Anya interrupts impatiently. “Yes, that Aleksandra, the one who worked for Narishkina, the tsarina’s lady-in-waiting.”

“What did Aleksandra ask you?”

“You know, Aleksandra is the girl who—”

“Yes, yes, I’m saying I know exactly who she is, don’t you remember I recommended her to you when Marietta left?”

“Indeed! An inspired suggestion! She’s a jewel, she’s always pleasant and willing, unlike most servants these days, slow, two-faced, lazy…. She was asking for the evening off without any advance notice. Going out tonight, of all nights, imagine that, and returning tomorrow at dawn.”

“You should have let her go, what difference does it make to you?” Sergei says.

“That’s more easily said than done, Sergei! Who’ll dress me if she’s out? Impossible. Tomorrow is Sunday. I can’t set foot outside the house without dressing properly, and without her I’m sunk. Plus, I can’t do my own hair.”

Without looking at her, Sergei mutters, “Who dresses you? You’re a big girl! You can’t dress yourself? And what’s that expression, ‘do my own hair’? ‘Do’ my own hair!”

Claudia changes the subject. “How was your day?”

“I saw two motorcars go by!”

“They’re called automobiles,” Sergei corrects her, tersely.

Claudia continues. “What did you do today?”

“I went to the Eliseev shop….”

“Weren’t you just there yesterday?” Sergei interjects. “You could stay home, you know.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday! It’s easy for you to say, I’m home all alone….”

As if she’s thinking aloud to herself, Claudia blurts out, “I don’t even want to think about what your pantry looks like.”

“Neither do I,” Anya responds, speaking frankly. “I leave that to the help.”

“You can’t do that, Anya. They’ll steal from you, things aren’t like they used to be, you think you’re living in your grandparents’ time….”

“I’m no good at organizing. That’s what the help is for.” Anya and Claudia continue chatting for the remainder of the short distance to the theater; it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise. Sergei stops listening. He goes back to thinking about the letter from the tsar and the impossibility of getting out of the predicament. He’s so caught up that he doesn’t realize he’s missing his favorite thing about the concert, the delicious and childlike anticipation of what’s to come.

The word “childlike,” in reference to Sergei, is meaningful. He had been a happy child. He had a poet’s soul, at least until she was gone, and to make things even more difficult, he was no longer an only child. His hair lost its curl, the color of his eyes changed, his gaze—which had been identical to his father’s—acquired the restlessness of his mother’s.