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“I have just rearranged everything for seventeen,” he said sourly.

“Well, then, rearrange it back again,” answered Dubrov.

Grisha raked her with his coal-black eyes. The height was right—she would fit in with the smaller girls and she didn’t look stupid like some of the others. All the same…

“Which version of Lac is it that you have danced?” he inquired cautiously. “Of Swan Lake? The Petipa-Ivanov? The Sermontoff ?” and as she remained silent, “Not that abomination that Orloffsky has made in Krakov?”

Harriet swallowed. “I have not danced in any of them, Monsieur.”

“Not in any of them?” The ballet master mopped his brow. “You are joking me?”

She shook her head.

“And Casse-Noisette? The last act—which production?”

“No production. I have never danced in Casse-Noisette.”

Grisha sighed and became placatory. Obviously the girl was so nervous she had lost her wits. “In English it is called The Nutcracker. In this ballet you have been a snowflake?”

“No.”

“Or an attendant to the Sugar Plum Fairy?” Grisha continued imploringly. He broke into the “Valse des Fleurs,” revolved, swayed, became an icing-sugar rose.

Harriet shook her head once more and looked beseechingly at Dubrov. But the impresario, who seemed to be enjoying himself, was staring at the ceiling.

“But a Wili?” persisted Grisha desperately. “A Wili in Giselle?” And making a final bid, “A chicken, then? In Fille Mai Gardée, a little chicken?” A broken man, he executed a few rapid and chicken-like échappés.

Harriet lifted her head and in a voice she just managed to hold steady said, “I have never danced on any stage before.”

A strangled sound came from Grisha. “Impossible,” he managed to say. “It is impossible! In five days we leave.”

She made no attempt to entreat or argue, but he saw her bring her small white teeth down on to her lower lip to stop it trembling, and then she bent down to pick up her case.

Grisha swore lustily in Russian. “You have your pointe shoes with you?”

“Yes.”

“Then put them on. And hurry!”

“On the program you will appear as Natasha Alexandrovna,” said Dubrov to Harriet as she sat opposite him in his office, a shawl over her practice dress. “Dancers cannot have English names.”

“Natasha! Oh…” She leaned forward, her eyes alight and on her face the memory still of that terrifying, grueling, awful and marvelous hour she had just spent on stage.

“Why? Because of War and Peace?”

“Yes. I used… oh, to be Natasha, for years and years. It made me so angry with Prince Andrei.”

“Angry!” Dubrov glared at her. “What are you saying? Prince Andrei is the finest portrayal of goodness in our entire literature.”

“Goodness? How can it be good to get someone so ready for love and for life… so absolutely ready—and then just go away and leave them? Like setting them some kind of good conduct exam!”

“An exam which, however, she failed.”

“How could she help failing!” Harriet leaned forward, flushed. “When you are so ready and longing, and the person you love just goes. He didn’t have to go—it wasn’t the war.” She broke off, suddenly aghast at her impertinence; she had never spoken like this in Scroope Terrace. “I’m sorry.”

Dubrov waved away her apology. “Not at all—Smetlikov, one of our critics, takes a very similar view. However, we must get down to business. You will attend class every morning at ten. The rest of the time you will work to learn the corps de ballet roles. There are five days to do this and of course the voyage. It is impossible. You will do it.”

“Yes.”

He looked up, to see again that extraordinary illumination of her face from within which had followed Grisha’s order to put on her dancing shoes. To be told to do the impossible seemed to be all that she desired.

“The tour is extended. We shall go on to Lima and Caracas, so we will be away all summer.” And as she nodded, “Have you somewhere to stay?”

She flushed. “Well, no, not actually. I was wondering if I could sleep in the dressing room just until we sail?”

“Impossible.” He sighed. “I will speak to one of the girls—perhaps Marie-Claude or Kirstin will find room for you in their lodgings. You have money?”

“A little.”

“Good.” He put the tips of his plump fingers together and said reflectively, “Of course, if someone should come here and ask me if I am employing a girl called Natasha Alexandrovna in my corps de ballet, I shall have to say ‘Yes.’ But if they ask me if I am employing a girl called Harriet Morton, that is a different matter. Of such a girl I naturally know nothing!”

“Oh… Thank you!” She paused. “You see, my father… didn’t exactly give me permission.”

“Yes,” said Dubrov heavily, “I gathered this. Perhaps you should tell me…”

Later, meeting Grisha in the corridor, he said, “Well, how is she, my little protegee?”

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