The lights in the auditorium dimmed, and the curtain rose to reveal the finest symphony orchestra in the nation. The conductor walked onto the stage to polite applause. A smattering of chatter and shifting in seats continued until the conductor’s tap of his baton settled the crowd.
And then Maxim Tachenko strode onto the stage, and the audience erupted with unabashed fervor. He wore a formal black frock coat and tails, but his mane of golden-blond hair was ridiculously long, brushed back from a face handsome enough to make the angels envious. The violinist crossed the stage with the confidence of a matador, eyeing the crowd with his bow and violin dangling from his hands like weapons ready to be called into action. It took several attempts by the conductor to settle the audience back into respectful silence.
Mr. Tachenko took center stage, settling the violin beneath his chin and holding the bow suspended an inch above the strings. The conductor raised his arms, and for a single moment, silence reigned. Then the conductor’s arm sliced downward, and the soaring majesty of a Berlioz symphony filled the hall.
Dimitri let himself be swept into the torment ofSymphonie fantastiqueas it moved through the stages of grim, majestic, and joyous passages. He wished Natalia was here. She would love this. No phonograph could ever carry such resonance.
Beside him, Poppy whipped out her opera glasses to spy on the audience, occasionally elbowing him to point out notable individuals. Some of her acquaintances didn’t wait for intermission to begin slipping into their box, begging an introduction. Poppy was in her element, sprinkling his title in every sentence while keeping a protective hand on his arm. He didn’t mind. The adulation was flattering, but throughout it all he kept aneye on the program, for “Waves of the Amur” was the last song before intermission.
As a selection of Paganini favorites came to an end, it was time for the song. To Dimitri’s surprise, the violinist introduced the selection with a political statement, his heavily accented voice ringing with conviction as he spoke.
“My friends, the Amur River travels through some of the most harshly beautiful lands in the world. It marks the dividing line between Russia and China and has long been a source of pride for us. Along its banks live the Tatar, the Mongol, the Buryat, and the Cossack. Tonight, I play a song of homage to our great river. The music embodies the Slavic soul, filled with majesty but with sorrow as well. I dedicate this song to Count Dimitri Sokolov, whose presence tonight honors us all.”
Dimitri caught his breath as the violinist raised his bow, pointing it directly to his box. He hadn’t expected this. Every eye in the auditorium swiveled to look at him, and he stood.
The crowd rose to their feet as well. The standing ovation was thunderous, and a wellspring of emotion threatened to swamp him. Was this real? Two months ago, he was a starving nomad stumbling through the forest and bartering for a mouthful of food. Now he was the toast of New York City. That season of hunger and fear seemed a distant memory as he basked in the gilded limelight, the applause, the glamor.
But there was danger to this glamor. Was he Icarus, flying too close to the sun? How much higher could he climb before the inevitable collapse arrived? He felt like an imposter as he bowed in gratitude to the adulation coming from the audience below.
The applause calmed, and Dimitri sat once again, holding his breath as the violinist positioned his bow to play “Waves of the Amur.” The song was laden with familiar Slavic moodiness, and longing for his homeland swelled inside Dimitri, painful in its intensity. The music had a hypnotic effect, summoning memories of Russia even as he remained trapped in this gilded cage. It would be impossible ever to be truly happy until he returned home, the site of his greatest joy and sorrow.
The sense of incongruity continued at intermission as Poppy guided him toward a private club room behind the mezzanine. Rich hardwood paneling lined the walls, the chandelier dripped with crystals, and waiters circulated with libations.
Poppy worked her magic. She glided through the crowd like a figurehead on the prow of a ship, slicing through water with his hand clasped in hers as she introduced him to dozens of people. Dimitri smiled and nodded, but his soul longed to escape back to Natalia’s townhouse and tell her about Tachenko’s performance. She loved gloomy Russian music as much as he did and would understand its characteristic blend of melancholy and joy.
A stout woman who looked like a bulldog swathed in diamonds gestured to Poppy. “That’s Mrs. Astor!” Poppy said, dazzled to be invited to join the famed socialite’s corner.
Dimitri did not follow because he’d just spotted Senator Lansing angling through the crowd, reaching out to shake his hand.
“When we met last month, I had no idea of the hazards you’d endured,” Senator Lansing said. “With a few more evenings such as this, you can have the whole nation eating out of your palm.”
“I am not interested in anyone eating from my palm,” Dimitri said. “I merely want to draw attention to the atrocity so that such a thing can never be hidden from the world again.”
“I can help with that,” Senator Lansing said. “People like seeing David trounce Goliath, and you’ve got all the makings of a David, while the czar is Goliath.”
Dimitri held up his hand. “No, no. I do not believe the czar was personally involved in the atrocity. The army is to blame. It was all a miscommunication.”
At all costs, Dimitri would not endanger Natalia by arousing Count Cassini’s ire. The most important thing was to get the czar to reaffirm the Treaty of Aigun. Only then could Dimitri rest easy.
Senator Lansing amiably nodded his head, but then he said the strangest thing. “Have you given any thought to how youwill handle the Blackstone affair? Especially the Natalia Blackstone issue.”
Dimitri blinked. His understanding of English was not perfect, but he didn’t consider Natalia to be anissue. Especially not in the distasteful way Senator Lansing spoke the word.
“I do not understand your meaning,” he said.
“Well, Miss Blackstone’s failure to spot trouble looming along the Amur is partly what caused this whole mess,” he said. “I understand you are associated with the family, but you may want to distance yourself from that woman for a while.”
“I will do no such thing,” he sputtered. “Miss Blackstone is entirely blameless regarding what happened. Where did you get such a foul impression of her?”
His mind reeled as Senator Lansing recounted the flurry of newspaper articles that resurrected old resentment about callous Blackstone financial practices of the past and described an incompetent woman who had been given oversight of a massive investment by her indulgent father.
“Stay away from her,” Senator Lansing warned. “No one understands the sort of long-distance financing she was doing, nor do they care. The press wants villains. You carry a shine of heroism, but don’t risk it by associating with her.”
Dimitri braced his hand on a column, his thoughts reeling. This was Natalia’s worst fear, and once again, it was his doing.
“Count Sokolov?” the senator asked curiously. “Are you well?”
He forced himself to stand up straight. It wasn’t the time to defend Natalia but to capitalize on this fleeting moment of fame to fight for the people of the Amur. They deserved nothing less.
