Page 1 of Reverence

PART I

ADAGIO

1

OF BLOOD & SATIN

Her first ever glimpse of Katarina Vyatka was one of cold eyes and bloody satin ribbons. Juliette wasn’t certain what shocked her more—the absolute steel in the charcoal gaze or the droplets of crimson that splattered the prima ballerina’s slippers and the studio’s mirror.

The soloist, a guy Juliette never had any time of day for, was wailing in pain, covering his cheek. The rest of the dancers were petrified. The mythical Soviet prima, the Empress of Moscow, Katarina the Great, the one whom the entire world had heard of yet had never seen—save for the odd video snippet, stolen and smuggled across the Iron Curtain—stood tall and proud, her regal shoulders thrown back, watching the spectacle unfold before her without a sound.

In fact, it was something Juliette had heard ever since the announcement was made that Bolshoi, the main ballet company of the Soviet Union, would be touring in Europe.Katarina Vyatka will not be speaking.If this entire incident was anything to go by, Katarina Vyatka did not need to speak. She was lethal without a word.

If Juliette had been directing this scene, she would have set it to unfold in slow motion. A random man extended hisunwelcome hand, and a second later, a slap resounded, followed by screaming. She’d have staged the entire piece in bloody colors and silence.

It was shocking. It was unnerving. And yet, under the projector lights or in real life, had Juliette been in Katarina Vyatka’s position, the show would have unspooled along similar lines. However, there would be two deviations. First, nobody would dare. And second, she’d be heard. She was Juliette Lucian-Sorel, and not a soul in Paris ever forgot that. Even if Juliette herself very much wished these days that they would.

Her train of thought was interrupted quite rudely by Gabriel, who bumped into her from behind. She almost turned to mock his unusual clumsiness but belatedly realized that the collision was entirely her fault. Juliette had been the one to stop abruptly. To watch. To stare, more accurately.

Juliette had played it cool all month since learning that, for the very first time, the otherwise well-toured Bolshoi was bringing out their legendary current star. Probably the most iconic ever, if anything Juliette had seen of Vyatka on those bits of tape was correct.

As the Princess of Paris, she couldn’t jump up and down and clap her hands from excitement and curiosity. But she had wanted to. Oh, how Juliette had wanted to. There really wasn’t a bigger mystery in the ballet world than Katarina Vyatka.

And that was when Juliette had suffered her first disappointment. They were told the prima was not to be approached. By anyone. The second letdown came on the heels of the first. Everyone was to stay as far away from the entire Soviet company as possible. Juliette had wilted a little.

She hadn’t let it show. Again, Princess of Paris and all that. And she had maintained her poker face even with Gabriel, who could barely keep himself in his Lycra leggings from the sheer exuberance. Granted, it did not take much to get her dancingpartner out of his pants to begin with. So Juliette had paid Gabriel no mind.

But she herself had been disappointed. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. She spoke absolutely no Russian, outside of the occasional profanity picked up during her own tour of Moscow and Leningrad two years ago. And she highly doubted the Bolshoi prima spoke English. So she couldn’t explain her dejected reaction.

Juliette had resigned herself to watching, as it was more than the rest of the world was afforded. The tickets for the Bolshoi tour—all three performances—had been sold out in minutes and were being scalped for ungodly sums. This was history in the making, after all, and Juliette got to see Vyatka closer than any of the people who stood in lines for hours to throw obscene amounts of money at skimpy paper stubs ever would.

Juliette and the rest of the Paris Opera Ballet company observed the touring dancers rehearse in the space usually reserved for their own classes. And that alone was quite a privilege.

Except, it looked like not everyone at the Palais Garnier was aware of the history, the making of it, or even the common courtesy of not being a letch. Michel certainly was not, because he seemed to have taken one look at the main attraction and swaggered in during the short break while the Bolshoi choreographer was busy giving instruction on some less than perfectly stretched arm on a plié. Her back turned to him, Vyatka was in the middle of fixing a ribbon on her slipper when he placed a hand on her waist and tried to pull her up and closer to him.

Perhaps the issue was that Juliette expected no sound. After all, the entire week had been governed by something akin to religious sacrament. Silent and exulting. Vyatka did not speak, she did not even breathe out loud, from what Juliette had sofar observed. She was silence herself. In motion or in repose, Katarina Vyatka seemed to be surrounded by a shroud of inviolability. She wore her greatness, her talent, and her status like a shield. Or a hazmat suit, which she apparently actually needed, since men like Michel breathed the same air as she.

And that’s what made the open-handed blow deafening. Juliette didn’t know what had scratched Michel’s cheek, but while the blood was unexplainable, it was also absolutely expected. The second Katarina had raised her hand, Juliette somehow knew.

This woman would leave bruises.

What a strange thought. Juliette shook her head at her own wandering mind and focused on the ensuing chaos.

All hell had broken loose. Michel was howling as if Vyatka had castrated him with a rusty spoon instead of giving him much less than what he deserved. Had he touched Juliette like this, he’d be fired on the spot. She assumed he would be, anyway, hence the histrionics. Not that they would dissuade?—

“What in the hell and damnation is going on here? Michel, you absolute jackass, come with me!”

Thundering through the storm of crying, screaming, and whining, a booming voice settled everyone. Because no matter the theatrics, Michel, for all the blood, tears, and howls, could not fool Francesca Bianchi. The fearsome and no-nonsense director of the Parisian ballet company had one hand on his wrist, dragging him to the side of the studio.

With everyone focused on the squealing Michel and the cursing-in-three-different-languages Francesca, Juliette braced herself and finally took Katarina Vyatka in.

She felt like the bracing was very much warranted. Because the sight was sublime. Katarina Vyatka watched the kerfuffle around her with a slight smile.

Juliette almost gasped. Talk about the unfairness of the universe. She was certain that whichever divinity had created this woman, they must’ve had a really good day all those thirty-something years ago. In fact, when they were done putting the final touches on that ethereal face, said divinity must’ve wanted to show off, imprinting the decisively unfair dimples on those chiseled features.

The dimples were an astonishing surprise, and then just as suddenly as they had appeared, they were gone as the Bolshoi prima’s face went impassive and then completely expressionless. Marble statues a block away in the Louvre displayed more feeling.

It was like watching pencil being erased off paper, except the effect was instant. From mild amusement, barely noticeable unless one was paying close attention, to abject nothing.

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