Eva Ibbotson

“Let me see,” she murmured in a businesslike manner. “March the fifteenth… Nine months. Ha! Only two other ballerinas are invited—that will teach Pavlova to desert her native land. Think of it—all Russia will be en fete for the Tercentenary! The Grand Duke Andrei asked for me specially—he remembered!”

“Ah, dousha, the honor! The distinction of having been asked!” Dubrov was still awash with emotion. “We shall never forget that you were invited… that you could have—”

“What do you mean, could have? Why are you always so pessimistic? Just because I have wrenched my back a little—I have done it a hundred times—and I have told you already that I will not mulch! Now let me see, we will go to Paris, yes, but not to that idiot specialist—to buy clothes! There will be a reception at the Winter Palace without a doubt and several balls. Then straight on to Petersburg to work with Gerdt. No performances, just work, work, work!”

“Galina, I beg of you, be reasonable.” Dubrov was aghast at this new turn of events. “You are severely injured. The doctors—”

“The doctors? Do you think I care about the doctors?” This woman who had not lifted her head from the pillow since her fall had now propped herself up on her elbow and was—incredibly—sitting up! “Send Grisha to me at once, and the masseuse. Chort! I’m as weak as a kitten and no wonder, lying here for two weeks. After Gerdt I shall work with Cecchetti on my port de bras, and if he’s with Diaghilev he must leave him and come to me.” She had pushed back the sheet, put her long, pale legs to the ground. “Ah, to see Masha Repin’s face when she hears of this!”

“Your back!” cried Dubrov in desperation, rushing forward, for she was pulling herself up on the arms of the chair, was actually standing!

“We will no longer discuss my back,” said Simonova regally. Still needing the support of the chair she showed, however, no signs of serious discomfort. “For heaven’s sake, stop fussing, Sasha, and take that stupid stretcher away. How the devil am I supposed to move with it lying there? Now listen, you must immediately send a cable to the Maryinsky to say we accept. And then come back here quickly, because I have had a new idea about the Mad Scene. You know where I bourrée forward and pretend to pick up the flower? Well, I think it would be better if—” She broke off, her charcoal eyes now focused on Harriet. “Ha!” she said.

“Those shoes I gave you yesterday—there is a lot of wear in them still and they are perfectly broken in. Go and get them, please. At once!”

It had already been dark for some time when Harriet made her way quietly up the avenue of jacaranda trees toward the house.

Saying goodbye to her friends had been hard, but she was home and had been really brave living without Rom for nearly two whole days, but now needed to be brave no longer. For as she walked past the acacia with the flycatcher’s nest which Rom had shown her on that first day, crossed the bridge over the igarape, she felt not only the intense joy of the coming reunion but for the first time some confidence in the future. Rom had been so certain that he did not want her to return with the Company, and there had been no further talk of Stavely. There were probably weeks still to be with him, even months—and perhaps the journey back to England. Surely one did not say, “Mon seul désir” in quite that way to a person one intended to part from soon.

What’s more, she had saved at least two extra hours to be with him. Dubrov had insisted on getting the Company aboard early to avoid Simonova exciting herself any further and—coming off the ship after her farewells—Harriet found herself hailed by the Raimondo brothers aboard their rackety launch and offered a lift to Sao Gabriel. She knew the brothers, knew the speed of the Santa Domingo. It had taken her only a few minutes to scribble a note to Furo, due to meet her at the Casa Branca at eight, and dispatch it by a seraphic-looking urchin. Then she had been aboard.

She was approaching the first of the terraces. Light streamed from the downstairs windows of the house and from one window which she had not seen lit up before. Moving quietly, but hurrying now—already in her imagination stretching out her hands to Rom—she began to climb the steps.

Something was standing by the balustrade: a small white shape half-hidden by a stone urn filled with tobacco flowers. Not one of Rom’s tame creatures… A little wraith? A ghost?

Then the wraith gave a squeak of purest joy and ran down the steps into her arms.

“Henry! Oh, Henry—I don’t believe it!”

“It’s honestly me, though!”

They clung to each other, as overjoyed to be together as if they had been lifelong companions instead of having met once in an English garden.

“I knew you would come before I went to sleep; I just knew,” said Henry, his arms tightening around her neck. “I wanted to see you so much!”