Zoya

“I am.” He was one of his aides-de-camp, but he spared her the details. “Have you been with the Ballet Russe for long?” It couldn't have been very long, he suspected that she was a very young girl, although she had a great deal of poise as they switched from French to English finally. She spoke it very well, after her studies at the Smolny Institute.

“I've been with them for a month.” She smiled at him. “Much to my grandmother's chagrin.” She laughed and looked suddenly even younger.

“Your parents must be very proud of you.” But he instantly regretted the remark as he saw the sadness in her eyes.

“My parents were killed in St. Petersburg … in March….” She almost whispered the words and suddenly he understood. “I live with my grandmother.”

“I'm sorry … about your parents, I mean …” The flash of blue eyes nearly made her cry again. It was the first time she had said the words to anyone. Her fellow dancers knew little about her, but for some reason she felt she could say anything to him. He reminded her in an odd way of Konstantin, the same elegance, the graceful way he moved, the dark hair shot with gray, and the brilliant eyes. “You came here with your grandmother?” He didn't know why, but he was fascinated by her. She was so young and so beautiful, with those big sad green eyes.

“Yes, we came two months ago … from … after …” But she couldn't go on, and he came and gently tucked her hand into his arm.

“jLet's go for a walk, shall we, mademoiselle?” She felt safe with her hand in his arm. “And then perhaps a glass of champagne.” They wandered to the Rodin statue and back, talking about Paris, the war, subjects that were less painful to her, and then with a smile she looked up at him.

“And where are you from?”

“New York.” She had never thought too much about the United States. It all seemed terribly far away.

“What's it like?”

He laughed as he looked down at her. “Big, busy. Not as pretty as this, I'm afraid. But I like it there.” He wanted to ask her about St. Petersburg, but sensed that this wasn't the time or the place. “Do you dance every day?”

“Almost.” And then she laughed up at him. “Until tonight's performance, I was enjoying a week off.”

“And what do you do then … in your spare time?”

“I go for walks with my grandmother, I write to friends, read … sleep … play with my dog.”

“It sounds like a pleasant life. What kind of dog do you have?” They were silly questions, but he wanted to keep her close to him, and he wasn't sure why. She was clearly half his age, but so beautiful, it tore at his heart.

“A cocker spaniel.” She smiled. “She was a gift from a very dear friend.”

“A gentleman?” He looked intrigued and she laughed.

“No, no! A girl! My cousin, in fact.”

“Did you bring the dog from Russia with you?” He was fascinated by her as she bent her head, the cascade of fiery red hair hiding her eyes.

“Yes, I did. I'm afraid she made the journey rather better than I did. I arrived in Paris with measles,” She looked up at him again and grinned, looking once again like a child. “Stupid of me, wasn't it?” But nothing about her seemed that to him, and then he suddenly realized he didn't even know her name.

“Not at all. Do you suppose we ought to introduce ourselves?”

“Zoya Ossupov.” She curtsied prettily, and looked up at him.

“Clayton Andrews. Captain Clayton Andrews, I suppose I should have said.”

“My brother was a captain too … with the Preobrajensky Guard. I don't suppose you've ever heard of them.” She looked up at him expectantly, and once again he saw her eyes grow sad. Her moods seemed to change with lightning speed, and as he looked at her for the first time he understood why people said the eyes were the windows of the soul. Hers seemed to lead one into a magic world of diamonds and emeralds and unshed tears, and he wanted to make her happy again, to make her dance and laugh and smile.

“I don't know very much about Russia, I'm afraid, Miss Ossupov.”

“Then we're even.” She smiled again. “I don't know anything about New York.”

He walked her back inside the main ballroom then and brought her a glass of champagne as the others danced the waltz.

“Would you like to dance?”

She seemed to hesitate, and then nodded. He set her glass down on a table nearby, and led her onto the floor in a slow and dignified waltz, and once again she felt as though she were dancing in her father's arms. If she closed her eyes, she would be back in St. Petersburg … but his voice broke into her thoughts.

“Do you always dance with your eyes closed, mademoiselle?” He was teasing her and she smiled up at him. It felt good to be in his arms, good to be dancing with a tall, powerful man … on a magical night … in a beautiful house …

“It's just so lovely here … isn't it?”