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Chapter Twenty-Two
The Winter Palace – The Guest Quarters
7:12 PM
“I fear I do not have the legs for this costume,” Tom said, turning one way and then the other to
study his reflection in the long mirror.
“If it is any consolation,” Rayley said, “I would imagine few men do.”
“It is a matter of calf definition,” Tom muttered, looking critically at his lower legs which
seemed to him thin and rather boyish when encased in the bright yellow stockings. He tried not to
ponder the fates of the previous two occupants of the gypsy king costume – the unfortunate Konstantin
Antonovich and the even more unfortunate Cynthia Kirby. The shirt hung a little too loose as well,
and he wondered if it was folly to imagine he might be able to convincingly pass as the Siberian
dance master.
As if reading his mind, Rayley rushed to reassure him. “The mask and the hat will hide your
hair and face,” he said, “and the cape will conceal any differences between your frame and
Antonovich’s.”
“What of the difference in height?” Tom said. “Everyone speaks of how admirably tall the man
is and I am barely north of average.”
“If you are costumed and masked, nothing else will matter,” Rayley said, silently thankful that
his own spindly frame had ensured that he wouldn’t be the one tapped for this particular ruse.
“You’ve read the reports from the Yard. Most people see only what they expect to see and nothing
more.”
“So they claim,” said Tom, plunking the large plumed hat over his blond hair. “But we are
betting rather heavily on that, wouldn’t you say?”