Page 39 of Reverence

“And what, pray tell, happened?” Katarina’s eyebrow took its famous turn up, leaving Juliette to wonder why the divinity thought she was a strong soldier. How could anyone think she was a soldier at all, when all she wanted to do was take off her white tutu and wave it in surrender?

And why was she thinking about undressing? Of course, she wanted to take the tutu off, the tutu and a lot more, because this woman was just unbelievably?—

“Nothing happened, Juliette.”

The finality in the soft, almost featherlike voice seemed both out of place and perfectly at home. If Katarina had filled a bucket of cold water and doused Juliette with it, that might have been a gentler letdown than her words. Or her tone. Nobody in Juliette’s twenty-five years had been able to deliver indifferent and untouchable as well as Katarina Vyatka.

Even her name, the one she so rarely heard falling from those lips, was devoid of that intimacy Katarina bestowed every time she spoke it.

Juliette swallowed around the lump in her throat, surely a cliché of some sort probably employed by romance authors, but she had no better way of describing what it felt like, other than to maybe go fully dramatic and say that she was shoving down her feelings. As to what feelings, well, Juliette decided on the spot that they were of hurt and profound disappointment that even after everything they had been through together, not only was she still “Mademoiselle Lucian-Sorel” more often than not, but the gap that persisted between them only got wider.

They walked silently through the hallways of Garnier, Katarina’s presence like a specter, like a thundercloud at her shoulder. Ignoring her wasn’t an option, and talking to her made even less sense. Juliette had clearly imagined the flickers of care and affection in the icy depths of Katarina’s eyes. There was nothing there, just as there was nothing between them. And most important of all, Juliette had a ballet to lead.

As they finally made their way to the main stage, Katarina in full costume and Juliette still lugging her shoe bag around, they were harried by everyone they met.

“You’re late!”

“They are waiting for you!”

“Francesca already blew several gaskets!”

“You should’ve heard the screaming, go quickly!”

The stage was crowded, the full company involved inSwan Lakestanding in a semicircle, listening to Francesca’s last-minute words of what sounded like encouragement.

Juliette and Katarina pushed their way through the throngs of dancers to the very front.

“Oh, how kind of you to join us. Jett, I told you to be here twenty minutes ago! And my God, surely you are not yet in your dotage and remember that you’ll have to have your pointe shoes on? Do you need someone to help you with those, amor?”

Juliette made a face at Francesca, who knew all too well that she had never been late to anything in her life and her delay was very much Francesca’s fault to begin with for changing her mind at the last second about the tutu.

Rolling her eyes at the smirking and ribaldry around her, Juliette simply plopped down and opened her bag, pulling out the first pair she’d had Madame Rochefort trim to her customary specifications just yesterday. Breaking in new shoes during opening night was something Juliette never did, preferring to keep three pairs on hand during dress rehearsal and switchingthem out, one after another, thus having all she needed ready to go for the next evening.

Suddenly, several things happened at once.

Katarina all but jumped from behind her and snatched the shoes from her hands, the satin ribbons wrapping themselves around Juliette’s wrist and pulling her closer, bumping them cheek to cheek.

Ninety people laughed in unison at their predicament.

Gabriel called out her name.

And something sticky and warm dripped down her hand and onto her thigh. As she lifted her fingers, still tangled in the ribbons, to touch her smarting cheekbone, blood was all she saw.

Her pristine white leotard, her slippers, the new shoes, were all drenched in crimson. Crimson that continued to gush… from Katarina’s palm.

The laughter died in waves, first the front rows of dancers, the ones who were closer, then those behind them, until the silence was truly deafening, as only the silence of almost one hundred people rocked to their core could be. And in that silence, Katarina’s voice, the same voice that had been so impersonal, so distant and cold all day, was anything but.

“Well, turns out she did need help with her shoes, Madame Bianchi.”

15

OF MINT TEA & BEING KNOWN

Of course, the dress rehearsal was more than just a success. It was, in fact, a success of immense proportions. Standing ovation, encores, flowers, more applause, tears, and the look in Francesca’s eyes that spoke volumes. After two barren years, Paris Opera Ballet had itself a hit. And not merely a hit, a masterpiece.

Yes, the shock of glass-filled shoes and the gushing blood, as well as Thierry being called to the stage to apply the necessary numbing and bandages, all delayed the performance, but once it was delivered?

Still riding the high of a job exceptionally done, of the heavy fear of another failure on her résumé beaten, Juliette, in her stage makeup, sat in Francesca’s office once again. However, other than the setting, the opened windows overlooking Place de l’Opéra and the pigeons sleeping on the windowsill, nothing was the same. If there could be a duality of moods permeating the room, it would be this very moment. Elation and shock.

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