He had been so beautiful. Dark hair and pale skin and he’d had black eyes that would look across the dining room and catch Anya’s at times. Always she had been aware of him and anticipated his arrival. Even on the coldest of mornings, when he’d come in to breakfast, there had been heat in her cheeks, just because he had been near.
In the evenings, when she’d served him his stew, sometimes their fingers had touched under the plate he’d held out.
Anya had lived for those moments and ached for time to speak with him properly, but he had been in the secure wing, so it had been an impossible dream. Sometimes she’d convinced herself that she was imagining that Roman felt the same way about her, until one night when their fingers had met beneath the plate. He had given her something and Anya frowned as she’d felt the slim package.
Worried that her mother would notice, she’d quickly put it into the pocket of her apron but then, when she’d been sent to the cupboard to eat her soup, she’d taken it out.
Chocolate.
Belgian chocolate.
And a whole bar!
How had he got it?
And why, instead of eating such a rare treat himself, had Roman saved it for her?
Oh, her mother had found out. She had opened the cupboard door and found Anya pushing chocolate into her mouth.
Katya had berated her daughter as she’d slapped her, but for Anya it had been worth it, not just for the sweet taste, more that Roman had thought enough of her to give her such a treat.
All these years later she still had the foil and, as she touched it, she smiled at the memory.
It was time to return to the stage.
With her mother’s shawl wrapped around her, again she painted her lips scarlet and then back through the maze of corridors she went.
Firebird soared even higher.
She danced the monsters into the shadows and as she did so, she thought of the lover who had left her.
How he had broken her heart when he had left without so much as a goodbye.
But she had risen.
Anya had poured all her grief, her anger and her longing into her next love—ballet.
And it had paid off, it would seem, for she was here, under the lights, now a prima ballerina, enchanting the audience, whom she held in the palm of her hand tonight.
How the firebird mocked the monsters on stage as she danced them into exhaustion and yet her energy remained.
Just as she always did, she imagined Roman watching as the prince held her and turned her and she was perfection in his arms. She hoped Roman ached in regret for leaving her behind.
As the magical egg cracked open, she closed her mind to the grief and the memory of his smile filled her heart.
Flu had swept through the orphanage and the orphans had been confined to their dorms. Walking into his room in the secure unit to deliver his supper, just before he’d left the orphanage, they had been alone for the first time for a moment. How she had ached to lower her head and kiss that sulky mouth.
‘How did you get the chocolate?’ she had asked.
Roman hadn’t answered but she had warmed to the first glimpse of his smile.
And tonight she was on fire to the memory of it.
But then it had been over.
Firebird did not appear in the final scene; instead she sat on the floor in the wings and dragged in air, utterly drained. Then as the performance ended, she listened to the cheers and the applause and she hauled herself up. When it was her turn, the firebird ran onto the stage as serene and as beautiful as ever to accept the applause.
The audience rose as she returned. They knew they had seen an amazing performance tonight and that she had danced with all that she had.
Tatania offered deep curtsies, swooped and picked up the roses that were thrown onto the stage.
She knew that she had earned every bravo and every cheer and Tatania smiled as still they cheered on.
There was a ten-minute standing ovation and over and over they called her back to accept the applause, but just as the noise started to ebb, she heard it.
‘Brava krasavitsa!’
Beautiful woman.
Tatania froze momentarily and turned her face up and to the right and peered into the darkness but she could not see him.
Yet her soul recognised his voice.
Roman was here.
IT WAS NOT the words that made her freeze, because there were many Russians in the audience and she heard that phrase often. No, it was the depth of his voice that made her face lift and her eyes scrutinise the darkness, and for a brief second in an otherwise faultless performance, she was Anya Ilyushin.
The cook’s daughter.
The orphans had all thought her posh because she’d had a parent and had later attended a prestigious dance school where she had learnt not just to dance but to talk well and to eat and walk like a lady. They had not understood that she too had been dirt poor. Before she had boarded at dance school and later during the holidays, she had risen before five in a freezing house and had gone to the orphanage with her mother. There, unlike at home, the kitchen had been warm. Katya would work all day and through till late at night, not just cooking but cleaning and scrubbing and sorting out supplies. Once her mother had put the oats to soak, ready for the morning, they would return to their dark, cold home, ready to do it all again the next day.
Anya had always yearned for the next day. When she was there, she had always looked out for him.
And she was looking out for him now.
Now she peered into the dark of the audience, but he did not call out again. Perhaps she had misheard. Or maybe she was going mad, Anya thought as she made her way back to her dressing-room.
Now she was exhausted and aching.
She sat there at her dressing-room table and fought to concentrate as she was told that soon she would receive the duchess.
‘Who else?’
There were many people who would want to greet her, and Anya found she was holding her breath as the names were read out.
Last year, when she had first played Firebird, Daniil, Roman’s twin, had been in the audience and had come backstage to make sure that it really was her.
She had run to him as for a tiny second she had thought it was Roman, but even before she had seen the scar, her heart had collapsed as she had realised it was not Roman.
She was scared to get her hopes up again.
Yes, she understood that it was imperative that she greet the duchess and she gave a terse nod. Of course one of the sponsors was here and with him his teenage daughter, who wanted to be a ballet dancer too. Anya felt her hands ball in impatience as the list was read out.
‘Who else?’ Anya snapped.
‘There is a gentleman, he says that you would remember him as Daniil Zverev’s twin...’
Anya’s heavily made-up lashes fluttered as it was confirmed that Roman was here, yet he had not directly given his name.
‘He offered his congratulations for your performance tonight. He said that he always knew that you would make it. He asked that I pass on this.’
Anya glanced down and there in the assistant’s palm was the small, thin gold hoop that she had left behind the time they had first made love.
Oh,