Page 90 of Dance of Deception

Brooklyn and Vaughn pause, glancing at me.

Kuzmina barely misses a beat. “You two can go,” she says simply.

Vaughn lifts a brow, but Brooklyn nudges him, pushing him toward the dressing rooms.

Crap. Madame Kuzmina isn’t someone who just summons people without reason.

She moves down the aisle a few rows, still barely lit by the stage lights. She raises one of her hands and beckons.

“Come.”

I nod, quickly stepping to the edge of the stage and clambering down before making my way to her.

Madame Kuzmina has a way of coming off as ancient, like she’s a witch who's mastered time spells or something. But in reality, she’s not actually that old. Gun to my head, I’d have to say mid-to-late thirties.

She’s perpetually dressed in dark shawls, adding to her vibe of a Roma fortune teller, or a witch. But up close, she’s got an elegant edge. Her features are sharp, but there’s a shrewd beauty to her, with dark eyes that seem to be constantly assessing.

“M-madame?” I ask with a nervous smile.

She just nods her chin. “Follow me.”

She turns and walks away. I swallow uncomfortably, wiping my damp palms on my leotard, and follow.

I’ve never beenin Madame Kuzmina’s private study in the three years I’ve been dancing with the Zakharova. I don’t know ifanyonein the company has.

The room is dark, old-world elegant, the air thick with the scent of aged paper and faded perfume. Behind her desk, a bank of windows overlooks the upper orchestra seats and the stage below.

Posters of legendary ballet productions line the walls, alongside framed black-and-white photos of dancers frozen in action.

A piano sits in the corner, its black lacquered surface gleaming in the dim light. Shelves upon shelves of vinyl records fill the space, meticulously categorized.

Madame Kuzmina gestures toward a chair.

“Please, sit,” she purrs in her slightly Russian accent.

I do so, back ramrod straight, hands clasped in my lap.

There’s a pause.

I finally break the silence. “Why did you wish to talk to me, Madame?”

Kuzmina arches a brow fiercely.

“Ididn’t.”

I blink. “What?”

She turns, moving toward the door, then opens it, and I jump to my feet when a man I know walks in.

“Thank you, Magda,” Kir Nikolayev murmurs, his deep, smooth voice laced with authority.

Madame Kuzmina nods quietly to him before turning to let her eyes sweep over me impassively. Then she closes the door behind her, leaving us alone.

For a moment, the room is silent. Kir stands by the door in a dark gray suit, his piercing eyes appraising me. Then, with a nod, he moves across the room, sweeping past me to sit in Madame Kuzmina’s chair across the desk from me. He settles back, clearly waiting for me to sit as well. When I do, he clears his throat.

“It’s been some time, hasn’t it, Lyra?”

Kir’s voice is smooth, like a blade dragging along silk. I grip the arms of the chair, my pulse skipping painfully in my neck.

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