laughing, and
any hard feelings either of them might have been harbouring
vanished miraculously into thin air.

'I feel like a penguin,' he growled in mock anger, showing
her his tails.

'But you don't look like one,' she said soothingly. She swept
closer to him, her gown rustling richly, and she instinctively
straightened his tie. Then she took a step backward and looked
down at herself. 'Don't feel so bad. I feel like an expensive
doll.'

'And you look it. My compliments, madam.'

They laughed and held each other close, something they hadn't done in so long that even now her heart ached for
having missed his wondrous, loving embrace for so long. She marvelled with pride at how truly handsome, how virile he
looked. His hair had been trimmed, his fingernails manicured, and his teeth flashed whitely against his naturally healthy com
plexion.

'Black suit and golden hair,' she murmured softly.
'Mmmmm, a rather disquieting combination.'

'Well, it looks like we've both been invited to the ball,' he
said casually.

She smiled and touched his cheek with her hand. 'And to
think that I was beginning to feel quite guilty that you'd been
left out.'

'It sure surprised me,' he said. 'There I was, sound asleep,
when I was rousted out of bed and rushed to a fitting room,
where an English tailor from Nevsky Avenue was waiting.'

She smiled at him. 'With assistants,' she said slyly.

He laughed. 'With assistants.'

She shook her head wonderingly. 'How many fitting rooms
do you think there are in this palace?'

He shrugged. 'Beats me. One for men, I suppose, and one
for women.'

'Probably even one for children.'

They laughed again. It was good, so good, she thought, to
share something again.

Unexpectedly, she caught her breath as he drew her into a
shadowy corner, away from prying eyes. Gently he nuzzled her neck. 'Promise me the first dance?' His lips were warm
and moist against her cool, fragrant skin. His breath was fresh,
scented with cedar.

She gazed at him and prayed: Oh, God! Please let it be like
this from now on. Let us share our laughter and our love, our
very souls . . .

But this litany was soundless, and what Schmarya saw were
mischievously fluttering vixen eyes. She tossed her head
capriciously. 'Maybe I'll be so popular you'll have to stand in
line and wait your turn.'

'Bitch,' he said good-humouredly.

Suddenly she clutched his arms in such a tight grip that she
left wrinkles on his sleeve. 'Oh, Schmarya, I'm so scared,'
she whispered. 'All those people I'm going to have to face.
What . . . what if I make an ass out of myself?

'You?'
He threw back his head and laughed, deep, rich,
reverberating peals of laughter like in old times, and suddenly
it
was
like old times. 'If I know you, and I think I do, you'll
have the audience wrapped around your little finger.'