The Jewel of St Petersburg Read Online Free PDF Page B

unprepared, ripped his heart out. He closed his eyes, aware of the music alive inside him. Of its notes touching places within him, secret corners. With an effort of will he forced open his eyes and studied the girl who could transform music into such a weapon.
    Her body didn’t sway dramatically on the stool. Just her hands. And her head. They moved as if they belonged to the music, rather than to her body. Her skin was palest ivory and her face almost expressionless except for her eyes. They were huge and dark, full of an emotion that to Jens looked closer to fury than rapture. Where had a girl so young found such powerful feelings? As if she drew them in with each breath.
    Finally the music sighed to an end, and the girl hung her head. Her dark hair curtained her face from view, and she placed her hands quietly in her lap. Only one telltale tremor shook her spine, and then silence filled the hall. Jens looked at the tsar. Tears were rolling unchecked down Nicholas’s face. Slowly he raised his imperial hands and began to clap, and immediately applause echoed around the hall. Jens looked again at the young pianist. She hadn’t moved but her head was turned to one side and her luminous dark eyes were directed straight at him. If it weren’t too absurd to be true, he’d have sworn she was angry with him.
    “Mademoiselle Valentina,” the tsar said, his voice thick with tears, “thank you. Merci bien. That was a magnificent performance. Unforgettable. You must come and play for my wife and my dear daughters when they are next at the Winter Palace.”
    The girl rose from the stool and dropped a deep curtsy. “It would be a great honor,” she said.
    “Pozdravlyayu. Congratulations, my dear girl. You will be a great pianist.”
    For the first time she smiled, “Spasibo, Your Majesty. You are too kind.”
    There was something about the way she murmured it that startled Jens. He almost laughed out loud, but the tsar seemed not to notice the faint rustle of mockery in her words.
    “So,” Jens’s companion whispered. “At least you enjoyed the Chopin, if not the singing.”
    Jens turned to Countess Serova. “I did.”
    “Friis, good heavens, man, what are you doing here?”
    It was Tsar Nicholas. He was strutting over to his entourage to stretch his legs before the next performance. Everyone rose to their feet. He was considerably shorter than Jens and had a habit of rocking up and down on his toes. The women ruffled their finery in greeting and the men ducked their heads in acknowledgment of his attention.
    “Friis,” Tsar Nicholas continued, “you’re not here to flirt with the girls, I hope.”
    “No, Your Majesty, I am not. I’m here as a guest of Countess Serova.”
    “Shouldn’t you be hard at work? That’s what I expect of you, you know. Not to parade in front of Petersburg’s elite young ladies.”
    Jens bowed, a crisp click of his heels and a dip of his head. “Then I shall take my leave.”
    Nicholas’s manner became serious. “You are needed elsewhere, Friis. I can’t afford to waste a good man on”—he waved a jeweled hand at the school hall—“on this frippery.”
    Jens bowed again and turned to leave. As he did so, he cast one more glance around, seeking out the pianist. She was still watching him. He smiled but she didn’t respond, so he tipped his head to her and walked out of the room. As the door closed behind him he felt as if something of himself still lay on the hall’s polished floorboards. Something he valued.

    J ENS!”
    He stopped midstride. “Ah, Countess. As you see, I am in a hurry.”
    “Wait,” she called. Her footsteps echoed along the school’s empty yellow corridor, hurrying to catch up with him. “Jens, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend that rebuke from the tsar to happen.”
    “Didn’t you?”
    “No. Forgive me.”
    “Countess Serova,” he said, lifting her gloved hand and pressing it to his lips, “there is nothing to forgive.” But his voice was