⧗ CHAPTER EIGHT ⧗

More memories chased Dmitri into the night.

It began with him as a young boy at an airport, and his father hugging him. Father never hugged him. He only ever accepted handshakes from his son, even at the tender age of five. Dmitri couldn't remember the purpose of the flight. Was he being taken back to the Red Room, or to America, where Mum lived? All Dmitri could remember was how much he missed Misha the Dancing Bear. Father did not like stuffed toys and Mum didn't want Dmitri to take it out of her house. She never said why.

He just wanted something to hug on that lonely plane ride.

Then Dmitri was walking, his short child legs working double time to keep pace with the hand he was holding. A girl, much taller than him, with blond hair swept up into dutch braids. She couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen, but in his child's mind the girl was practically an adult, cool and tall and grownup and knows everything. She acted like she knew everything, too. Kept whispering at him to keep up and stop talking.

"This is important, Danny," she said to him in English, with an American accent. It did not belong to her. That name wasn't his, and yet he had responded to it all the same. "We have to go home, remember? We can't stay in West Virginia. You don't even like it here."

West Virginia? Dmitri could never recall being there. The street they were walking on was rundown, somewhat rural, with long distances between houses filled with trees and sidewalks filled with cracks and holes. He liked to jump over them. They had made it a game. They liked to sit on the porch in the evening and watch as the strange blue smoke rose over the mountaintops into twilight.

"Yes, I do," Dmitri had pouted, his voice so small, clutching something to his chest. A toy. What had it been? A dinosaur, whose name escaped him, yet he had held so tightly. Green with orange spots. Brand new. His big sister gave it to him as a present for this trip. "I don't want to go home. I like it here, Yara."

She made a sound of annoyance. "I told you, we can't stay here."

"But do you want to?"

"It doesn't matter what I want," the girl, Yara — not her name not her name — replied, sighing heavily. "It never matters. But it'll be better when we're home. Safer."

Dmitri took another step and she was gone. Yara, his big sister. Had that been her real name? He never had a big sister. He had always been a single child. But even now he could just barely remember that life they had in that little bungalow with the sagging roof, barely enough room to sleep in. It had been a warm spring, and they had a hammock and she'd rock him to sleep on the hot nights. There were parents, too, but Dmitri couldn't remember them well. He just knew it wasn't his parents, not Father and Mum. Only Yara had mattered. That, and that bungalow hadn't been the home she'd been talking about.

Where was she now?

Dmitri turned, and found himself sitting at a dinner table. Older now, maybe eight years old, because he could reach the table without a booster seat. On one side sat Mum, her copper hair pulled back into a messy bun, and on the other side, an elderly man with a weathered smile.

"Thank you so much for this dinner, Diana," the man said, wiping his face with a napkin. In the plates before them were the leftovers of what looked like spring rolls, stir fried rice and lots of chicken. "You've truly outdone yourself this time."

"Oh, don't you start, Avi," Mum rolled her eyes, but it was entirely good natured, one of the rare smiles he'd seen her with. She looked tired, always looked tired, but it was one of the few times she seemed relaxed as well. She always worked so hard. Hell, Dmitri couldn't even remember the last time they had an actual dinner at the dinner table.

The old man laughed, raising his hands in innocence. "Hey, if you were this good, you wouldn't be working for me, that's for sure. At least I know your talents aren't being wasted in the kitchen."

"Ha-ha."

"How 'bout you, son?" Avi asked, turning to Dmitri, and giving him a broad wink. "Your mother's cooking is pretty good, right?"

Dmitri had flushed, unsure of the subtext in their conversation at the time. But both seemed lighthearted (maybe it was the wine) and he felt it was okay to lie, just a little. He was afraid of upsetting Mum, although he couldn't remember why. "It's pretty good. Never had Chinese for Christmas before."

"Haven't you now? It's a time-honored tradition in my house," Avi said, pressing a hand to his chest. "Been a bit empty these past few years, though. Your mother was so kind to invite me. I hope I wasn't interrupting any of your family plans."

"Oh, no," Mum had shaken her head, rubbing a hand along her brow. "Dmitri's father is always rather… abrupt with visitations. And this new story I'm on has me all gobbled up." She flashed a weary smile at Dmitri, cheek resting in one hand. "But I can never say no even when it's last minute."

There had been a sadness in her eyes then that Dmitri hadn't understood. He did now. Saw how she had struggled with holidays, balancing work and home life and a son she barely got to see. Holidays were all they had, and it was never like in the movies, all Christmas lights and massive trees and a giant turkey on the table, rooms filled with more family than he could remember. It was just the two of them, an aluminum tree they decorated together, and a bunch of presents Mum bought to compensate. Unwrapping them had always been the best part.

Now Dmitri just wanted to cry, but in the dream he smiled and said he wanted to bring out that cake he saw in her fridge. He used to be so disappointed that Christmas had never been what he dreamed it to be. Had lowkey dreaded going home to her sometimes. But Mum had only been trying her best. She had never resented him.

And now it was too late.

He'll never open another present with her again.

The sick twist in his stomach is followed by sudden shift, and Dmitri found himself standing in the Red Room again. No idea how old he was, just that everything felt so big and he, so small. His wrist, aching from the handcuff, small enough to fit a child's tiny wrist. Trying hard not to rub the irritated skin as he stood at attention, waiting as the two women talked before him.

The Madame, he recognized instantly. The other, a petite woman with hair so red it seemed to burn. Her green eyes flashed down at him, so cold and unfeeling it scared Dmitri. He didn't want to be there, but the Madame told him to stay until he was dismissed.

"I can do this on my own," The redhead spoke, her tone laced with something he couldn't understand.

"I know, of course you can, my darling," The Madame cooed, gesturing to Dmitri. "He'd merely be a part of your cover. They'll never suspect a woman with a child."

"But a boy…?"

"You disapprove, Natalia?" The Madame tilted her head, her tone taking on a different measure. Lightly curious, but with venom underneath.

The woman shifted, looking away. "Of course not. I just — I didn't think you'd take on another one."

"I only give opportunities where I see potential. That's all you need to know, Natalia."

"I know," Natalia paused. "But why not one of the older girls? He's too young."

"They're never too young. You know that." The Madame reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind Natalia's ear. "They will all get their turn. This time, it's his. Remember, be gentle. But never hesitate."

The woman, Natalia, closed her eyes and nodded. "I understand."

And just like that, the memory slipped away again. No sooner could Dmitri question what just happened, wonder at the context, what he couldn't remember next, did he find himself standing atop a stage. Older now. He recognized it almost instantly.

New York. Almost a year ago.

Rehearsal was in chaos.

Lights being checked, flicking on and off, spinning across the curtains in a slow dance. The ballet master, Berta, was trying to block the movements of the pas de deux across the stage while the production team was racing back and forth, trying to figure out the placement of all the props for various scenes. The children were running wild, their dance instructor late once again, and not enough parents to control them all. The remaining dancers, Dmitri's age and older, lounged about or practiced their sets wherever they could find the room — of which there was not much, without getting in someone's way. The director, Guillame, was in the process of having an aneurysm as he argued with the stage manager over bluetooth.

Amongst it all, Dmitri had found the one spot where he could stretch in peace, stage left, out of the way from everyone else. So far, no one had bothered him, which was how he preferred it, trying to concentrate on his placement for each position. Dmitri was only a cavalier for Roksana, in one of the pas, and an understudy to the danseur noble; Evgeni was a notorious workaholic, never missed a day of practice or rehearsal (and was often, in fact, several hours early), but a boy could dream…

It was then, in the middle of a pirouette, did Dmitri notice he was being watched.

Normally, this was not uncommon. There were so many people in the hall that everyone was watching everyone else, either out of boredom or trying not to get runover. But this was different.

A blonde girl, perhaps a woman, standing among the seats in a white blouse and blue slacks. She was perhaps only ten feet away, close enough that it was a little startling to notice her now. Her pale eyes were on him, her gaze so piercing Dmitri almost lost his balance before both feet planted on the floor again.

This was someone he didn't know. Someone who wasn't part of a company.

Hoping that she hadn't noticed his near slip, Dmitri put on his best smile, the kind he used when he wanted to put on a good first impression. Which was always. "Hello."

"Uh," The blonde girl blinked. A pressed-lip smile in return, like she was surprised to be addressed. "H-hi,"

"Is something wrong?" Dmitri tilted his head. He wasn't sure how long the girl had been there watching him, and now wondered what had brought her here. It wasn't entirely unusual for passerby to drop in to watch, but Berta never liked an audience before the actual show. It was like taking a peek at the man behind the curtain.

"No, no," the girl shook her head, having to raise her voice to be heard over the noise and hubbub. She stepped closer to the edge of the stage. She had an American accent, something Dmitri noticed only after the fact because she was prettier than he anticipated. Her short hair framed a strong jaw and freckled cheekbones, and the way a spotlight hit her from behind had framed her in a soft halo of pale blue light. "Just, um, just watching you. It's really… you're really good."

"Ah, thank you!" Dmitri beamed, not expecting the compliment. A little embarrassed because he didn't think he was actually doing anything of note. It was only practice. He lifted his arms up to stretch, rising to his tip-toes, before dropping again. It was nothing anyone wouldn't see anywhere else, he figured. "They are just warm-ups, but it is good to know I'm doing well. Do you dance?"

The girl snorted, in a sarcastic, self-effacing way. "Oh, ha, no. I don't dance. I'd be awful."

Dmitri reached behind his back, throwing her a curious look. "Have you tried?"

The girl glanced away, then shrugged. "Uh, no. Not really."

Dmitri had to fight not to show any amusement. Still, it seemed funny, to be so sure and yet to never make an attempt. Self-defeating. "Then how would you know if you're awful?" He smiled, hoping she didn't take offense to that. "I'm sure you'd be an excellent dancer."

"Oh, yeah?" The girl threw him a skeptical look, folding her arms. "How do you know?"

"Because you're an athlete," Dmitri said, and when her nose scrunched in confusion, he quickly added, "I can tell by the way you carry yourself. You have good balance, and you're steady on your feet. All you need is to know is how to use them."

He'd been around enough dancers and various other athletes to know them by sight alone. Years of practice and even knowing his own body helped bring an almost instinctive detection for it. Dmitri wasn't really sure how to say that without coming off as more presumptuous than he already had.

"Ha, okay, sure," The girl said in a short little laugh, as if thinking of an inside joke. Clearly she didn't believe him. "I think I'm good, thanks."

Dmitri shrugged. He couldn't really fight her if she was going to dig her heels in. No need to start trouble. And he felt a little awkward for pushing and getting rebuffed. "Well, suit yourself."

After a moment, Dmitri realized her arrival might actually be important, and wondered if he'd been holding her up. "Are you here for something?"

"I'm looking for someone. His name is Dmitri Kasyanenko," The girl replied. "Do you know him?"

Dmitri nearly fell over in shock. She was looking for him? And then it hit him: the tutor. Amelia… Amelia Fletcher. Of course! This had to be her. How could he have forgotten so soon? He had only signed up a week ago, and the Stark Industries rep had assured him that they would send someone soon. He couldn't even get good sleep for the first two nights because he was nervous about some unexpected arrival at his home. His last tutor had been less than satisfactory, a fact so prevalent that his mum had fired the man outright. Since then, Dmitri had been in dire straits, hoping to find someone who had a stronger grasp of math and science. And wouldn't mind his accent.

And the cherry on top — she didn't mispronounce his name! Dmitri was going to look exceedingly stupid now. He frowned, pulled up. He hoped he wasn't wrong. And that she didn't think he was a moron for saying: "Yes. Wait, you're Amelia, aren't you? Amelia Fletcher?"

She blinked in surprise, arms dropping. "What? How did you know my name?"

"God, how rude of me — I should've realized, said something sooner." But Dmitri was already getting up, shaking his head and cursing himself for being such an idiot. This was not a good first impression, was it? He hoped he could still save it. He jumped off the stage, going right up to Amelia and holding out his hand. "Because I'm Dmitri."

Dmitri already regretted approaching her so quickly. Amelia looked even more intimidating up close. Broad shoulders and a distinctive scar through her right brow added a certain rugged distinction to her appearance, one that said she should not be crossed lightly. Hell, she was taller than Dmitri, and that was not a common feeling. Her eyes were even paler up close — not blue, but gray, looking him over with an inscrutable expression before finally accepting his hand. Dmitri restrained the instinct to flinch. Her skin was ice cold. But it was those eyes that had him frozen in place.

"Oh. Oh," Her lips parted and Dmitri found himself staring a little too long at them, remembering to focus on her eyes instead, those were properly terrifying. She let go of his hand, and Dmitri was highly aware of the cold void it left in his palm. Only afterwards did he remember how strong her grip had been, the well-defined muscles of her arm. "Well, I m-must have given you a great first impression, then. Um, s-sorry a-about acting like that."

"No, no, I apologize," Dmitri said quickly, laughing a little to show no harm was done. Honestly, he was just glad she hadn't curb-stomped him. All things considered, he might just thank her for that, too. "I should not have pressed you like that. I tend to ask too many questions. I should know by now that not many people appreciate that."

"What? No, asking too many questions is a good thing," Amelia replied almost immediately. She stuffed her hand in her pockets. "Trust me, I do it all the time."

Dmitri blinked, surprised. That was something he'd expect his mum might say. "You do? And you don't get in trouble for it?"

"Ah," Amelia paused, glancing away. "... Well, no. I still get in trouble. But that's only because most people are hiding things they shouldn't be having in the first place."

'Well, that's an interesting method," Dmitri said. Definitely something Mum would say. Certainly he'd feel more brave doing so, if he had the sheer fearlessness of his mother, or looked as strong as Amelia did. Despite the nice clothes, Amelia carried an air that was somewhat prickly, closed off, a silent warning not to breach any wall. And so far, Dmitri hoped he avoided it. He smiled and added in an undertone, leaning in, "In that case, I hope neither one of us has any secrets they should have from each other. "

That got her to smile — a real smile, Dmitri thought, her eyes lighting up, lips pressed together, corners of her mouth quirking up a few degrees. It looked familiar, but Dmitri was sure he'd never met her before. Then where…?

Dmitri put the thought aside, focusing on the good part that his terrible joke actually worked. He certainly had nothing to hide. At least, he didn't think so. Couldn't think of any. No, nope, scratch that. He definitely didn't want Amelia to know the fact that he was already infatuated with her.

Like a fool.

"I just got the email an hour ago," Dmitri said, heading towards one of the front row seats. The other dancers used them during rehearsal for storage, each claiming a seat or two for their own belongings. Dmitri found his, a green duffle bag, from which he pulled his phone and turned back to Amelia. "Telling I had been assigned a tutor? Amelia Fletcher, yes, that is you," Dmitri confirmed, pulling up the message again. There had been no picture, which would have been helpful. He would have been far more composed and gracious if he knew just how pretty the tutors were. "I did not think I'd be meeting you so soon. Stark does not waste time, I suppose."

"No, he does not," Amelia said, with that soft, mysterious smile again. And that's when it hit him, what her smile reminded him of: the Mona Lisa. He had seen it at the Louvre just this last spring. The painting had been smaller than he imagined, disappointing in a way; Amelia was the exact opposite. And her smile was just as powerful. Small, but meaningful, like sharing a secret only the two of them knew. It made his heart skip a beat.

She continued, "I didn't think it'd be so soon, either. But I guess better now than later. So, you need help with math and science, right?"

"Ha-ha." Dmitri shook his head, pushing comparisons to landmark Italian Renaissance portraiture out of his mind and tried to focus on the moment. Thinking about math and science sobered him quickly, and he let out a sarcastic laugh, running a tired hand through his hair. "Oh, yes. You may ask yourself, why does a dancer need to know math and science? But I need my general credits or whatever they're called, to stay here, yes? So, I have to pass this season, and I can stay." He made a face. "I am certain that sounds pathetic to you."

"What? No, it's fine," Amelia smirked, although it didn't seem to be of contempt or pity. More ironic than anything else. "Actually, I'm kind of in the same situation as you."

"Really?" Dmitri was surprised. Before he could ask, a shout rang through the air, the director calling his name, telling him to get to his starting position. He threw Amelia an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I have to go. Rehearsal is for another hour and a half. But I meet you afterwards, yes? There is a library nearby, we can meet there and discuss things further? Does that — does that sound okay?"

"Sounds great," Amelia smiled again, but it was a polite one this time. Not the Mona Lisa. Still good, though. It made his cheeks warm. Dmitri clambered back onto the stage to hide his blush. "Do you need my number? You can text me when you're done."

"Already have it," Dmitri said, raising his phone. She seemed confused, so he added, "Email, remember? But yes, I will let you know. Sorry for the wait. I know you must have better things to do."

They waved good-bye, and as soon as Dmitri turned around, half the gathered corps were all looking at him. A few barely contained smiles, several whispers behind hands. Dmitri could already feel another blush rise to his cheeks. Roksana wriggled her eyebrows playfully at him, and as he came to her side, she leaned in and whispered in Russian, "Someone's got a crush…!"

"Oh, shut up," He mumbled, elbowing her but unable to come up with a retort. It was as good as an admission. Guilty as sin. He underestimated how well the other dancers knew him. This was going to be a popular topic, he realized with growing dread. And every time Amelia showed up, it would only rekindle.

And yet, Dmitri couldn't help but throw a glance over his shoulder, at the doorway Amelia disappeared into. He couldn't wait to see her again.

She would never find him in the Red Room.