The Firebird

‘And now,’ she said, ‘we move directly to the dance, when the first note presents itself. You go round that way, I go this, and we meet at the top of the room. No, you don’t simply walk, sir, you do the step … there you are.’

When they had met, Edmund looked down expectantly, waiting for his next instruction.

‘Now offer your right hand,’ said Anna. ‘Up higher, that’s right.’

Her own hand, though not tiny, felt small when resting in his larger one. His hard palm rasped her skin, but the touch was more gentle than she’d have expected, the weight of his thumb resting over her knuckles deliberately careful.

‘And now we dance this way,’ she said, ‘in a line. Some men here do a hop, or a bound …’ Edmund angled his dark gaze to hers, only briefly, and Anna conceded, ‘And some men do not.’

As directed, he let go her hand at the place where she told him, and both slowly danced to their opposite corners and back again, passing each other by twice at the centre of their makeshift dance floor.

The proper form, dancing with partners, she knew, was to keep your face always towards them, so that you looked always towards your left shoulder, thus giving a graceful and eye-pleasing line to the dance for the spectators watching; because, when two people were dancing the minuet, everyone else cleared the dance floor and stood round to give them an audience.

But there was nobody watching them here. And a good thing, she thought, because dancing with Edmund O’Connor was having a most strange effect on her. Maybe it came from the scent of the lilacs, or from the air softening round them as twilight came on, or the spell of the music, or simply the way that he looked in his blue velvet coat, darkly elegant. Dangerous. Anna was not sure of anything, really, except that the ground was beginning to feel much less solid beneath her than when they had started the dance.

He danced well, with an easy grace, naturally turning in time with the motions, his steps crossing over when custom required, but with none of the flourishes some men employed. When his hands moved they did not bend soft at the wrists but remained always strong, as did he, and when she led him into the circling approach that would see them both meet at the middle, she felt unaccountably nervous.

He did as she’d told him and lifted his arm as a warning that he was about to present his right hand, which he did in one motion, extending his elbow and taking her own hand and holding it as they completed the turn.

Some men removed their hats at this stage, smoothly with their left hands, and replaced it all in rhythm with the dance. He left his on, so that its shadow fell across his eyes, but still she saw them, and her world for that one moment seemed reduced to their brown depths. In time with the dance he let go of her hand and their arms fell again to their sides, leaving only their eyes locked upon one another’s as their turning steps brought them closer than they’d been before.

Anna faltered, forgetting to give him directions for what to do next, but he told her, ‘I think I remember the rest of it.’

And with a wink he swung round again, moving without her instructions, too expertly for this to be the first time he had danced this particular dance. When they met in the middle again and he offered his left hand, she tried to rebuke him.

‘You lied to me, sir.’

‘How is that?’

‘You said you could not dance the minuet.’

His eyes were darkly warm on hers. ‘I said I did not dance it. Never that I could not.’

They were separated by the dance’s steps again, and for those moments Anna sought to gain her inward balance, only to lose it again when they met at the middle the final time. This time he held both her hands as they turned, and then stopped, without warning, and stood looking down at her.

Anna said, ‘Mr O’Connor …’

‘The music has stopped.’

So it had. She had not even noticed, but now, in this part of the garden, the silence seemed suddenly thick with unspoken things. Anna would have tugged her hands free, but he held them fast.

She raised her chin and said, ‘You cheat, Mr O’Connor.’

‘When it suits my needs.’

‘What need could you have had,’ she asked, ‘to dance with me?’

He smiled a little in the shadows. Then as he was wont to do, he turned her own words back at her, replying as she’d done when he had asked her why she’d searched him out that evening in the meadow. ‘Truly, I have no idea. But,’ he added, ‘when I’ve got it sorted, you will be the first to know.’

He loosed her hands, and let her pull them free this time, and Anna took a step back, gaining breathing space as she heard someone coming down the path behind them. Several someones, actually, men’s muffled voices mingling with the rustle of a woman’s skirts.

She saw the change in Edmund’s face and turned herself, uncertainly, then dropped into her deepest curtsey as the woman leading the procession stopped, and smiled.

‘Good evening, Anna Niktovna,’ said Empress Catherine.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Anna, still bent low, could see the full black skirts and petticoat of Empress Catherine’s gown, for while the other guests had put off mourning by her own command, she had herself remained in black, although she wore a lovely new white headdress as a show of celebration for the day.

Behind the Empress, other skirts and several men’s legs had all stopped as well. Aware of all the eyes upon her, Anna replied in the same formal Russian the Empress had used. ‘Your Imperial Majesty, may I offer my congratulations on your daughter’s happy marriage?’