City of Silence (City of Mystery) by Kim Wright Page B

to royalty, married to royalty, and stood far above the wife of a bodyguard
by every standard society could apply, and yet there is a meritocracy of nature
too, is there not?  And in this ranking, Tatiana knew she reigned supreme.
There was no denying the doll-like symmetry of her face, the roundness of her
breasts, the ringlets which formed, without coaxing, in her hair. Taken in this
manner, Tatiana’s deep curtsy might even be seen as ironic.
    When
the men on the stage remained silent, Ella answered her own question.  “Their
names are Katya Gorbunkova and Yulian Krupin,” she said, the comments presumably
directed toward Tatiana, although her eyes had never left the stage below them.
“Both of the tsar’s imperial ballet,” Ella continued.  “Chosen as leads at an age
when their peers are still vying for an invitation to the troupe.  Their deaths
are a waste of talent as well as youth.”
    “We
have not formally met,” Tatiana said, rising at last.  “But I am Tatiana Orlov
and will also dance in the imperial waltz.”
    “I
may have seen you in the rehearsals,” Ella said, flicking her eyes in Tatiana’s
direction then calling out to the men below, a bit more loudly than was
necessary, “Are you quite sure it is a suicide?”
    “What
else should it be?” answered the bald man.  “They are peasants by birth, you
know.  Such violence is common in the youth of their class.”  By the brusque
tone of his voice it was clear he had not recognized Ella, which was
surprising, but perhaps the police, unlike the guard, did not often come in
contact with the imperial family.  The quality of the women’s clothes had earned
them a sliver of civility – had they been dressed as servants it’s unlikely
they would have been allowed to remain in the room at all.  But the policeman’s
tolerance evidently did not stretch so far as to include extended conversation
with civilians, especially female ones.  
    “It’s
odd that the knife is in the girl’s hand,” Tatiana ventured quietly.
     “I
agree,” said Ella. “Cynthia, please retrieve my camera.”
    A
quick nod from the other woman, who had remained further back but who now
turned to do her mistress’s bidding.  The British had a queer term for such
attendants, something like “the women who stand there” although Tatiana could
not think of the precise phrase in the tension of the moment.  When this
particular woman had first arrived from London there had been some speculation
she might have been sent by Queen Victoria for purposes of political reconnaissance. 
Such was the depth of the paranoia in the court of Tsar Alexander III, that a
middle-aged British widow with those odd sort of spectacles that split the eye
in half, making the bottom look much larger than the top, could be rumored a
spy.  This reflexive suspicion of outsiders had always struck Tatiana as
foolish, but she supposed the overblown fears of the court were why her husband
held his present post.  Why she slept on feather mattresses instead of straw
mats.
    “I
take photographs,” Ella said to Tatiana, a bit unnecessarily and even a bit
defensively.  “A camera is a fine way to document the details of one’s own
life, is it not?  But please, continue with your thoughts.  Why do you find it
odd that the knife is in the girl’s hand?”
    “If
it were a suicide pact between lovers,” Tatiana said, “you would think she
would die first, and then him, that he would not leave her to…”
    “Quite,”
said Ella. “And will you come stand beside me?”
    She
knows the acoustics of this room as well as I do, Tatiana thought, as she
swiftly moved closer to Ella.  She knows that even a softly spoken conversation
between two women on the stairs has the potential to echo through the entire
theater.  She’s one of the aristocrats who most sincerely support the arts,
which is probably why she also knew the name of the dancers.
    “I
believe your husband is a member of the