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Juliette was by the studio entrance in an instant, but it was the second set of footfalls that stopped her in her tracks. Heavy, definitely not those of a dancer. This second runner was faster, and when a litany of Russian erupted just outside of the door, Juliette flinched. The woman was clearly distraught, though hertone was quiet and Juliette could not distinguish any individual words. The male voice was loud and cutting, angry to the point of enraged, and it sounded frightening.
“Nyet!”
Even with her very limited understanding of Russian, Juliette knew this one.No.She was out in the hallway like a bullet. The wrinkled brown suit had his arm raised, ready to strike, and Katarina Vyatka’s eyes were huge, the blue completely enveloped by the black of the pupil.
Juliette straightened to her full height. She matched the Soviet ballerina and towered over the suit. When she spoke, she deliberately lowered her voice to make him strain to hear.
“I assume you were about to remove that speck of lint from Mademoiselle Vyatka’s shoulder, Mister…”
She let the lack of name dangle and demonstratively reached out to beat him to the imaginary grain of dust on the black sleeve of the leotard. A subtle scent of orange blossom perfume reached back, momentarily hypnotizing her senses with the sweetness that felt both perfectly fitting and entirely out of place for this woman. Juliette almost staggered back with the surprise of the effect such a simple scent had on her. What hadn’t surprised her was Vyatka flinching under her cursory touch. Juliette had insulted her earlier, even if she doubted the Soviet prima understood her words, but being interrupted during her practice was bad enough and now the touching?—
“It’s Ivanov.” His anger did not dissipate as he sneered and bit the name out, spittle flying. Juliette did not recoil, but it was a close call.
“Of course it is. Next thing you’ll tell me your first name is Ivan.” She offered him one of her fakest, meanest smiles. He smiled back, just as fake, though his wobbled a touch at the corners, clearly uneasy at being caught in the act. Then, as if a veil had lifted, his eyes cleared of the rage and he changed tack.
“How did you know?” His loud, out-of-place laughter echoed in the narrow bowels of the Palais Garnier.
“Lucky guess. Now, Mademoiselle Vyatka here doesn’t seem to require any more of your kind and generous help?—”
“On the contrary. Do not trouble yourself. She is my ward, you see, and it is my duty to make sure nothing bad happens to her. France is a dangerous place. All these sexual deviants…”
This time his smile was sly, knowing, slimy, and Juliette wanted a shower. Her sexuality had never been a secret, but to have it thrown in her face like this was jarring, to say the least. She took a step closer, her anger, which she so rarely allowed to gain the upper hand, taking over.
A quiet voice from her right interrupted whatever clearly foolish thing she was about to profess. To her absolute astonishment, Vyatka opened her mouth and actual sounds came out. Juliette was at first taken aback and then miffed at herself for being startled. Of course Katarina Vyatka could speak. Juliette’s earlier assertion of her being shrouded in silence was just that, a fanciful assertion, so why did the low sound have such an earth-shattering effect on her?
Juliette was still staring when, after a few words in Russian and a shake of her head, Vyatka left, graceful steps taking her down the winding corridor and out of sight. The suit threw Juliette another lascivious look before attempting to follow, but not before spitting one last warning.
“You have no clue what you’re getting in the middle of. Stay out of this. You have no power here.”
Juliette watched him go too, his bulky shoulders encased in the ill-fitting garment filling the narrow corridor, giving it a claustrophobic feel. She did not return to the rehearsal room until his heavy steps stopped echoing between the walls of her dominion. As he turned to look at her before disappearing, Juliette inexplicably felt compelled to speak.
“You’re wrong, Ivanov. I am the only one who has any true power here.”
His widened eyes were her clue that every lie she intended as a blow, landed.
3
OF OBSERVED VULNERABILITY & DEFECTIONS
“Ilook good in a tux.”
Gabriel’s forearm under her fingertips flexed as he preened a little. He did look good in anything, though, and Juliette rolled her eyes at his antics. He was also an admirable shield from adoring fans, peers, sponsors, and other assorted hoi polloi invited to a grand reception such as this one.
Gabriel drew the unwanted attention away and all Juliette had to do was offer a graceful nod or a barely there smile, which made him the perfect partner. After years of both dancing together and attending these sorts of events, they had the routine down to a T.
They made their rounds, Juliette repeatedly steering Gabriel away from the Bolshoi company, as she could feel the KGB agent’s slimy gaze on her. There was no need to cause a scene, no matter how much she wanted to do so just to wipe that dirty smirk off his ugly, pockmarked face.
After speaking to a number of people and dropping Gabriel off with some of his opera friends, Juliette found herself drawn to the de facto host of the reception, the president of the Republic, whom she had met before and who, she knew, was a big fan of hers. She allowed him to offer her a glass ofchampagne and ply her with compliments and assurances that he and his wife would both attend every opening night this coming season, no matter the reviews. That last one set Juliette’s teeth on edge.
Smile and nod, smile and nod.
And so she did, and he prattled on about the new productions that were going up on the company’s roster. He knew what he was talking about—Juliette always gave him credit for that—and so her next fifteen minutes were not boring, despite them being regularly interrupted by the president’s staff for “matters of the Republic.” When she finally excused herself after a particularly long interruption, Juliette found the way he was so deeply disappointed adorable.
“I have to say, you have him entirely wrapped around your finger, Mademoiselle Sorel.”
The manner of the man speaking to her was familiar, and Juliette took her time turning, giving herself a head start to place him. After a second, as the face came into focus, so did the position. The newly named Culture Minister. He was familiar because of his previously held title. They called him the “Budget Czar,” and everyone feared him. His power of decision over government spending extended far and wide. Yet to Juliette, he had been just another man. One she hadn’t liked at all. His use of her name—the wrong use, to be exact—cemented her opinion of him.
She pursed her lips and exhaled, counting to ten. Of all her battles, this one was tiresomely predictable.
