Page 42 of Reverence

When only the wind could be heard outside, she finally lifted her eyes to Katarina, who was now the one smiling. If a tiny crook of the left corner of her mouth could be called that.

“When I was a girl, I dreamt of France. My father had traveled the world and Paris was his favorite city. He’d talk about the language, even if he never taught me French, about the people whose rudeness he found funny and refreshing. You’d never have this scene in Moscow. Or in Tallinn, for that matter.”

“You’re from Tallinn?”

Juliette wanted to swallow her words. Why oh why did she have to be so nosy? This was one of the most personal bits of herself Katarina was sharing with her, and she couldn’t even stop herself from asking questions. She shook her head, but Katarina’s smile just widened.

“Yes. I am from Tallinn. My mother was Estonian, my father Ukrainian. Hence the last name. And while it’s not a secret, since neither the first nor the last name are exactly Russian sounding, Bolshoi has never openly acknowledged my motherland. Andyou know how big that entire country and its propaganda machine are on the concept. They even have a saying, ‘My address is not a house, nor a street, my address is Soviet Union.’ You aren’t Estonian, or Ukrainian, or Armenian, or Moldovan. You are Soviet. Your identity, your culture is stripped away.”

The smile lost its warmth and was all bitterness. But when she spoke again, Katarina’s voice was neutral. Practiced.

“They wanted to change my name. Ekaterina Vyatkina. Now, that is very Russian. I refused. It was my one and only act of rebellion. And the first time I got glass in my pointe shoes, Juliette.”

Damn, talk about full circle. When Katarina didn’t add anything, Juliette knew the walk down memory lane was over. And it might as well have been paved with those shards, because Katarina’s eyes were swimming in tears.

“You mentioned you lied?” Even as she asked, Juliette felt an absolute fool. Surely, she was smarter than this. Why was this woman always reducing her intellect to the level of a turnip? Yes, change the subject, but maybe avoid the glass again since it was clearly a painful memory?

Katarina answered without hesitation, and after a blink, like magic, her eyes were dry once more.

“There was plenty of time to tell you I thought someone crushed glass in your shoes. I lied to that overgrown jackass minister about that. I wanted the entire company to bear witness.”

Juliette’s eyes widened.

“But why?”

“Because sabotage of this magnitude, as inept as the execution was, should never remain in the shadows. Mine was always hidden, my wounds bandaged, my absence explained with lies, to make everyone else feel comfortable.” Katarinastood up, taking her mug to the sink. A quick rinse and she placed it on the drying rack.

When she turned back to Juliette, the usually composed features were filled with something akin to rage. There was no other way to describe it.

“I wanted them very uncomfortable, Juliette. All these people around you, in your life, in your bed, and yet none of them has any damn sense to keep you safe. I don’t care if you’re angry with me. I see that you are.” Juliette didn’t know what she was exactly, the emotion too complex to pinpoint with any accuracy, but the blows just kept coming. To her pride. To her heart.

Katarina dismissed her attempt to speak with a lift of her chin and went on. “This is the second time someone felt very confident in going after you, brazen even. Why? Because secrets and shadows breed that very brazenness. It was time to let them all know that hunting season on Juliette Lucian-Sorel is over.”

Juliette blinked, her breaths, her anger, coming out in shallow puffs of air, and when she opened her eyes, she was alone with all the revelations, awash in pink light.

16

OF LOVE & BALLET

The people in her life? The women in her bed?

Okay, so the sentiment was nice, protective even, and it was true that Juliette had rarely been the subject of anyone’s protectiveness. Helena was too cerebral for that, and Francesca tended to forget they had been lovers unless it suited her in one way or another.

But the gall to jump to all those conclusions. And to make it sound like Juliette had been sleeping around, when she had practically been a fucking saint. A nun! She had not had anyone since before the summer. Fine, so maybe there had been that woman in Monaco. Who cared? Katarina didn’t even know she existed. Hell, Juliette herself had forgotten her entirely, including her name.

In the span of one day, Katarina Vyatka had saved Juliette’s feet, signaled to everyone she was off-limits for sabotage, showed her that she knew her and understood her, shared a piece of her own past—something previously unheard of—and then insulted her to her very face.

Juliette would not take this. Not standing, not sitting, not lying down, not in any other way.

She had tossed and turned all night, consumed by her own foolishness—she had no other word for it. Katarina clearly didn’t see her as mature, smart, discerning, or virtuous. Yet there she was, delivering swoon-worthy statements about the exact way Juliette liked her tea.

Damn her.

She left the apartment before sunrise, wandering the streets, aware that showing up too early at Garnier would earn her suspicious looks. And Juliette did not want the attention her status placed on her. She was Prima Assoluta, Étoile, but for once, she wished she was a corps girl.

The familiar street corner with its mainstay flower lady, Madame Broussard, beckoned. And yet Katarina’s words came back to her.

“All you want is for the lady to like you. She does. Begrudgingly, but she does.”

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