Page 31 of Reverence

“How could you possibly…” The adrenaline rush having fizzled out, Juliette was in pain and quite angry at herself, first for being emotional enough to run away from her own rehearsal—not to mention in pointe shoes—and then for not watching where she was running to. And of all the people’s help to accept upon coming back to her senses, for it to be Katarina? The one who caused her to—What did Gabriel just say?

“Okay, so yes, I was thinking exactly what you think I was. Granted.”

“Thank you.” Gabriel smiled and then shrank back from her slap on his bicep. “Ouch, what did I do to deserve this?”

“You don’t have to do anything to deserve anything, Gabriel. You get everything for free. Love, hate, blowjobs, slaps.”

Francesca came closer even as Juliette almost gagged on her words, and Gabriel made a valiant attempt to not laugh. Her hand on Juliette’s leg was much less gentle than his. She tsked, looked her up and down, then tsked again. Thierry returned with a first aid kit and a big leather doctor’s bag.

“I’d rather you fuss over her knee, Thierry. Her face and hands aren’t of the highest importance to me.”

“That’s not what you said way back when.” Juliette’s attempt at humor fell flat, and so did Francesca’s admonition, because Thierry went straight to dabbing her mouth with a piece of gauze and Juliette hissed again, this time from the alcohol.

“Is this really necessary?” Her lip felt on fire, and speaking was not easy with the cotton in the way.

“Yes, it is. Francesca here may not care about the most beautiful face in all of France, though I suggest she reconsider that based on her history, but I do care about infection.” Thierry’s steady hands worked as he spoke.

“I thought you said I had the most beautiful face in all of France?” Gabriel actually pouted, and Thierry laughed. If the remark didn’t serve as a huge neon sign that these two had crossed a few professional lines, then the laughter and lack of denial sealed it. Thierry had a bit of a reputation, but Gabriel had sworn that he trusted him. Juliette reasoned that she would have to as well.

As her mind wandered, the people around her kept making a lot of noise. Gabriel and Francesca bickered, and Thierry was still talking to her.

“I’m concerned about a possible cheekbone fracture and concussion. Can you look at me?”

Juliette did, and he poked and prodded at her cheek and forehead, all the while rubbing at her bleeding lip.

To distract herself from the stinging, Juliette pulled Gabriel’s sleeve.

“You were saying?”

He patted her knee again before settling down more comfortably on the floor next to her.

“She was with me, we were rehearsing our pas de deux. Then there was a commotion in the hallway and people were screaming, ‘Juliette, Juliette,’ and she was out of the studio like Operation Barbarossa had been declared and the enemy was marching on Moscow. I’ve never seen her move so fast. She beat me to you by a good two—three minutes.”

Francesca tsked a third time. “Why is this even important? So there was ice? So what?”

Both Juliette and Gabriel turned to face her, and she shrugged her shoulders before giving them the customary wave.

“I was in my office, about to join those two for their rehearsal, then all I heard were the screams, and by their volume you’d think someone was dead. And now we have this.” She pointed at Juliette, palm up, and then tapped her foot on the floor. When neither Gabriel nor Juliette said anything, she rolled her eyes. “We have my prima injured and set to miss the opening night!”

Juliette and Gabriel’s twin gasps were almost comical in synchronicity, and only Thierry’s firm “She won’t” seemed to bring everyone back to the present and away from the spiraling hysterics.

“Now, Francesca, I understand that dramatics are in your blood, but could you please keep a tighter rein on your Argentinian horses?” Thierry, clearly satisfied with what he’d done to Juliette’s face, had moved on to her leg and was stretching it out. The maneuvers were largely painless, and Juliette managed to exhale as he continued.

“Unless you count her gorgeous, gorgeous visage being black and blue an impediment, the Princess of Paris will be there for the opening night ofQuixote.” Thierry bent and extended Juliette’s leg to prove his point. “She doesn’t have a concussion, from what I can tell, though if she suddenly develops headaches or balance issues, we will know differently. And her knee is probably fine, though it may be sore for a bit. The abrasions on her hands will be gone in a day or two. So basically, you dodged a serious injury. Still, how can you consider the mangling of this face not serious?”

He smiled and patted her on the uninjured cheek before taking a step back, making room for Francesca to come closer. However, she didn’t, and Juliette looked at her, confused. When Francesca spoke, her words were anything but comforting.

“My entire season is hinging on you being okay, Jett. And you develop an affinity for stepping on ice?”

“Is this what passes for your bedside manner, Madame Bianchi?”

Juliette blamed her fall and subsequent discombobulation for knowing with absolute certainty that Katarina Vyatka was about to enter the room before she did so. The air changed, chilled. Juliette could have sworn that if she exhaled, her breath would come out as condensation. And there she was, walking straight, her shoulders proudly thrown back, no sign of a limp or favoring of the calf that had troubled her earlier. The Empress of Moscow had arrived to bestow her attention on poor little Juliette.

For once—and Juliette would choose to ruminate later on the reasons behind this very “once”—she did not mind the arrogance or the condescension. Katarina walked in, and while the air cooled, Juliette’s chest grew warm.

“Mademoiselle Vyatka, as I asked the rest of the company, they are to return to work?—”

“Madame Bianchi, I am—for better or worse—not exactly a welcome part of said company and here in Paris, as Americans say, by the grace of you and God, wouldn’t you agree? And I know you would, since you revel in reminding me of that all the time.” Katarina’s smile was positively evil. Poison dripping from those full lips, she stepped into the space Thierry had vacated and Francesca had decided not to occupy.

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