Page 9 of Reverence

“Would the two of you stop scheming and just consider that this is an international scandal? The Brits are still being smacked around by the fallout from Foltin’s defection!”

Juliette waved him away.

“That’s for you to deal with, Monsieur Lalande. For you and for the little men like you. And then, when all is said and done and taken care of, you will sit in the parterre and watch the newSwan Lake, or whatever production Francesca deems suitable, and give a standing ovation from the president’s right. Because it will be amazing, a once-in-a-lifetime show.”

Juliette took a breath and gave him a direct look, their eyes meeting, and she knew she had won.

“The ovations, Monsieur Lalande. It’s what I do. My specialty, if you will. Now it’s your turn. What is it that you do exactly?”

He ground his teeth loudly, the muscles in his jawline working as he glared at her. Then he stormed out of the office.

Juliette had a distinct feeling she had pushed just a bit too hard. Oh well. She would not have gained him as a friend anyway. She didn’t need him as her friend. She needed him to make sure her demands were met, no more and no less, friendships be damned.

In the end, Juliette didn’t have to speak to the president. Lalande came through. The Bolshoi people were incensed, the fallout was immense. Enormous. Whatever measurement came after those to signify how absolutely, terrifyingly, and exhilaratingly big the size of the outcry was.

Juliette reveled in it. Quietly. She and Vyatka sat for hours in Francesca’s office, which was now under guard of several officers of the French police, and waited. They didn’t speak. Juliette had learned early, in the noise box that was her London boarding school, that quiet was a treasure, and Vyatka seemed made for silences.

She stared at nothing, moved very little, and if not for her very stillness, Juliette would have felt completely alone in the confines of the small space.

In contrast, Francesca was a whirlwind of motion, words and gestures every time she came in to relay messages, bring water, and give updates.

“The Soviets are enraged.”

The blonde, perfectly groomed eyebrow arched up again, a gesture so immaculately fitting to the occasion Juliette wanted to admire it for a few hours. She almost asked Vyatka to do itone more time before she caught herself and quickly turned to Francesca to avoid further embarrassment.

“Of course they are. Let them be enraged. They can’t do anything about this anymore. It is entirely out of their hands.”

Juliette could hear the calmness in her own voice even if she wasn’t exactly feeling it. She let her tone project serenity, but the more time passed, the less certainty she felt about the outcome of this operation.

It was starting to slowly dawn on her, the sheer magnitude of the politics she had ventured into. Juliette closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she was met by the perceptive azure gaze. Vyatka was looking directly at her, as if she had been reading her thoughts. Juliette half expected the other ballerina to lick her finger before turning another page of Juliette’s psyche.

She smiled awkwardly, feeling the tips of her lips curl upward slowly, trying to project some sort of assuredness, but Vyatka just looked on, no sign of letting Juliette get away with anything.

Juliette cracked her knuckles and forced herself to not avert her own eyes. After a while, Vyatka moved her gaze away, perhaps a gesture of acquiescence rather than submission, and Juliette slowly exhaled. Maybe she did pass whatever test the Soviet had just been conducting? Maybe she had given the other woman enough reassurance?

Francesca threw her hands up, muttered a few chosen curses in Spanish, and left again in a cloud of anxiety and freshly applied perfume.

Juliette stood and took a few steps toward the dark window. Paris stretched in front of her, the city asleep, the avenue quiet. The witching hour indeed, when things occurred that could never happen in the sharp light of day, in the fantasy-piercing reality of the sun.

So Juliette chose to blame the dream-weaving night on the other side of the cold glass under her fingertips, and without looking at the pale woman behind her, simply uttered, “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

She felt more than heard her own foolish words. And they were foolish. In the darkened window that was now acting like a mirror, Vyatka looked nothing like a damsel needing rescue. If anything, she bore a striking resemblance to the villain of the piece, that arrogant eyebrow up again, the penetrating gaze burning a hole in Juliette’s back.

So her protectiveness wasn’t entirely appreciated. Juliette didn’t mind. It felt out of place anyway. She was a good ten years younger than Vyatka, so of course her presumption would not go over well.

Still, somewhere in her chest, the promise burrowed in and laid its head on her heart, both light as a feather, as it came out so naturally, and heavy as lead, because what the hell was she doing promising something she had no idea how to pull off?

When Vyatka spoke again, the effect of witnessing a miracle still lingered. Juliette wondered if hearing this voice would ever not feel like magic.

“I’m aware they call you the Queen of Paris. Is it true? And does your heavy crown have the power to alter lives?”

Again, Juliette was enthralled by how much of a mystery this woman was. Her days in Paris were engulfed in silences and profanity, if Gabriel was to be believed. In arrogance, in boorishness, general standoffishness, and lacking in the sophistication a prima of her stature was expected to exhibit.

Yet, here she was asking Juliette about the powers of her crown, employing metaphors. The cultured notes of the low voice carried such depths of worldliness that Juliette wondered if she herself could ever match them.

“It’s princess. The French tend to be cavalier with their queens.” Juliette smiled at her own joke, but the dark eyes simply narrowed, and she cleared her throat before adding, “Though, I never once used that term for myself, Mademoiselle Vyatka. Étoile, maybe. After all, Paris Opera Ballet has a special title for its principal dancers. A star. It’s both fitting and overwhelming. As for the royal designation…”

The mesmerizing eyebrow lifted again, either at the trailing off or at the confession, Juliette was not entirely certain, so she forced herself to finish her thought.

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