Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (11 page)

They looked at each other in silence, and the young man
stared at the ground. 'Her name was Olga, but she caught
pleurisy and died.'

Like most members of the Russian nobility, the Prince did
not concern himself with the misfortunes life doled out to
strangers—certainly not itinerant entertainers—only by how
they affected him. 'Then you cannot now perform it, I
assume.'

Suddenly the green-eyed woman holding the child stepped
eagerly forward. 'I can perform the part. I have watched Olga
countless times, and have memorized the lines.'

The young man turned to her. 'Senda, you've never played
that part. You've had only minor roles—'

'Please, Schmarya,' she pleaded. 'I am ready for it. I know
it.'

The Prince caught sight of the most expressive, mesmerizing
pair of emerald eyes he had ever encountered. 'She is your
wife?' he inquired politely.

'No, your Highness. She is the widow . . .' He paused. '. . . of my brother.'

'She is a very young widow.'

'Sometimes,' the young man said bitterly, 'it is the lot of the
young to suffer misfortune or death.'

'Yes, yes.' The Prince made a gesture of irritation. He did
not like to involve himself with the problems of the lower
classes. Still, something about the woman wove a spell. He
was silent a moment longer and then made up his mind. 'Come
to my palace. We have a private theatre. Two days from today
is my wife's birthday, and I shall expect you to perform
The Lady of the Camellias
then. My majordomo will find you
accommodations in the palace. You will be well-paid.'

The young man nodded toward the dead horse. 'It will be
our honour to perform it without pay. Lodging and board for
two nights are enough. We are grateful that you put our horse
out of its misery.' His voice was proud.

'It is settled then. The Danilov Palace on the Neva. If you
have difficulty finding it, ask anyone for directions.' The
Prince turned to leave and then caught a movement out of the
corner of his eye which caused him to turn back around. The
woman named Senda had reached up and lowered the scarf
from around her face and pushed the fur hat back on her head,
a seductive gesture even in this cold and public place.

Prince Vaslav's breath caught in his throat. She was extra
ordinarily beautiful. She met his gaze unblinkingly, and he
nodded abruptly, then tore his eyes from her and strode
quickly back to his barouche.

All in all, he felt extremely pleased with himself. And as he
heard the snapping of the whip carrying backward in the wind,
another, even more pleasant sensation swept over him.

He closed his eyes, conjuring up those two huge emerald
eyes, impossibly green and striated, so full of life.

He had found himself another actress. So . . . Tatiana
would not get her bauble after all. He relished that.

Placing one elegantly manicured finger on his lips, he made
a mental notation.

Emeralds.

Fabergé was certain to have just the thing.

Senda had watched as the driver of the magnificent barouche
walked the six beautifully matched black horses around in a tight circle, climbed back up on his high seat, and cracked his
whip. She stared after the receding coach-sleigh in amazement. 'I've never before seen a sleigh quite like that one,' she marvelled, shaking her head. She glanced at Schmarya. 'Do
you suppose that yellow metal was real gold?'

'I wouldn't doubt it,' Schmarya said bitterly. 'The rich only
get richer by walking all over the likes of us. Then they turn
around and rub it in our faces.'

'But he seemed nice.'

Schmarya's eyes flashed. 'Nice. Sure.' He compressed his
lips into a grim smile. 'I'm certain even Wolzak was nice to people if he chose to be. It didn't stop him from slaughtering
everybody in our village, though, did it?'

She turned away at the memory. After all this time, her
eyes still filled with tears.

Schmarya didn't seem to notice. He turned around and
raised his arm. 'All right!' he yelled out. 'All of you! Let's get
this wagon back up on its wheels!' The wheels of the wagon
clattered on the ice as they uprighted it. Senda, standing off
to one side, held the child in one arm and the reins of the
surviving horse in her free hand. For a moment she looked
longingly down the street to catch one last glimpse of the
departing fairy-tale barouche, but it had turned a corner and
was already out of sight.

'It's time we got this show on the road!' Schmarya yelled.
'Everybody back up in the wagons! Alex, hitch the horse back
up.'

The man named Alex frowned and slowly scratched the
back of his neck. 'It's an awful heavy load for just one horse.'

'In that case, we have no choice but to substitute a horse
from one of the front wagons for the one that's dead. Which
means all of us had better walk except the drivers.'

There was a chorus of groans, but no one voiced outright
refusal. They'd had enough trials and tribulations on the road
to view this as no more than a slight discomfort.

Senda fell into step beside Schmarya as they slowly made
their way on foot alongside the creaking wagons. She was bone weary, cold, and hungry. The icy wind which had battered her
relentlessly since early morning had taken its toll. All she
wanted now was to eat, have something hot to drink, and then
crawl under mountains of warm covers.

'Want me to hold her for a while?' Schmarya asked, reach
ing for the child.

She shook her head and smiled. 'No, I'm fine. Tamara's
really not very heavy. And we'll be warm soon. It's fate, don't
you think? We had no place to go, and because the wagon
flipped and that coach stopped, now we do.'

'It's only for two nights,' he growled.

Her gaze was level. 'Two nights in a palace is better than
sleeping in a barn in the freezing cold.' She paused and tightened her lips. 'Schmarya, why did you insist we perform for
free?'

He did not reply.

'You know how desperately we need the money! We can't
afford not to get paid. We can hardly eat as it is, and now with
a horse dead . . . how can we afford to buy another?'

He hunched forward against the wind, hands in his pockets,
eyes focused on the ground. 'He did us a favour by shooting
the horse, and we're returning the favour. I don't want to owe
anybody anything. Especially not the enemy.'

'The enemy!' she scoffed. 'Hearing you talk, one would
think everybody's the enemy.'

'Have you forgotten what happened three years ago?' he
asked her softly. 'Has it been so long that you don't remem
ber!'

'No, I haven't forgotten.'

He lowered his voice. 'Then have you forgotten why we joined up with this troupe of no talent has-beens?'

She shook her head, thinking back to that night soon after
the pogrom when they had stumbled upon the gypsy-like thea
tre troupe, which was playing the villages in and around the
Pale. They had unquestioningly, even eagerly, welcomed
Senda and Schmarya into their little band since a young couple
had recently eloped and left them short of help.

Schmarya answered himself: 'So we could work our way to
St. Petersburg or Moscow. So we could get out of the Pale once
and for all and live decent lives.'

She shook her head. 'That wasn't it and you know it. You
only wanted to come so you could join up with the revolutionaries in the cities.' It was her turn to sound bitter. 'That's why
you really wanted to join the troupe and come here, isn't it?'

When he looked at her, his eyes were shining. 'Yes, it was. And it still is. The wealthy oppressors must be fought and defeated. There'll be no freedom in Russia until the blood of
the rich stains the soil. Senda, you just don't understand. I
know you want what's best for Tamara, but you're unable to
look past the hearth. Don't you see? All things in society
have to change for the better if our daughter's to be assured a peaceful future. You, better than anyone, should have learned
that by now. It doesn't matter if you refuse to have anything
to do with it—others will change this world as we know it. And
I will help. It's only a matter of time.'

She shivered suddenly, and knew it was not from the cold.

Now that she'd allowed fear to creep into her consciousness,
two other thoughts crept into her mind. Schmarya always carried a loaded pistol. He hadn't used it to put the horse out
of its misery because he didn't want anyone to know he had
it. People weren't supposed to be armed. If the police caught
him with the weapon, he'd immediately be suspected of anar
chy, clapped behind bars, and shipped off to Siberia. And
hidden in one of the barrels stuffed with costumes were the ten sticks of dynamite he'd picked up in Riga.

She was afraid to venture a guess as to what he might have
in mind once they arrived at the Danilov Palace.

Chapter 4

'Itinerants though you may be, you are considered neither
guests nor servants in this palace. You are subject to the same
stringent rules and regulations governing any unknown transi
ents passing through this household. Unless you are specifically given permission otherwise, you are to remain here in
the servants' wing. On the grounds you are not to wander any
further than the servants' garden. The public rooms, private
apartments, and remainder of the grounds are strictly off limits. There will be no exploring the premises. On those
occasions when one or more of you need to leave this wing
and gain access to the theatre, which is located among the public rooms, you will do so escorted by one of the footmen.
Never, for any reason, will any of you venture about this
palace unescorted. This rule shall be strictly obeyed. If even
one of you fails to follow it, you shall all find yourselves unwel
come here.'