Rasputin had, of course, been summoned — indeed, he was due at the ball — but, as often occurred, no one had been able to find him yet. Famous as he was, he also led a secretive private life. Anastasia had heard tales about that, too — some of them quite scandalous — but her mother adamantly insisted that the stories were all a pack of lies, made up by political and personal enemies of the man she called, with reverence and affection, Father Grigori.
By now, there must have been close to a thousand people in the ballroom, and scores of servants were circulating on the perimeter of the dance floor with silver trays of caviar and sliced sturgeon, flutes of champagne and glasses of claret. Massive buffet tables, laden with everything from lobster salad to whipped cream and pastry tarts, were set up in the adjoining chambers. But Anastasia was so enraptured by the beauty of the ball that she longed to sweep around the room to the strains of the mazurka or the waltz. She only trusted herself, however, in the arms of a few, among them the count. When he returned for the chaconne, and wrapped a strong arm around her waist, she knew that he would support her and guide her steps; as they danced she was able to tilt her head back and feel herself briefly transported. The champagne, she thought, was a great help; she should drink it more often. She saw her sisters — Olga and Tatiana and Marie — moving around her, and to her they looked as graceful as swans. Was she forever to feel like the ugly duckling, she wondered — which made it all the more surprising when she saw a hand in a white-leather glove descend upon the count’s shoulder and heard a voice say, “May I intrude?”
The count put his head back, and said, “But I was just hitting my stride, Prince!”
Yussoupov smiled and as the count relinquished his hold, boldly stepped in. Anastasia could hardly believe what was happening. Prince Felix Yussoupov could dance with anyone he liked, anytime he liked. He had dark, wavy hair, and a long, almost feminine face, with dark, soulful eyes. His lashes were longer than any of her own sisters’, and as she looked at them now, closer than she had ever seen them before, she could swear that they had been tinted and curled, and she remembered the gossip she had overheard — that the young prince liked to be seen around town masquerading as a woman, in furs and jewels and silken gowns. She had never known what to make of such tales, especially as he had recently married a celebrated beauty named Irina — who was nowhere in sight at the ball.
As if intuiting her thought, he said, “The Princess Irina’s in the Crimea, at Kokoz.”
No matter how splendid the Yussoupovs’ palace there was — and the accounts of its magnificence were many — Anastasia could not imagine missing the Tsar’s Christmas Ball.
“But I see another guest is missing, too,” he said, as she sailed in his arms across the dance floor. The prince was an even more adept dancer than the count.
“Alexei is asleep,” she said. “He was out hunting all day.” Like the others in the royal family, she had been tutored to conceal the gravity of her brother’s condition.
The prince nodded and smiled, but she understood now that it wasn’t her brother he had been referring to.
“Oh, do you mean Father Grigori?” she said.
For some reason, Yussoupov seemed to find that funny, and laughed. Even his teeth were perfect — small and even and brilliantly white.
“Yes, of course, Father Grigori,” he said, and now she knew he was making fun of her for calling him that. “Our friend Rasputin must be on quite a bender if he’s late to the Winter Palace ball.”
Anastasia was perplexed.
“He’s coming tonight, isn’t he?”
“I should think so,” she replied. But did he think that she oversaw the guest list?
“I ask because you two seem to have a special rapport, n’est-ce pas? Whenever we go out drinking together, the good Father Grigori speaks of your family often — but he talks about you more often than all the others combined.”
That he spoke of them at all was shocking to Anastasia, but she couldn’t help but wonder what it was he said about her. She was secretly flattered. Without her having to ask, Yussoupov obliged.
“He seems to think that you carry what he calls a ‘spark of holy fire.’ And if anyone should know about such stuff as that, it’s Rasputin.”
Anastasia was growing dizzy, though she couldn’t tell if it was from the twirling of the dance, the champagne, or the confusion she felt at the strange turns of the conversation. What did Felix Yussoupov want from her?
“Does he ever speak of me?” he asked.
“Not that I can think of. Why would he?”
“We are the best of friends,” he said, with feigned indignation, “that’s why. But he can have a wicked tongue on him, and I’ve just been curious to know if my name ever came up behind the closed doors of the imperial apartments.” His eyes, deep and dark and penetrating, were staring into hers, and she felt as if a wolf were sizing her up for dinner.
“I think I need to sit down,” she said, suddenly feeling unsteady on her feet.
The prince, without missing a beat, swept her from the floor and onto a gilded divan framed between a pair of floor-length mirrors. Two other ladies quickly moved to make room for their royal addition.
“Forgive me,” the prince said, bowing at the waist with one hand folded behind his back. “I fear my conversation has proved tiresome to Your Royal Highness.” Anastasia still had the sense that he was somehow mocking her. Mocking a grand duchess! “I’m sure our mutual friend will turn up any minute. Wherever the champagne is flowing, Father Grigori cannot be far behind.”
As he retired, the other ladies fluttered their eyes and tried to catch his attention, but to no avail. He was already hailing Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich and gesturing toward one of the buffet chambers. And so the ladies set their sights on Anastasia, instead.
“You look very lovely tonight, Your Highness,” one of them gushed, and the other said, “But where has your mother gone to? Her dress was quite beautiful and I was eager to study it more closely.” She leaned closer with a smile and said, “That way I can get a better copy made when I leave for Paris.”
Flattery was something Anastasia, like any member of the royal family, was inured to. Her mother and father had brought her up, as best they could, to ignore it. For an honest opinion, there were family members one could turn to, and certain confidantes and retainers, such as Dr. Botkin, the French tutor Pierre Gilliard, or Anna Demidova, her mother’s maid who had served the Tsaritsa forever and whose loyalty and love were undoubted. And even though Jemmy was just a cocker spaniel, Anastasia knew that the little dog would love her just the same whether she was a grand duchess or a peasant girl. She wished that people could be more like dogs.
A servant offered her another glass of champagne, and with her mother nowhere in sight, she saw no reason not to take it. She was done dancing for the night — her left foot already ached a bit — and she chatted amiably with the two ladies, both of whom turned out to be the wives of ministers of something or other (ministers came and went so routinely that Anastasia never bothered to get their names straight) and began to wonder at her mother’s absence. The Tsar himself was holding court at one end of the ballroom, but it was beginning to dawn on Anastasia that if her mother had already disappeared — and Father Grigori had not shown up at all — there could only be one reason.