Zoya

“Is that it then? You're afraid we'll starve? I'll be sure to order an additional dinner for you tonight, but take my word for it, you are not going on the stage.”

“I am.” She looked at her defiantly for the first time. In the past she had only dared to fight with her mother this way, but she couldn't let her grandmother stop her now. It meant too much to her, and it was their only way out, the only one she could see anyway. She didn't want to work in a shop, or scrub floors, or sew tiny buttons onto men's shirts, or work for a milliner and sew plumes on a hat, and what else was there she could do? Nothing at all. And sooner or later it would come to that. And her grandmother knew it too. “Grandmama, be sensible. You got almost nothing for the ruby necklace you sold. And how much jewelry can we sell? Everyone else here is doing the same thing. Sooner or later one of us has to go to work, and this is the only thing I know how to do.”

“That's ridiculous. First of all, our money has not run out yet, and when it does, we can both get respectable jobs. We both sew decently, I can knit, you can teach Russian or French, or German, or even English if you try a little bit.” They had taught her all those things at the Smolny Institute, along with a great many other niceties that served no purpose whatsoever now. “There is absolutely no reason at all for you to become a dancer like … like …” She was so angry, she almost mentioned the woman Nicholas had been so involved with years before. “Never mind. In any case, Zoya, I shan't allow it.”

“You have no choice, Grandmama.” She spoke with quiet desperation and it was the first time her grandmother had ever seen her like that.

“Zoya, you must obey me.”

“I won't. It's the only thing I want to do. And I want to do something to help you.” Tears filled the older woman's eyes as she looked at her only granddaughter.

“Has it come to this?” In her eyes, it was only a little better than prostitution, but not much.

“What's so terrible about being a dancer? It doesn't shock you that Prince Vladimir drives a taxi. Is that so respectable? Is that so much better than what I want to do?”

“It's pathetic.” Evgenia wheeled on her with broken eyes and a heart that was breaking. “He was an important man only three months ago, and long ago his father was a great one. He is the next best thing to a beggar now … but it's all he has left, Zoya … it's all he can do. It's all over for him, and at least he's alive. Your life is just beginning, and I can't let you begin it that way. You'll be ruined …” She covered her face with her hands and began to sob. “And there's so little I can do to help you.” Zoya was stunned to see her grandmother cry, it was the first time she had ever seen her falter, and it touched her to the core, but she still knew she had to dance with the Ballet Russe, no matter what» She wasn't going to sew or knit or teach Russian.

She put her arms around her grandmother and pulled her close to her. “Please, don't, Grandmama … please don't … I love you so very much …”

“Then promise me you won't dance with them … please, Zoya … I'm begging you … you must not do it.”

She looked at her grandmother sadly then, wise beyond her years. She had grown much too old far too quickly in the past months and there was no turning back now. They both knew that, no matter how hard Evgenia tried to fight it. “My life will never be the same as yours, Grandmama. never again. It's not something you and I can change, we must simply make the best of it. There's no turning back now. Just like Uncle Nicholas and Aunt Alix … they must do whatever they have to. I'm doing that now … please don't be angry. …”

The diminutive Countess sat down in a chair with a look of defeat and stared unhappily up at Zoya. “I'm not angry, I'm sad. And I feel very helpless.”

“You saved my life. You got me out of St. Petersburg … and out of Russia. If it weren't for you, they'd have killed me when they burned the house, or perhaps worse than that … you cannot change history, Grandmama. We can only do our best … and mine is to dance … let me do it … please … please give me your blessing.”

The old woman closed her eyes and thought of her only son and slowly shook her head as she looked at Zoya, but Zoya was right. Konstantin was gone. They all were. What did it matter now? But whatever happened, Evgenia knew that Zoya was going to do what she wanted, and for the first time ever that she could remember, she felt too old and tired to fight her.

“You have my blessing then. But you're a wicked, wicked girl!” She wagged a finger at her and tried to smile through her tears and then suddenly wondered how she could have managed the audition. “How did you ever get the shoes?” Zoya hadn't asked her for a penny since they'd arrived in Paris.

“I bought them.” She grinned mischievously. She was ingenious at least. Her father would have liked that.

“With what?”