“If she lives,” he said solemnly, “I believe she will still be able to have children. But the outcome is still not certain. She has lost a vast quantity of blood, and whoever did it must have been a butcher.” He described the situation medically to Nikolai, and other than the hemorrhaging that refused to stop despite everything they did, they were deathly afraid of infection. “This will not be easy for her,” the surgeon explained to Madame Markova. “She must stay here for several weeks, perhaps longer, if she even survives it. We will know more by tomorrow morning, if she lives through the night. For now, we've done all we can for her.” Madame Markova was crying softly when the surgeon finished.
“May I see her?” Nikolai asked respectfully, terrified by what the surgeon had said. He would give them no reassurance she would survive.
“You can't do anything for her now,” the surgeon explained. “She's still not conscious, and may not be for a while.”
“I'd like to be there when she wakes up,” Nikolai said quietly, aghast at what had happened, and that he had known nothing about it, and been unable to stop her. They would have worked it out somehow. He had thought about it all night, and turned assorted solutions over in his mind. She didn't have to risk her life to solve the problem. It could all have been worked out, or so he thought.
They let Nikolai into the surgery, where she was still recovering, and she still looked gray to him, in spite of the transfusions she'd been given. He sat down quietly beside her, and took her free hand in his. He held it gently in his own as tears coursed down his cheeks, as he thought of the time they had spent together, and how much he loved her. He would have liked to kill whoever had done this to her. And in the waiting room, Madame Markova was looking devastated and suffering from all the same emotions as he, but they were of no use to each other. Her mentor and her lover were lost in their own thoughts and their own worlds, as Danina struggled for survival.
It was nearly midnight when Danina finally stirred, with a pitiful moan. Her lips were dry, and she could barely open her eyes, but as she turned her head, she saw him, and a sob instantly caught in her throat as she vaguely remembered what had happened, and what she had done to their baby.
“Oh, Danina … I'm so sorry….” He cried like a child as he held her in his arms, and begged her to forgive him for putting her in this situation. He didn't even scold her for what she had done. It was too late for that, and she had paid a high price for it. “How could this happen? Why didn't you talk to me before you did it … ?”
“I knew … you'd never … let me … do it…. I'm so sorry,” she cried too. They both did, for each other and their unborn baby. But now all he wanted was for her to get well. He knew, just from looking at her, that it was going to take a long time for her to recover from all that had just happened. But by morning, the surgeon said she was going to make it, and Nikolai had to fight back tears of relief. And out of respect for her, Nikolai went and told Madame Markova, but after she cried, she left without seeing Danina. The surgeon said she was still too ill to see anyone, and Nikolai agreed with him.
He didn't leave her side until that evening, and only then went home to change his clothes and check on Alexei, and make sure that Dr. Botkin was still able to relieve him. He explained that a friend was gravely ill in the hospital, and he needed to be with her. And although his colleague didn't ask, he was certain who it was.
“Will she be all right?” Dr. Botkin asked gently, startled by Nikolai's ravaged face and look of anguish. It had been an agonizing night for him as well, worrying about her.
“I hope so,” Nikolai said quietly.
He was back at her side late that night, and sat next to her all night without sleeping, yet again. She drifted in and out of consciousness, muttering, talking to people he couldn't see, and she cried out his name more than once, and begged him to help her. It tore his heart out watching her, but through it all he sat silently, holding her hand, and thinking of their future, and the other children he hoped they would have.
It was two days before the bleeding fully stopped, and the transfusions seemed to begin to help her. She was still too weak to sit up, but he spoon-fed soup and gruel into her, like any nurse, and slept on a cot beside her bed. After seeing her a little better, he finally dared to sleep himself. He was utterly exhausted, but deeply grateful Danina had survived it.
“How do you feel today?” he asked gently, looking at the dark circles beneath her eyes. She still looked ashen to him.
“A little better,” she lied. She couldn't remember any of the other girls being so ill in similar situations, although one often heard of women who died from it, but she had had no clear understanding of the risk she was taking. And even if she had, she would have done it anyway. She had absolutely no choice, she felt, and even now, with Nikolai at her side, she knew they could never have had the baby. It would have destroyed everything, his life, her career. There was no room for a child in their lives. They barely had room for each other, no matter how much she loved him. Theirs was a life of stolen moments and borrowed time and only the hope and promise of a future. It was not yet a life in which they could include a child.
“I want you to come back to Tsarskoe Selo with me,” he said as she closed her eyes again, but he knew that this time she could hear him. And her eyes fluttered open again as she listened to what he said. “You can stay at the cottage again. No one has to know why you're ill, or what happened.” But even he knew that for a long time she would be too weak to go anywhere, and there was still the risk of infection, which could easily be fatal. He was still deeply concerned about her, as was her surgeon.
“I can't do that again. I can't impose on the Czarina,” she said weakly, although she would have liked nothing better than to be with him, as they had been in the cottage before. She loved the sweetness of their living together. But she could not abandon the ballet again to recuperate. She knew that this time Madame Markova would not take her back, or ever forgive her for deserting them, sick or not. Danina had paid a high price with her for her last recuperation, and she needed the ballet. Nikolai could not help her, he was not free to marry her, or care for her, or even able to support her. She had to rely on herself.
“You can't go back to dancing for a while,” he said carefully, and then he decided to tell her what he'd been thinking. “I want you to think about something. I have thought of a thousand ways to solve our problem, while you were lying here. We cannot go on this way. Marie will never relent. It will take me years to buy a house for you, and Madame Markova will never release you from the ballet. I want to be with you, Danina. I want us to have a life together, away from all of this, and all the people who want to keep us apart. I want a real life with you, far from here, where we can begin again. We cannot be married, but no one need ever know.” And then he added gently, “In another place, we could even have children.” A look of sorrow crossed her face as he said the words, and he squeezed her hand. They both felt the loss of what had just happened between them.
“There is no place where we can do that. Where would we go? How would we support ourselves? If Madame Markova wishes to discredit me, no other ballet will have me.” She was thinking of Moscow, and other cities in Russia, but he wasn't. His plan was far more daring than that.
“I have a cousin in America. In a place called Vermont. It is in the Northeast, and he says it looks a great deal like Russia. I have enough money saved to pay for our passage there. We can live with him at first. I will find ajob, and you can teach ballet somewhere, to little children.” She knew Nikolai spoke English perfectly, because of his wife, but she did not. She couldn't imagine a life in a world so far from theirs, and the very thought of it was frightening and foreign to her.