shook her head as she looked at Zoya, but Zoya was right. Konstantin was gone. They all were. What did it matter now? But whatever happened, Evgenia knew that Zoya was going to do what she wanted, and for the first time ever that she could remember, she felt too old and tired to fight her.
“You have my blessing then. But you're a wicked, wicked girl!” She wagged a finger at her and tried to smile through her tears and then suddenly wondered how she could have managed the audition. “How did you ever get the shoes?” Zoya hadn't asked her for a penny since they'd arrived in Paris.
“I bought them.” She grinned mischievously. She was ingenious at least. Her father would have liked that.
“With what?”
“I sold my watch. It was ugly anyway. One of my classmates gave it to me for my name day.” And with that, Evgenia could only laugh at her. She was a remarkable girl, and the old woman loved her even more than she knew, outrageous though she was.
“I suppose I should be grateful you didn't sell mine.”
“Grandmama! What a thing to say! I would never do a thing like that!” She tried to look hurt but they both knew she wasn't.
“God only knows what you would do … I shudder to think!”
“You sound like Nicolai….” Zoya smiled sadly when she said the words, and their eyes met and held. It was a whole new world for them, filled with new principles, new ideas, new people … and a new life for Zoya.
CHAPTER
11
Her first rehearsal with the Ballet Russe on the eleventh of May was absolutely killing. It ended at ten o'clock that night, and Zoya came back to the apartment exhilarated but so tired, she could barely move. Her feet had actually bled as she went over the pas de deux and the tours jetés again and again and again. It made her years with Madame Nastova look like child's play.
Her grandmother was waiting up for her in the tiny living room. They had moved into the apartment two days before, and had bought a small couch, and several small tables. There were lamps with ugly fringes, and a green rug with gloomy purple flowers. Gone the Aubussons and the antiques and the pretty things they had once loved. But it was comfortable and Feodor kept it clean for them. He had gone out to the country with Prince Markovsky the day before and come home with the taxi filled with firewood. There was a warm fire blazing as her grandmother waited for her with a steaming pot of tea.
“Well, little one, how was it?” She was still hoping that Zoya would come to her senses, and abandon the idea of dancing with the Ballet Russe, but she could see in the girl's eyes that there was no hope of that now. She hadn't seen her so happy since the whole nightmare began exactly two months before, with the riots in the streets, and Nicolai's death. None of it was forgotten, but the memory of it seemed a little less acute as she fell into one of their uncomfortable chairs and smiled from ear to ear.
“Grandmama, it was wonderful … just wonderful … but I'm so tired I can hardly move.” The long hours of rehearsal had been grueling beyond words, but in an odd way it was a dream come true for her, and all she could think of now was the performance in two weeks. Her grandmother had promised to come, and Prince Markovsky was coming with his daughter.
“You haven't changed your mind, little one?”
She shook her head with a tired smile, and poured herself a glass of tea from the steaming pot. They had told her that night that she would dance in both parts of the performance, and she was so proud of the money they had given her. She slipped it quietly into her grandmother's hand with a shy look of pride as tears filled Evgenia's eyes. It had come to that then. She was to be supported by the child's dancing. It was almost beyond bearing.
“What's that for?”
“Grandmama, it's for you,”
“We don't need it yet.” But the bare walls around them and the ugly green rug told another tale. Everything they had was threadbare and worn, and they both knew that the money from the ruby necklace would be gone soon. There were more jewels, of course, but not enough to support them forever. “Is this truly what