Coronets and Steel Read Free Page A

myself for the inevitable rude treatment from salespeople who work in snobbish places, I assumed an air of confidence and waltzed in.
    Sure enough, a conspicuously affronted expression settled over the features of the woman who minced with measured pace toward me, but then her eyes widened and the downturned red mouth stretched outward into a dignified but definite smile of welcome.
    I said politely, in my most formal German, “I need something for the ballet tonight. Thanks.”
    She nodded, almost a bow, and in fifteen minutes I had exactly what I wanted: a lightweight, simple but well cut jersey dress in a cedarwood brown that matched my eyes. It was flattering, and—I reflected happily—it would roll up into a small sausage in my suitcase. Meanwhile the manager waited on me herself, to my amazement, with a manner of distant deference. Once (when I was in the dressing room and was pulling fabric over my head, so sound was muffled) I thought she addressed me by a different name, but then I wondered if she might be talking to someone else. At any rate I didn’t respond, and she didn’t repeat it.
    When I was ready to go she murmured something about an account in so discreet a voice I couldn’t hear her, but stopped when she saw the euros I held out. She stared as if she’d never seen money before, then took the proffered bills.
    Back at the pensione, I got ready, wearing my hair up in a chignon instead of the usual practical knot, and put on my heeled sandals instead of my sturdy walking sandals.
    I arrived at the Opera House to find that the pensione had kept their promise, bagging me a first-rate seat midway along the lowest balcony with an unimpeded view of the stage.
    I sank back in my plush seat and surveyed the ornate glory of the Opera House. Observing the muted colors and fine jewels of the gathering patrons, I let my imagination relax, and it promptly superimposed a vivid image: Edwardian gowns and slick-haired men with monocles and faultless tuxes or splendid military uniforms, the air heavy with the scents of musk and ambergris and heavy florals and beeswax candles. They exchange nods and fan flirts with other titled patrons, and after watching the curtain roll up, anticipate a cozy à deux supper afterward in a nearby palace. Or, if one were more daring, a very cozy à deux supper in a quiet and lamplit cafe . . .
    I landed back in the present when an elderly couple arrived in my row. We exchanged polite nods over the unoccupied seat next to me and I turned to the stage, relieved that that the single empty seat would guarantee my isolation.
    The lights dipped and I settled back contentedly—and a shadow moved on the edge of my vision.
    I glanced up as a man dropped into the seat next to mine. Ordinarily I would have glanced away again, but two things caught my attention. One, the way he took his seat. He didn’t plump down like a shuffling student collapses, he did it with an air of grace and proprietary negligence. Rather as if he owned the seat. Or the Opera.
    The second thing was his expression. He was looking directly at me. I met grayish blue eyes narrowed in humor and . . . irony? The shadows in the corners of his mouth, the slight lift to his chin signaled gotcha.
    I was instantly on guard. His expression altered to a reflective surprise that was almost as immediately veiled.
    Uh-oh. My glance had turned into a stare. Thought he recognized me, I decided, turning my attention firmly to the stage.
    The lights dimmed, and King Kong could have been sitting next to me for all the awareness I gave to anything but the ballet. I was caught up in the powerful enchantment generated by music and movement merged. Having studied dance since I was five, I was unable to watch passively; my soul went down to flit among the jetés tours and grandes, leaving my body to tense unconsciously until my toes were bunched in my sandals and my hands twitched in my lap.
    When the lights came up for the intermission I relaxed