He stops. He stares. I don’t blame him. After a moment, he ventures, “My lady, you are an excellent dancer. I have seen you waltz on several occasions.”
“Be that as it may”—Does that sound regal? Maybe I’m laying it on too thick—“I, um, I feel a little rusty. I’d like to practice before tonight. You’ll dance with me, won’t you?”
Paul straightens, looking as awkward and unsure as he ever did back home. But he says, “As you wish, my lady.”
“All right. Good. First we need music.” In the corner is an old-timey phonograph machine, complete with one of those fluted trumpet things that used to serve as a speaker. They look easy enough to use in old movies; you drop the record down, crank the handle, and presto.
But when I walk over to it, slippers padding against the thick Persian carpet, I realize this phonograph doesn’t use records. I’m familiar enough with those from Dad’s vinyl collection, but these are . . . cylinders? Made of wax?
I cover my awkwardness as best I can. “Markov, select some music for us.”
He walks smoothly to my side, chooses a cylinder. I watch carefully, so I can do it next time if need be. Then he turns the small crank at the side, and soft, tinny music begins to play, the notes beautiful even through the hiss and crackle of static.
I face Paul, ready to begin, but he says, “The smooth floor would be better, my lady.”
Of course. Dance floors are never carpeted.
So I follow him to the part of the room closest to the windows, where no carpet covers the floor. The squares beneath our feet seem to be striped, so rich are the inlays of different woods. Light from the narrow windows falls softly over us, catching the reddish glint in Paul’s light brown hair.
“If I may, my lady.” He holds his hands out somewhat stiffly—near me but not touching—and I realize that’s what he’s asking. He needs permission to touch me.
I lift my face to his, and I realize . . . he wants to touch me.
Somehow I say, “You may, Markov.”
He takes my right hand in his. My left hand goes to his shoulder—that much I know. His left hand closes around the curve of my waist, warm even through the white silk of my dress.
It’s hard to meet his eyes, but I don’t look away. I can’t.
Then Paul begins to waltz. It’s a simple step—ONE two three, ONE two three—and yet for the first few seconds I’m clumsy with it. Dancing is harder to bluff. But I remember something my mother said once about formal dancing; she said you simply had to follow the man’s lead. You had to surrender to it completely, let him guide you and move you, every second.
Normally I’m not very good at letting anyone else be in charge. But now I give in to it. I let Paul take over.
Now I feel the subtle pressure of his hand on my back—not shoving me around, but gently, gently hinting at which way he’ll turn. Our clasped hands dip together; my posture changes, so that I’m letting him lean me back a little. The leaning and the spinning dizzy me slightly, but that almost helps me. I can surrender to him now. I can stop thinking, stop worrying, and exist only within the dance.
As he recognizes the change, Paul becomes more daring. He whirls me in wider and wider circles. My long skirt spins out around me; I laugh in sheer delight, and am rewarded with his smile. It’s as if my entire body knows exactly how he’s going to move, and we’re dancing with abandon, only for the joy of it. Paul’s hand tightens on my back, pulling me closer . . .
. . . which is when the song ends. We jerk to a halt as the music vanishes. Only static is left behind.
For a moment we stand there, in a dancing pose that has become an embrace. Then Paul lets go of me and takes a step backward. “Your dancing remains excellent, Your Imperial Highness.”
“Thank you, Markov.”
Is that how a princess would behave? Walking away easily from her dancing partner without ever glancing back? I hope so. I sit down at my desk, pretending I can read the letters in front of me, that every part of me isn’t completely, utterly aware of Paul going to once again stand guard at the door.
The way he dances with me—looks at me—I have to understand it. What was there between this dimension’s Marguerite and Lieutenant Markov?
That evening, as I wait for my maids to appear and make me ready for the ball, I go digging through the Grand Duchess Marguerite’s things, looking for . . . love letters, a diary, anything like that. When I see a portfolio case, my heart leaps. She’s an artist too! I’d give anything for my oil paints right now.
But this Marguerite doesn’t paint with oils. She draws.
Pencils and charcoal: those are her tools, discovered in a small leather case. My own intense interest in color and depth isn’t a part of her work in the slightest—instead, she’s drawn to details, to precision. And yet I recognize elements in the work that are like my own.
Here’s Peter, reading a book, his eyebrows slightly raised in fascination—Katya, trying so hard to look grown up that she instead seems slightly ridiculous—