Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy by Judith Gould

done the same thing and told her about it.
    It was, to her, a simple matter of ensuring their safety. Social acceptance had never entered her mind. The memories of the pogrom were still all too real. How often the nightmares about it still caused her to awaken in a cold sweat. Schmarya might have understood that, had she not, despite his violent opposition, had Tamara baptized in the Russian Orthodox Church at the same time. He had taken it as a personal insult, an insult against all he held dear. Senda simply viewed her action as practical necessity, insurance against the future for both herself and her daughter.
    The question haunting her now was: Would Schmarya ever find it in his heart to forgive her? Would he ever get over what he considered her treachery against their faith, their heritage, and love her again the way he once had? The way she still loved him in so many, many ways.
    These terrible thoughts swirled in her mind as thickly as the snowflakes outside.
    The tears blurred her vision, but it was not her own crying which finally brought her out of her reverie. She swiftly crossed over to the crib. The little room was chilly again. The fire had burned itself out. The cries were coming from Tamara. She had awakened, and was hungry and cold. Or, Senda won dered, could she somehow sense that something was wrong, even in the depths of her sleep, and need comfort as badly as she herself?
    It was then that Senda realized Schmarya was no longer in the room. She hadn't heard him leave during her miserable soul-searching. She shivered, but it was not from the cold. Icy fingers of dread rippled through her, bringing new fears along. Where was Schmarya? Where had he gone? And what in heaven's name was he up to now?
    Oh, God, she prayed silently, let him do anything he feels he must as long as it will not ultimately bring harm to Tamara.
     
    It was an interminable wait before the guard ambled along to the far end of the narrow hallway, turned his back, and lit a cigarette. Then Schmarya saw his opportunity. He shut the door soundlessly, and furtively dashed down the narrow stair case to the ground floor. Avoiding the servants was no easy matter. While the Danilovs slept, a small army worked in a quiet frenzy to prepare for the next day's celebration. Once he reached the grand public rooms on the ground floor, he thought he had a chance to escape undetected.
    The floors of the hushed corridors and reception rooms were masterpieces of their makers' craft: finely inlaid marquetry swirls and checkerboards with a polished, honey-rich glow. Despite the heat radiating from the porcelain ovens and steam radiators, Schmarya could feel the relentless damp chill soaking through the arabesques of wood, numbing his stockinged feet. No amount of heat could completely dispel the damp arctic chill as he tiptoed soundlessly, boots in hand, and flitted in and out of the shadowed niches, pressing himself against the icy statues at any distant sound. Finally slithering behind two sets of heavy curtains, he unlatched a tall bevelled-glass French door in one of the splendid reception rooms and slipped outside, wedging the door shut again with a large splin ter of wood so that he could open it from the outside once he returned. He pulled on his boots in the dim yellow glow of light which spilled out from a window on the floor above. He was on the balustraded terrace overlooking the park which sloped down to the frozen river.
    It was deathly cold out. Although well-bundled, he instantly felt the raw wind turning his blood to ice. The moisture in his nostrils crystallized, and he wound his scarf around his nose and mouth. He was both terrified and exhilarated by the sud den overwhelming sense of freedom.
    For long silent minutes he stayed concealed in the shadows, wary of being seen or stopped or, worst of all, tracked to his ultimate destination. When he was fairly certain no one had spied him leaving, he crept along the palace, keeping as close to