Page 16 of Reverence

“You’re spending a fortune on these calls, Hels.” The nickname slipped from her tongue, the force of habit too strong for her to be able to stop it.

“I worry about you. And I feel guilty for leaving you. Hence, I assuage my feelings with these exorbitant transatlantic calls that bring nothing but old regrets to us both.”

Well, Helena Moore was always honest. To a fault, in fact. The same fault of honesty that had driven them apart at the first real hurdle of their relationship.

“So you’re checking in, for both our sakes? You’ve seen on TV, my day has been pretty full. I do appreciate the concern, Hels. But you know I don’t wilt under the bright lights of the Palais Garnier.” Juliette chewed on her lower lip, wondering when her normal latent irritation with Helena had turned into mild affection. They were the perfect lesbian cliché. Exes and friends.

“Yes, that was spectacularly done. But, lights of the Opera aside, it was still very much unlike you. You never used to claim the moniker, even if half the world says it to your face. I assume you needed to make a statement. And she is pretty.”

Juliette laughed, then remembered that she was not alone in the apartment and quickly lowered her voice.

“C’mon now. We both know she is more than just ‘pretty,’ but that is neither here nor there. She needed help and yes, I needed to make a statement. These people think that if they subjugate one country, they rule everyone everywhere. Well, they don’t rule me. Nobody does. I do as I please.”

There was a sigh on the line, and Juliette belatedly realized what she had said. No, Helena had never wanted to actually rule her, but a little cooperation on Juliette’s part would have gone along way toward averting a rather bleak end to a beautiful three-year relationship.

“How did Francesca take it?”

Juliette was grateful for the slight change of angle, if not of subject.

“Fine. She is gaining one of the brightest stars in the ballet sky. So she will have to figure out how to corral her into the fold without stepping on anyone’s toes.”

“Your toes?”

Juliette, in the process of rolling down her stockings one-handed, stopped. The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind.

“We’re not the same, Hels. And the season is long. I can’t dance all the leads anyway.”

Even to her own ears, her words sounded weak. Should she have considered that the addition of one of the best ballerinas in the world—one whose talent rivaled only Juliette Lucian-Sorel herself—to the company would have a direct impact on the Prima Assoluta? Probably.

Helena gave voice to the next thought before it even properly materialized in Juliette’s mind.

“Either way, Jett, it’s done now. And you’re right, the two of you are not the same. From everything I’ve seen of her, and I saw her inSleeping Beautyon a bootleg tape smuggled from Moscow, she is your exact opposite. You’re like light and dark, and not only due to your coloring.”

Juliette held her breath, waiting for her ex’s next words. Helena Moore had once been a very promising ballerina in her own right. In fact, they had met at the London academy first, before Helena decided that her real calling was psychology. Their paths had diverged for years, and they only reconnected when Helena surprised Juliette at the back door of Palais Garnier after the season opener. She was pursuing her master’s at the Sorbonne at the time.

They had been inseparable for three years. Then Helena received an invitation to pursue a PhD and teach at Columbia, and for some reason she was absolutely certain that Juliette would simply pack her things and follow her to New York.

Except, Juliette entertained no such ideas and was in turn absolutely certain Helena Moore would choose to do her PhD at Sorbonne University and stay with her.

Well, it turned out their absolute certainty was worthless. They were both wrong. Bitterly so. And for the past twelve months, Helena had been making these ridiculous calls. They talked about nothing, and certainly not about not loving each other enough to alter their own lives for the sake of the couple they once formed.

But Helena was still one of the most trusted voices in Juliette’s head. Something wooden fell down on the other end of the line, and Juliette smiled. Chess and ballet. Not much changed with Helena.

“Are you playing by yourself again?”

Helena chuckled. “I’m merely lining the pieces. I have a new set. Trying to see how this entire ordeal of yours plays out. You put a target on your back, White Queen. And not just by embracing the Black Queen.”

“Coloring-wise, your metaphor doesn’t work, you know. Blonde, brunette, it’s the other way around. And are you saying I should be wary of her?” It sounded surreal to even put it into words. Katarina seemed entirely detached from everything around her. And she was still Juliette Lucian-Sorel. And the much-detested crown was hers.

“I don’t know, dearest. Metaphors aren’t the point here. Watch your back. Though I’m sure Francesca does more than watch it.” With that parting shot, even though it did not hit its target in the slightest, Helena hung up. Very carefully, as if the phone would shatter in her hand at any moment, Juliette placedit back on the hooks and then just sat on the still-made bed, listening to the city falling asleep around her.

The darkness blanketed the street outside, not unlike a comforter, one of calm and ease. It was her favorite time of the night, a few hours before it would slowly morph into twilight. The moment felt magical, as if anything was possible, as if reality was split in halves of fables and myths. She got up and slowly made her way toward the open window.

A stone’s throw away, the impregnable walls of the Louvre Palace held secrets and treasures. In the distance, the Tour Saint-Jacques speared the night sky, its stark height and Gothic appearance in contrast with the modern mortar of Rue de Rivoli. In front of her, past the Tuileries, the river stitched the two banks of the City of Light like a ribbon piecing together a broken costume. The city that had lived through the plague, conquests, revolutions, war, occupation, and more war was at her feet, deceptively tranquil and quiet.

And then in that very quiet, Juliette heard a tiny sound, one that did not belong to the night, nor to the city. It was coming from her own apartment. A sob. Heavy silence followed the echo of misery.

Juliette almost took off in the direction of the spare bedroom, yet a moment later the oppressive silence was broken by barely audible footsteps, and to her left Juliette saw Katarina step fully onto the small balcony. The slim hands—blue rivulets of the veins, the only color on alabaster skin—reached beyond the rail, extending palms up into the night, and Juliette realized it was raining. The hands were now getting splashed by raindrops, and from her vantage point, her companion unaware of her presence, Juliette could tell that while the water on the long fingers was all rain, the angular face was tear-stained.

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