Danielle Steel - Zoya

“What's that for?”

“Grandmama, it's for you,”

“We don't need it yet.” But the bare walls around them and the ugly green rug told another tale. Everything they had was threadbare and worn, and they both knew that the money from the ruby necklace would be gone soon. There were more jewels, of course, but not enough to support them forever. “Is this truly what you want to do?” Evgenia asked sadly, and Zoya gently touched her cheek, and then kissed it.

“Yes, Grandmama … it was beautiful today.” It was just like her dream of dancing with the students at the Maryinsky, and she wrote to Marie that night, a long, brave letter that told her everything except about the small dreary apartment. She sat in the tiny sitting room long after her grandmother had gone to bed, and told her of the people they'd seen, and what Paris was like, and the excitement of dancing with the Ballet Russe. She could almost see Marie smile as she wrote it. She directed the letter to Dr. Botkin at Tsarskoe Selo and hoped that it would reach Marie before too long. It made her feel closer to her just to write it.

The following day she went back to rehearsal again, and that night there was an air raid. The three of them went to the cellar beneath the building, and then walked slowly back upstairs when it was over. It was a reminder of the war that raged nearby, but Zoya wasn't afraid. All she could think of now was her dancing.

Prince Markovsky was often there when Zoya got home. He always had stories to tell, and he frequently had brought her little cakes, and fresh fruit whenever he could find it. He even brought them one of the few treasures he still had, a priceless icon that her grandmother didn't want to accept, but he insisted. Evgenia knew only too well how desperately they all needed the things they could sell, but Markovsky only waved an elegantly veined hand with long graceful fingers and told them he had more than enough for the moment. His daughter already had a job teaching English.

And the night of her first performance they were all there, in the third row. Zoya had bought the tickets for them with her wages. Only Feodor didn't come. He was proud of her as well, but the ballet was beyond his ken, and Zoya brought him a program, with her name in tiny print near the bottom. Even her grandmother had been proud of her, though she had cried with bittersweet sorrow when she first saw her. She would have preferred anything than to see her own granddaughter on the stage like a common dancer.

“You were marvelous, Zoya Konstantinovna!” The Prince toasted her with champagne he had brought when they went back to the apartment. “We were all so proud of you!” He smiled happily at the young girl with the flaming hair, despite an austere glance and a sniff from his daughter. She thought it shocking that Zoya had become a dancer. The two had never met before, and she was a tall, spare girl with all the earmarks of a spinster. Life in Paris was excruciating for her. She hated the children she taught English to, and it was embarrassing beyond words to see her father drive a taxi. But Zoya shared none of her prim views. Her eyes seemed to blaze with excitement. There was a warm flush on her cheeks, as her fiery hair fell from the bun she had worn and cascaded like flames past her shoulders. She was a beautiful girl, and the excitement of the night seemed only to have enhanced her beauty.

“You must be tired, little one,” the Prince said kindly as he poured the last of the champagne.

“Not at all.” Zoya beamed and pranced around the room on feet that still wanted to dance. It was so much easier than rehearsal had been. It had been everything she'd always dreamed, and more. “I'm not even a little bit tired.” She smiled and then giggled as she took another sip of the champagne he had brought, as Yelena, his daughter, looked on disapprovingly. Zoya wanted to stay up all night and tell them the tales of backstage. She needed to talk about it with people who cared.

“You were fabulous!” he said again, and Zoya grinned. He was so serious and so old, but he seemed to care about her. In a way she wished her father had been there, although it would have broken his heart to see her on the stage … but perhaps, secretly, he might have been proud of her … and Nicolai … tears filled her eyes at the thought, and she set down her glass and turned away, to walk to the window and stare at the gardens outside. “You look lovely tonight,” she heard Vladimir whisper at her side, and she turned to look up at him as he saw the tears shimmer in her eyes. Her lithe body was so young and strong. He ached with desire for her and it shone in his eyes, as she took a step away from him, suddenly aware of what she hadn't noticed before. He was even older than her father had been and she was shocked at what she thought she saw in his eyes now.

“Thank you, Prince Vladimir,” she said quietly, suddenly sad at how desperate they all were, how hungry for love, and some shred of the past they could still share. In St. Petersburg, he would never have looked at her twice, she would have been nothing more than a pretty child to him, but now … now they were clinging to a lost world, and the people they had left behind there. She was nothing more than a way of continuing the past. She wanted to tell Yelena that as she stiffly said good night to them.

Zoya thought of Prince Vladimir again as she undressed and waited for her grandmother to return from the bathroom down the hall.

“It was nice of him to bring us champagne,” her grandmother said as she brushed her hair, her lace nightgown framing her face and making her seem younger in the dim light. She had been beautiful once, and the two women's eyes were almost the same as they met and held. Zoya wondered if she knew that Vladimir was attracted to her. His hand had touched hers as they left, and he held her too close when he kissed her on the cheek.

For a long moment, Zoya didn't answer her. “Yelena seems so sad, doesn't she?”

Evgenia nodded and set her brush down with a solemn air. “She was never a happy child, as I recall. Her brothers were far more interesting, more like Vladimir.” She remembered the handsome one who had asked for Tatiana's hand. “He's a nice man, don't you think?”

Zoya turned away for a moment and then turned back to look at her honestly. “I think he likes me, Crandmama … too much …” She faltered on the words and Evgenia frowned.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that he …” Her face blushed furiously in the soft light and she looked like a child again. “That he … he touched my hand tonight….” It seemed stupid to have to explain it now … maybe it didn't mean anything.

“You're a pretty girl, and perhaps you bring back memories for him. I think he was very fond of your mama, and I know he was close to Konstantin when they were young. They hunted with Nicholas more than once … don't be too sensitive, Zoya. He means well. And it was nice of him to come to see you tonight. He's just being kind, little one.”

“Perhaps,” Zoya said noncommittally as they turned off the light and slipped into the narrow bed they shared. In the dark, Zoya could hear Feodor snoring in the next room, as she drifted off to sleep, thinking of how magical the performance had been.

But the next morning, she was sure that Vladimir wasn't just being kind. He was waiting for her downstairs, when she left for rehearsal again.

“Would you like a ride?” She was surprised to see him there, and he was carrying flowers for her.

“I don't want to put you out … it's all right.” She would rather have walked to the Châtelet. He was suddenly making her uncomfortable the way he looked at her. “I like to walk.” It was a beautiful day, and she was excited to be going to rehearsal again. The Ballet Russe was the happiest thing in her life these days, and she didn't want to share it with anyone, not even the handsome white-haired Prince who stood so gallantly holding white roses out to her. They only made her feel sad. Marie had always given her white roses in the spring, but he couldn't have known that. He knew nothing about her at all, he was her parents’ friend, not hers, and it suddenly depressed her to see him standing there, his jacket worn, his collar frayed. Like everyone else, he had left everything behind, and escaped with his life, a few jewels, and the icon he had given them a few days before. “Perhaps it would be nice if you called on Grandmama.” She smiled politely at him, and he looked hurt.