Page 26 of Dance of Devils
I mean, she does.
“What do you need, Kir? Maybe I can help.”
She adjusts her long black shawl with the silk fringe along the edges, the fifteen or so silver rings on her fingers glinting in the light.
Everyone, and I do meaneveryone, has a “front” they present to the world. With some—me, for example—that “front” isn’t so much a mask as it is a veneerto cover the rawness, perhaps a touch of monstrousness beneath.
Private school and Oxford taught me the importance of that.
Others wear masks to hide insecurities, fears, or other traits they wish to obscure from the world.
But then there are a few who just…decide to adopt a role andstickto it.
Magda Kuzmina is the poster child for that third one.
Similar to that second group I mentioned, there are parts of her—specifically her past, who her family was, and her journey to get to where she is today—that she has no intention of sharing with anyone.
Anyone.
The only reason I know is I wastherefor some of that journey, and involved with her family and her past, to a certain extent.
Magda’s older brother, Gavriil, was a classmate of mine at Oxford, and—well, it’s a long, bitter story.
But the other “front” Magda presents to the world is that of the “brutal ballet director with a heart of ice, cloaked in black shawls, rings, and mystery”. It creates a shield between the Magda I met many years and tragedies ago and anyone who might try to find that version of her today.
Itworks. The dancers at the Zakharova are mostly terrified of her. And I can’t imagine anyone in their right mind would try and fuck with her.
If they did, of course, I’d find out, and I’d cut them in half. But it’s never been an issue. It doesn’t hurt that she goes out of her way to make herself invisible to men: shapeless black dresses, cloaks, the perennial shawls. Heavy black makeup around her eyes but none on her lips or cheeks. There’s an air of mystique around her—but less a beguiling woman you want to unravel, and more a Roma fortune teller who might curse your cock to fall off.
It also gives her the appearance of beingmucholder than the thirty-four she really is. I’d bet most of her dancers wouldn’t guess that she’s under forty.
For a second, I’m tempted to lie about what’s brought me to her office above the theater today.
Instead, I give the truth without the reason behind it.
“I was looking for your personnel files.”
A dark brow arches inquisitively. “On my dancers?”
I nod.
She considers me a moment before she drifts past me. Sitting at the desk which I’ve just vacated, she opens the lower drawer and pulls out a laptop, opens it, types in a password, clicks on a folder, and turns the screen to me before stepping aside.
“Anyone in particular?”
Magda isfartoo shrewd to be lied to. And she knows me too well for me to try.
“Brooklyn Ellis.”
A faint smile curls the corners of her lips as she glances back at the screen and clicks on one of the subfolders, opening a document.
“I suppose this means you’ve heard from Ivan.”
My brow furrows. “Ivan…?”
Magda gives me a piercing look. “Yelchin.”
Confusion grabs my brain in its fist.
