and counsel; while on the other side was a young woman of discernment and grace who need rely on no one but herself.
“Well? What do you think?” asked Sofia shyly.
“I’m speechless,” said the Count with unabashed pride.
“You look magnificent,” said Anna.
“Doesn’t she, though?” said Marina.
Gay with the compliments and the sound of Anna’s applause, Sofia spun once on her feet.
And that is when the Count discovered, to his utter disbelief, that there was no back to the dress. The taffeta (which had been purchased by the bolt, mind you) fell away from her shoulders in a vertiginous parabola that reached its nadir at the base of Sofia’s spine.
The Count turned upon Anna.
“I suppose this was your doing!”
The actress stopped clapping.
“What was my doing?”
He waved his hand in Sofia’s direction.
“This dressless dress. No doubt it was drawn from one of your convenient magazines.”
Before Anna could respond, Marina stomped her foot.
“This was my doing!”
Startled by the seamstress’s tone, the Count saw with some trepidation that while one of her eyes had rolled toward the ceiling in exasperation, the other was bearing down on him like a cannonball.
“It is a dress of my design,” she said, “fashioned from my handiwork for my Sofia.”
Recognizing that he may have unintentionally insulted an artist, the Count adopted a more conciliatory tone.
“It is unquestionably a beautiful dress, Marina. One of the finest I have ever seen; and I have seen many fine dresses in my time.” Here the Count gave an awkward little laugh in the hopes of clearing the air and then continued in a tone of fellowship and common sense. “But after months of preparation, Sofia will be performing Rachmaninov at the Palais Garnier. Wouldn’t it be a pity if, instead of listening to her play, the audience was staring at her back?”
“Perhaps we should drape her in sackcloth,” suggested the seamstress. “To ensure that the audience is not distracted.”
“I would never counsel sackcloth,” protested the Count. “But there is such a thing as moderation, even within the bounds of glamour.”
Marina stomped her foot again.
“Enough! We have no interest in your scruples, Alexander Ilyich. Just because you witnessed the Comet of 1812, does not mean that Sofia must wear a petticoat and bustle.”
The Count began to object, but Anna intervened.
“Perhaps we should hear what Sofia has to say.”
They all looked to Sofia who, oblivious to the course of the debate, was admiring herself in the mirror. She turned and took Marina’s hands.
“I think it’s splendid.”
Marina looked at the Count in triumph; then turning back to Sofia, she tilted her head and studied her handiwork with a more critical eye.
“What is it?” asked Anna, taking up a position beside the seamstress.
“It needs something. . . .”
“A cape?” muttered the Count.
All three women ignored him.
“I know,” Anna said after a moment. Slipping into her bedroom, she returned with a choker that had a sapphire pendant. She handed it to Marina, who fastened it around Sofia’s neck, then the two older women stepped back.
“Perfect,” they agreed.
“Is it true?” asked Anna, as she and the Count walked down the hallway after the fitting.
“Is what true?”
“Did you really see the Comet of 1812?”
The Count harrumphed.
“Just because I am a man of decorum does not mean that I am stodgy.”
Anna smiled.
“You do realize that you just harrumphed.”
“Maybe so. But I am still her father. What would you have me do? Abdicate my responsibilities?”
“Abdicate!” replied Anna with a laugh. “Certainly not, Your Highness.”
The two had reached the point in the hallway where the door to the service stair was hidden in plain sight. Stopping, the Count turned to Anna with the smile of the artificially polite.
“It is time for the Boyarsky’s daily meeting. As a result, I am afraid that I must now bid you adieu.” Then with a nod the Count disappeared behind the door.
Once he was descending the stairs, he felt a sense of relief. With its precise geometry and pervading silence, the belfry was much like a chapel or reading room—a place designed to provide one with solitude and respite. That is, until the door opened and Anna stepped onto the landing.
In a state of disbelief, the Count remounted the stairs.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
“I need to go to the lobby,” she replied. “I thought I’d keep you company on the way down.”
“You can’t keep me company. This is the service stair!”
“But I am a guest in the hotel.”
“That is my point exactly. The service stair is reserved for those who serve. Right down the hallway is a