Chapter 2
SECRETS IN SATIN
Isettled into the chair before Anya's vanity, careful not to disturb the room's unsettling perfection.
The half-finished letter lay where I'd spotted it earlier, its pale pink paper catching the light from the mirror's electric bulbs.
I lifted it gently, noting how the elegant script grew increasingly hurried toward the end.
My dearest Katya,
I write this knowing I may not have another chance. He has found me here. The flowers, the gifts, they are not tokens of admiration but warnings. I should never have kept the photographs, but they are my only proof of what happened in Petersburg.
The letter broke off mid-sentence, the pen having scratched across the paper as if dropped in haste. I examined the ink—still faintly wet around the edges. This had been written recently, perhaps even yesterday morning, before she vanished.
I folded the letter carefully and slipped it into my notebook. Whatever Anya Petrova was running from, it had followed her from Russia to London.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. "Miss Worthington?" Mr. Cooper's voice called through the door. "The company has gathered in the rehearsal room. Monsieur LeClair thought you might want to speak with them now.”
"Thank you. I'll be right there."
I took one last look around the dressing room, memorizing its pristine arrangement. Then I followed Cooper through the maze of backstage corridors to a large, mirror-lined room where a dozen dancers waited in various states of rehearsal dress.
As I entered, the conversations died, and all eyes turned to me with expressions ranging from curious to hostile.
These were artists, I reminded myself—passionate, temperamental people whose livelihoods depended on the very woman who had vanished.
They would want her found. Or at least, most of them would.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Cooper announced, "this is Miss Worthington. She's here to help find Anya."
A tall, willowy brunette with sharp cheekbones stepped forward. Her practice dress was immaculate, her hair pulled back in a severe chignon that emphasized her angular features.
"I'm Vivienne Marsh," she said, extending a hand. "Anya's understudy." The word carried a weight of frustrated ambition that made me take notice.
"Miss Marsh,” I said, shaking her hand. “So, you would be stepping into the lead role if Anya doesn't return?"
“I would.” Vivienne's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I’ve been her understudy for two years, and I know every step, every breath of The Firebird.” She paused, then added with what seemed like genuine concern, "But I'd rather Anya return safely than win the role this way."
A petite redhead nearby snorted softly. "Would you really, Viv?"
"That's enough, Margaret," Vivienne snapped, two spots of color appearing on her pale cheeks.
I made a mental note to speak with Margaret privately later. Nothing reveals character quite like professional jealousy.
"When did you last see Anya?" I asked the group.
"Yesterday evening," replied a dark-haired young man with the compact build of a male dancer. "After rehearsal. She seemed . . . distracted."
"Distracted how?"
"She kept looking toward the wings," said Margaret, the redhead. "As if someone was watching her. And she dropped her bag when Monsieur LeClair called her name—scattered her things everywhere."
"Did anyone help her gather them?"
"I did," Vivienne said quietly. "There were letters mixed in with her usual things. Foreign letters—Russian, I think. She snatched them up quickly, but not before I saw they were . . . disturbing."
"Disturbing in what way?"
Vivienne glanced around the room, then lowered her voice. "They looked like threats. Dark ink, harsh writing. And there was something else. Photographs. Old ones, from when she was a child."
My pulse quickened. "Did you see what was in the photographs?"
"Just glimpses. A little girl—Anya, I suppose—standing beside a stern-looking man. The photos looked . . . formal. Stiff. Like official portraits."
"Has anyone else noticed changes in Anya's behavior recently?"
The dancers exchanged glances. Finally, the male dancer spoke up. "She'd been receiving gifts. Expensive ones. Jewelry, perfume, even a fur stole last week."
"From an admirer?"
"That's what we assumed," Margaret said. "Though she never seemed pleased about them. If anything, they seemed to frighten her."
"The flowers were the most frequent," added another dancer, a blonde with kind eyes. "Beautiful arrangements, always roses. But never any cards with names."
"Did she mention anyone specific? A suitor, perhaps, or someone from her past?"
Silence fell over the group. Then Vivienne cleared her throat. "She asked me something strange last week. She wanted to know if I'd ever traveled to Paris, and how one might book passage quickly . . . without drawing attention."
“Was she planning to leave?"
"It seemed that way. She also asked about different steamship lines, which routes were fastest, which ports were busiest." Vivienne twisted her hands together. "I should have pressed her for details, but she seemed so frightened. I didn't want to make it worse."
I studied the assembled dancers, noting their genuine concern beneath the professional rivalry. Whatever had happened to Anya, these people cared about her—even if they coveted her role.
"Is there anything else? Any detail, however small, that seemed unusual?"
The dancers looked at one another uncertainly. Then Margaret spoke up. "There was a man who came to several performances last month. He never went to the stage door with the other admirers, but I saw him watching from the box seats. Same seat every time."
"Can you describe him?"
"Well-dressed, probably in his forties. Distinguished looking, with silver at his temples. Foreign—Russian, I'd guess from his features. And . . .” she hesitated.
"Yes?"
"He wore gloves even in the warm theatre. Both hands, always. I remember thinking it odd."
I made careful notes, my mind already working. A mysterious Russian admirer who concealed his hands, expensive gifts that frightened rather than pleased, and letters that looked like threats. The picture was becoming clearer, and more disturbing.
"Thank you all. You've been very helpful." I closed my notebook and stood. "If you remember anything else, please contact me through Monsieur LeClair."
As the dancers began to disperse, Vivienne lingered behind.
"Miss Worthington," she said quietly, "there's something else. Something I didn't want to say in front of the others."
I waited.
"Two nights ago, after evening rehearsal, I was leaving through the stage door when I saw Anya talking to a man in the alley. It was dark, but I could see she was upset. Her hands were shaking. The man was older, well-dressed, and he was holding her wrist. Not gently."
"Did you hear what they were saying?"
"Not clearly, but it was in Russian. His voice was . . . cold. Threatening. When he saw me watching, he released her and walked away. Anya ran back inside, white as her rehearsal costume."
"Did you ask her about it?"
Vivienne shook her head. "She pretended nothing had happened. But the next morning, she came in with a bruise on her wrist that she tried to hide with powder and long sleeves."
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty theatre. "Can you describe this man?"
"Tall, silver-haired, expensive coat. And Miss Worthington . . .” She hesitated. "He was wearing gloves."
After Vivienne left, I remained in the empty rehearsal room, staring at my reflection in the mirrored walls. The pieces were beginning to form a picture, and it was far darker than a simple case of pre-performance nerves.
Anya Petrova was running from someone. Unfortunately, he had found her. And he was willing to use intimidation and possibly violence to get what he wanted.
The question was: what did he want? And was Anya still alive to give it to him?
I tucked my notebook into my handbag and headed back toward the stage, my heels clicking against the wooden floor. It was time to trace those mysterious gifts to their source. In my experience, men who sent expensive presents to unwilling recipients usually left a trail—if one knew where to look.
I had the feeling that trail would lead me deeper into the shadows of London's Russian émigré community, where secrets from the old country cast long and dangerous shadows in the new world.