Red-haired Anna stood opposite Hugo, hands to her hips, a suspicious smile escaping her. When the feisty little tune launched, Aarne keeping syncopated time with his staff, Hugo shifted to the lavolta, taking her hand and moving into closed position without tangling his legs between hers. Then, with flashing eyes, he put one hand on her back, touching her just above the hip. She gasped—his was proper form, but done with such audacity! His other hand went to her busk, as if he owned it.

Together, they stepped, and sprang into the air, hopped for a measure, returned to the ground—with the greenery on the walls, it felt as if they were in a field. Anna caught her breath, for she knew what was coming, and Hugo lifted her, held her there, not just with his hand but with the support of one strong thigh, the contact brief, and then it was over as he allowed her back to the dance floor for the final measure.

They separated, and continued an improvised galliard that lasted not five steps, or eleven, but seventeen. By the third step, Anna wanted him to spare the gift of white doves and gold-leaf papyrus when he proposed to her; by the seventh step, she wanted to skip the church wedding; and by the thirteenth step, she was ready for more, immediately, now, please.

The music ended, Maria putting down her recorder and pretending she needed a drink of water. Her sister Anna had danced beautifully, and the light had caressed her red hair as she spun in Hugo’s arms, reminding Maria that no man would ever love her.

But now Hugo was standing above her, extending his forearm. It was a posture as curious to her as if he were asking her to admire the fabric of his uniform, but then, swallowing, she realized he had returned Anna to the piano, and was asking her to dance. He handed her a flower.

“Shall it be a waltz?” he called over his shoulder. Red-haired Anna, flushed, glowing, confused as if she’d been kissed on the neck, struck up the opening of Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings. Vasilisa joined in, and Aarne, returning late with the pitcher of water, hurried to measure out time with his shakestaff.

Hugo swept Maria around the floor, supporting her in full, muscular turns. She had not had a partner like this since Monsieur Turner, the dance instructor, had gone to gather wood and been butchered by the Red Army. Hugo propelled them forward, and into the air, with the relentlessness of a piston engine, and yet he was sensitive to her dizziness, slowing imperceptibly and leading her when necessary. The roaring fire was crackling and sizzling, and throwing wonderful shadows and light over his beaming face.