Page 3 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
CHAPTER 2
SECRETS IN SATIN
Isettled into the chair before Anya's vanity, careful not to disturb the room's unsettling perfection. The half-finished letter lay where I'd spotted it earlier, its pale pink paper catching the light from the mirror's electric bulbs. I lifted it gently, noting how the elegant script grew increasingly hurried toward the end.
My dearest Katya,
I write this knowing I may not have another chance. He has found me here. The flowers, the gifts, they are not tokens of admiration but warnings. I should never have kept the photographs, but they are my only proof of what happened in Petersburg.
The letter broke off mid-sentence, the pen having scratched across the paper as if dropped in haste. I examined the ink—still faintly wet around the edges. This had been written recently, perhaps even yesterday morning, before she vanished.
I folded the letter carefully and slipped it into my notebook. Whatever Anya Petrova was running from, it had followed her from Russia to London.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. "Miss Worthington?" Mr. Cooper's voice called through the door. "The company has gathered in the rehearsal room. Monsieur LeClair thought you might want to speak with them now.”
"Thank you. I'll be right there."
I took one last look around the dressing room, memorizing its pristine arrangement. Then I followed Cooper through the maze of backstage corridors to a large, mirror-lined room where a dozen dancers waited in various states of rehearsal dress.
As I entered, the conversations died, and all eyes turned to me with expressions ranging from curious to hostile. These were artists, I reminded myself—passionate, temperamental people whose livelihoods depended on the very woman who had vanished. They would want her found. Or at least, most of them would.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Cooper announced, "this is Miss Worthington. She's here to help find Anya."
A tall, willowy brunette with sharp cheekbones stepped forward. Her practice dress was immaculate, her hair pulled back in a severe chignon that emphasized her angular features.
"I'm Vivienne Marsh," she said, extending a hand. "Anya's understudy." The word carried a weight of frustrated ambition that made me take notice.
"Miss Marsh,” I said, shaking her hand. “So, you would be stepping into the lead role if Anya doesn't return?"
“I would.” Vivienne's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I’ve been her understudy for two years, and I know every step, every breath ofThe Firebird.” She paused, then added with what seemed like genuine concern, "But I'd rather Anya return safely than win the role this way."
A petite redhead nearby snorted softly. "Would you really, Viv?"
"That's enough, Margaret," Vivienne snapped, two spots of color appearing on her pale cheeks.
I made a mental note to speak with Margaret privately later. Nothing reveals character quite like professional jealousy.
"When did you last see Anya?" I asked the group.
"Yesterday evening," replied a dark-haired young man with the compact build of a male dancer. "After rehearsal. She seemed . . . distracted."
"Distracted how?"
"She kept looking toward the wings," said Margaret, the redhead. "As if someone was watching her. And she dropped her bag when Monsieur LeClair called her name—scattered her things everywhere."
"Did anyone help her gather them?"
"I did," Vivienne said quietly. "There were letters mixed in with her usual things. Foreign letters—Russian, I think. She snatched them up quickly, but not before I saw they were . . . disturbing."
"Disturbing in what way?"
Vivienne glanced around the room, then lowered her voice. "They looked like threats. Dark ink, harsh writing. And there was something else. Photographs. Old ones, from when she was a child."
My pulse quickened. "Did you see what was in the photographs?"
"Just glimpses. A little girl—Anya, I suppose—standing beside a stern-looking man. The photos looked . . . formal. Stiff. Like official portraits."
"Has anyone else noticed changes in Anya's behavior recently?"
