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Chapter Thirteen
The Winter Palace – The Grand Ballroom
June 20, 1889
3:40 PM
“You are here early.”
Emma looked up at Konstantin, who was walking slowly down the marble staircase.
“I wished to practice before our lesson,” she said. It was strange, she thought. Because he
spoke simply, as does any man using a language not his own, so did she. And somehow these short
sentences, with their limited choice of words and directly-stated thoughts, were allowing her to
express herself more freely than she had done in years.
“I am surprised you have come at all.”
There were several things she could say in response to this. Perhaps he was speaking of the
last time they saw each other - the evening before, that scene of bedlam and tears, with scores of
dancers arriving for practice, only to be turned away with the news that there had been yet another
murder in the ballroom. The British police and the Russian, literally circling each other as they
examined the ridiculous form of the fallen Mrs. Kirby, looking heavenward with an expression of
angry surprise as she lay sprawled in her blue silk britches and yellow hose. Or perhaps he was
referring to the next-to-last time they had seen each other, in the costume room, he and Tatiana caught
in a tangle of clothing and Emma clutching Tom’s hand and willing the image away.
It was impossible to guess to which of these things, if either, he had been referring, but it was
less awkward to be standing face to face talking with him than she would have guessed. He did not
appear to be embarrassed or frightened by the events of the previous day, so she decided to move on
as well. “Your four o’clock lady is not here?”
“Nor was my three o’clock. Or the one before or the one before.” He looked down his great
nose with a sad smile. “They are all frightened. This ballroom began as a place of peace for me. My
church, how do you say? The sort of church where one can hide.”