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The former they’d be discussing many times, savoring every detail, especially after opening night, once every flaw underscored by the dress rehearsal was corrected, new stitches sewn into the now broken-in costumes.
And speaking of stitches. Katarina sat in her usual chair, her bandaged hand—and how did Thierry even find black gauze so quickly?—palm down and still on her knee. Her posture was perfect, spine ramrod straight and not touching the back of the chair. Francesca’s chairs were famed for their lack of comfort. Juliette could relate.
Gabriel was pacing, alternating between looking worried and wanting to be anywhere but here. Juliette could relate to that too.
Monsieur Lenoir’s face gave away nothing. And Francesca? Well, she was silent and motionless, both of which were quite remarkable in their own right. If not for the look she shot Juliette after the curtain went up and the audience—yes, friends and families, but an audience nonetheless—was on its feet applauding and clamoring for that never-ever-done-in-the-modern-ballet encore, Juliette would have been hard-pressed to say what exactly was on her mind.
As for herself, Juliette tried to push aside the sweet relief and the even sweeter success and focus on the fact that someone had intended to harm her. Again.
Finally, taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, and what tumbled out of her mouth was nothing but the truth.
“You were right, Katarina, it does feel like betrayal.”
The silence had thorns, and sandpaper, and Juliette looked up to everyone staring at her. Pity, sadness, compassion. And then there were the deep blue eyes looking at her with understanding.
“Because it is. No matter how you dress it.” Katarina looked at the gauze on her hand and smiled at her own pun.
“For all we know, it was you.”
Jacques Lalande, whom Juliette hadn’t heard enter, spoke with a nonchalance that didn’t fit the occasion. Neither of them, really. The success of the production or the injury. The ministercrossed the office in three steps and unceremoniously plopped himself on top of Francesca’s desk, blocking her view of the room. Instead of eviscerating him as Juliette expected her to, Francesca pushed her chair to the right and said nothing.
Gabriel coughed quietly, and as Juliette raised her eyes to him, his face spoke volumes. Shit was about to hit the fan, and not even Francesca was going to distract anyone from what was to follow.
Katarina lifted her injured limb then slowly undid the gauze, showing off the seven stitches.
“I assume you accuse me of doing this to myself on purpose?”
He waved at her, a gesture of dismissal so blatant Juliette could feel her jaw drop.
“Technically, you did do it to yourself, since you stuck your hand in the shoe all by your lonesome. What, did your plan go wrong, or did you have second thoughts?”
His voice was so full of disdain that Juliette recoiled. Gabriel stopped his pacing by Katarina’s chair and placed his palm on her shoulder. She flinched, and Juliette’s heart did that foolish thing it always did these days. It sped up, knocking maniacally on her rib cage as if wanting to break free. To get away? To get closer? Juliette suspected it was all of the above.
“Don’t you think you’re overdoing this bad gendarme routine, Lalande?” Gabriel hissed, all six foot five of him cutting a rather imposing figure when he chose to set aside the court jester persona. Juliette wanted to smile. Of course, out of the entire company, Gabriel would be the one to befriend and defend the outsider. Well, technically second. Since Juliette herself had friendly feelings toward Katarina. If you called wanting to kiss her senseless “friendly.”
Lalande employed the same gesture to dismiss him as well.
“She was involved in at least five documented incidents with broken glass in Moscow. If anything, this is a modus operandi by now. Isn’t it, Mademoiselle Vyatka?”
If he expected his knowledge of episodes from her past to shock Katarina, he did not succeed. She remained unmoved, Gabriel’s hand still on her shoulder, her back still straight and her uncovered palm in her lap.
“Since you know something of my past, and my previous… experiences with broken glass used to maim dancers, Monsieur le Ministre, let me tell you one thing, and what you’ll think of the incident and of me afterward is up to you.” Katarina did not look at anyone in particular, her tone level and matter-of-fact. “If you want to deliberately injure a ballerina by interfering with her pointe shoes, simply sprinkling shards in one is not enough. It will be noticed. She will see it right away. Feel it as she adjusts it over her toes, if nothing else.” Katarina patted Gabriel’s hand, and to Juliette’s surprise he instantly removed it, the two of them in perfect understanding of each other.
Katarina straightened her shoulders even more, if such a thing was possible, and then gave Lalande a decidedly dirty glance.
“Had you been a dancer, and not a bureaucrat, you’d know that in order to really harm someone using this particular method, you have to sew the glass in the toe box, so that the moment a ballerina steps on pointe, the sharp edges shred her foot—not before it, not after it, no. The damage, the blood and gore are delivered at the moment when the full weight of the dancer is on this tiny piece of cardboard and satin. And there’s no stopping that. Gravity wins every time. And so does glass against skin.”
There was a gasp, but Juliette could not tell to whom it belonged. She could not tear her eyes off Katarina, who had losther pallor, her cheekbones stained pink in sharp relief against her black bodice and golden hair.
“And so, Monsieur Lalande, you see, me shredding my hand gives you a very important clue. Someone who, according to you and your sources”—she practically spat the word, all emotion now, a sight to see—“has been involved, as you said, in five of such experiences, would know all of this. And would surely not be this sloppy and this inefficient.” She raised the injured hand for effect, and now only her rapid breathing could be heard in the room. Even the pigeons awoken by the kerfuffle were silent.
When she spoke again, it was as if the emotion of only seconds ago had been an illusion. Her voice, her face, her eyes, were all devoid of any trace of it.
“I heard something breaking right before a large group of dancers exited the shoe room and Mademoiselle Lucian-Sorel entered. When she opened the bag on stage, I thought I saw a shard falling out of it. As to why I had to sacrifice my palm to prove my suspicion right, well, there was no way of knowing for certain and no time to check. Does this explanation satisfy you?”
They looked at each other for what felt like an eternity and then, unexpectedly, Lalande laughed. “I don’t know why I still think you would just spill all your secrets. Even our secret police, not to mention your famed KGB, informed us you are and always have been a tough nut to crack.”
Something flitted across the marble features, and Juliette’s heart squeezed painfully. This felt cruel. Unnecessary. They had offered her asylum, demanded a myriad of conditions from her, had her live with a stranger to prove good behavior, and made her take up roles that were beneath her. Did they really have to spy on her too? Cooperate with the Soviets to find out about her past?
