New to On the Cusp of the Earth? Start from the beginning!
A band played jazz standards at low volume while we ate what Ruel said was a traditional dinner. It wasn’t quite a modern ballroom, more like a 1990s hotel banquet room where large high schools hold proms. The carpet was an elaborate pattern, starting with a muted pink, almost a mauve color, as the base then working in frills and furls of muted turquoise, off white, and gold until a large, somewhat formal floral pattern was achieved. Each group of flowers linked to the other in a repetitive method of semicircular gold and semi-white vines.
The meal had begun with deviled eggs and dumplings filled with what tasted like mushrooms, a basic beef, and something else that was a vegetable, but I couldn’t decipher which one. Then came a vegetable stew, and, finally, roasted duck and baked yams.
“You have to try this!” Maria exclaimed to me from across the table. She was pointing at a mug of something that looked like honey-colored tea.
“What is it?” I asked as the server put two mugs of it before Ruel and me.
“Sbiten,” the Russian officer sitting next to her told me. He was the same younger officer Maria had been eying throughout the week. His hair was fine and a stark blond that complemented his light blue eyes, much resembling those of a husky. I had a laugh to myself about that, a Siberian husky. He looked a bit Norwegian, though, which gave me a slight thrill as it reminded me of Ruel and the Fjord folder emails.
I drank the hot liquid. It tasted a bit like fruit tea with a touch of cinnamon. A little sweet for my taste, but I put on a smile and a nod for Maria and the officer. “It’s really good.”
Ruel took a swig of his and leaned in towards me saying in a low voice, “A bit too sweet for me.”
“Manners, Ruel,” I teased.
I wasn’t sure why, perhaps it was the sugar of the drink, but suddenly the two glasses of red wine went straight to my head. I felt dizzy and giddy. I felt Ruel’s hand on my lower thigh, just above my knee. I looked at him, slightly alarmed, but wearing what felt like a sloppy, goofy smile. He smiled back and reached up to tuck a loose curl behind my ear. I turned away in time to see Maria grinning madly at us before focusing quickly on her officer.
Colonel General Zhuravlev took the stage by the band and spoke in Russian to the crowd of about forty officers and their dates, all in floor length gowns. Ruel interpreted for me, and Maria’s officer did so for her. “Dinner is finished, and now we’re moving into the dancing segment of the evening. There are going to be performers to begin with before we can all dance. I think something like five traditional dances, the first will be the Kamarinskaya,” he summarized in my ear.
After the applause, the band struck up a song that, of course, sounded rather Russian, with a medium tempo. Young, fit men took the floor wearing elaborate red tops and black pants. They began a perfectly choreographed performance, moving in lines and sections in what looked like a fast ballet. Eventually, women joined in, wearing colorful dresses with layers of white underskirts. The tempo had increased, and I hoped that we would not be required to dance something like this. I would pass out. I was certainly in shape, perhaps good enough shape to perform a dance or two at that speed, but not to learn them all and keep up.
We all watched the dance and I drank some water, hoping to sober up a bit. Maria had leaned in close to her officer and his arm was around her waist. Typical. The song slowed and the couples bowed to one another. After another applause, the band began a new tune and the dancers launched into another dance where each man had two female partners.
“The Troika,” Ruel said to me.
“How exactly do you know this?”
“I like traditional things,” Ruel said, shrugging, and looked away back to the dance floor.
Traditional to whom? The fact that he was likely Russian seeped back into my mind. But what did it mean?
After three more dances, one of them including squats, clapping, and the occasional “hey!”, Zhuravlev took the stage again. After many ‘thank yous’ and ‘well dones’ to the dancers, he invited us all to join in the fun.
“Care to dance?” Ruel asked, his open palm extended.
“I would love to.” I smiled and took his hand. He kissed the back of mine again, just like at my door earlier tonight, and my heart jumped. “I will warn you, though, my Russian folk dances are not quite up to speed.”
He laughed. “No, I doubt anyone else’s are either.”
We took the floor, next to Maria and her blond officer, and the violins began. I was relieved to hear the familiar one, two, three of a traditional waltz, and immediately fell into the flow of Ruel’s footwork. He led spectacularly. Why I ever wondered about that, who knows, of course he would. Ruel seemed to do everything in such a fashion.
“I can’t believe you!” Maria exclaimed while we were heading to the restroom, mostly for a breather than anything else. “Where did you learn how to dance?”
I winced slightly. I had been hoping to avoid this question all night, but after seeing Maria holding onto her blond officer for dear life during most of the dances, I realized that it would come up. I guess her years of nightclub salsa dancing did not equate to formal ballroom skills.
“I had to do cotillions as a little kid,” I said, feeding her my prepared response.
“What’s that?”
“It’s more or less etiquette training. For little kids. It’s fairly mean-spirited in that way, I think.” I laughed, but the spirit behind the dance training I had actually received was a bit more than mean-spirited. It was evil. Ronaldo’s dance and etiquette instructor, a wispy thing called Mrs. Katz, taught us something she called Waltz 42. Her words came to me now, “One, two, three. One, two, break. One, two, three. And lovely!” The point of the Waltz 42 was to break your partner’s wrist as a form of leverage.
“Well, whatever it was, it worked,” Maria said. “You look fantastic out there! I feel like I’m on a high speed roller coaster with no shoulder harness.”
“Well, I think you looked fine. No different than anyone else, except you have a better partner than most people.” I opened the door the bore the word we had come to know as Ladies. “The real question is: where did he learn how to dance?”
“Russian cotillions?” Maria said and laughed. “And what about Ruel? The way he dances, well, I can see why you like him.”
“You trying to move in on my man?” I teased her.
“Oh, definitely.” She rolled her eyes and pulled lip gloss out of her clutch and began to apply it staring at the mirror. “Seriously, though, he’s so suave. When did he get so suave?”
I just smiled and watched the shine of the gloss take over her lips in a meticulous manner. She caught my eye in the mirror and held up the pink tube to me. I shook my head.
“Ready?” she asked, stuffing the gloss back into her purse.
“Yes.”
I thought about Ruel, suave Ruel, waiting in there for me. Chatting it up with some Russians. The Russians. A nagging pang hit—a small voice in my mind chanting, spy, spy, spy. I shook my head to dispel the voice, but it remained in a faint form. I wondered if it would ever go away.
Ruel’s hand stroked my back lightly, breaking hold. Another waltz. This one was rather slow with sweet, romantic strings and no brass. Clearly an end of the night couples dance. Ruel breathed in deeply, his face buried in my hair. I felt myself go lightheaded and then take a couple missteps.
“Careful,” he murmured, then started to whisper the beat count softly, slowly. The dreaded one, two, three. Over and over. Something about it was more familiar this time than my memory of Mrs. Katz. Then, for no reason, an image of my mother and father flashed through my mind. They were together, much younger, and watching something with earnest. The picture stayed fixed in my mind, but I couldn’t place the memory. It was like a snapshot of a dream sequence, fleeting and not quite tangible to any reality. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. Ruel stopped counting.
“Bad memories?”
“Something like that.” I said, but the image was gone. It disappeared as soon as Ruel stopped counting.
We stopped moving, standing still as statues in the middle of the dance floor. He pulled away and looked me in the eye. “Let’s get out of here.” His eyes looked straight into me and I felt naked, completely exposed. His hand moved to my jawbone and he leaned in, kissing me softly. “Come on.”
“But you’re… you’re a—” I stopped myself short. You’re a spy. I couldn’t say that, what was I thinking?
“I’m a what?” Ruel let out a small laugh, then his eyes darted to the nearest Russian officer. “The night’s coming to a close, Emma. Let’s go.”
He led me to our table to get my purse and coat, then out the door and down to the lobby. I didn’t say goodbye to Maria. I was in some sort of daze. The idea of my parents’ image lingered in my mind, but not the actual image. I couldn’t conjure it no matter how hard I tried. I could only pull up a faint echo of it, a memory of that moment on the dance floor and nothing else. What on earth was this about?
“Emma? Earth to Emma.” Ruel’s voice pulled me back into the present moment. We were in our hotel’s elevator, floor fifteen’s button illuminated, and the air pressure changing on our ascent. His hand waved in front of my face until I turned to look at him. “Where’d you go?”
“No, nowhere.” I shook my head. He wasn’t buying it and gave me a stern, questioning look.
“Aw, quit with your imploring eyes!” I said, “No one can say no to that.”
“Oh really?” he smirked.
I shoved him playfully. “Really.” I drew out the word and raised my eyebrows, smirking back at him. He grabbed my hands and led me into a slow half-spin. I felt his arms encompass my waist and pull my body close to his. I made an effort to ignore the outline of his gun.
“Stay with me tonight?” he whispered.
“Is that a question or a command?”
“Hm,” he breathed and then nuzzled into my neck. “A request. It’s always your choice, though, Emma. Feel free to say no.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I think you know,” he laughed lightly.
I inhaled sharply. Perhaps the fairytale aspect of the night would be salvaged after all. The ding of the elevator startled me a little bit, causing Ruel to chuckle. He took my hand and walked me down the hall, past my room. He pulled out his card key. In his smooth, rapid movements, the door was unlocked, open, and we were inside the room. I took it in. Its layout mirrored mine. Same thick and recently installed carpet, same blankets and duvets, same analog TV, same floor length window, same heavy drapes. His were drawn, though, and his bathroom door was closed. Ruel walked over to the bed closest to us where his suitcase lay closed but unzipped. He took off his jacket, laying it neatly on the bed. He removed his tie, its soft silk had caressed my cheek throughout the night. I watched his back rise and fall as he took a deep breath before turning back towards me.
The room’s soft light caused the left side of his face to glow and cast dark shadows on the other half. Two-face, I mused to myself and smiled. But the effect was stunning and gave his face’s outline a sharp definition and his eyes further depth.
He walked to me with soft, deliberate steps, like a leopard ready to pounce, and took my face in both of his hands with a certain force. He pulled me into a fierce kiss that started softly and grew in strength. For the first time in a long time, my mind completely shut off and all that existed was he, and I, and our flesh. My hands grasped at his coarse hair, which had a thin layer of product in it. His shirt’s fabric on my bare forearms felt thick and uncomfortable, and my hands moved down to its buttons, quickly undoing them all and pulling off his shirt in one fluid motion. It fell to the ground and my hands ran up his smooth, muscular back. His body was solid muscle. Of course it was, I knew that it would be. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, he was a spy after all. Certainly he was trained in all forms of combat. With that, my mind turned back on, racing. I pulled my lips from his and tugged his bare torso close to my silk covered body for a tight embrace.
Vesper—that was Bond’s companion’s name—Vesper Lynd. I squeezed my eyes shut. I remembered the scene where she sat in the shower, the water pouring over her silk dress, a dress exactly like mine. Bond had found her like that, after she witnessed him murder two men. Her words, “It’s like there’s blood on my hands and it’s not coming off.” The flash of my own memories came to me. The knife, the blood, the black dress, the man’s eyes. No, no, no. Not those eyes. Not now. Not here. I felt my face grow hot. I was going to cry. I held up my hands to look at them. They were clean now, blood-free.
Ruel took my release of his body to mean I was done with the embrace and he pulled away from me taking a step back. I took in his body and gasped. There were not words for how beautiful he looked. Perfectly sculpted. I looked at his eyes—they were concerned and caring.
“You okay?” he asked.
Suddenly, I realized the truth, I was in love with a foreign spy, and I would never believe he was in love with me, because everything would always be false.
“I have to go,” I said, finally, and made my way for the door.
“Emma, what’s wrong?” he asked, grabbing my right forearm.
“No, nothing, I just can’t do this tonight.” I forced a smile at him. Or ever.
“Okay,” he said quietly, letting go of my arm, and brushed a loose hair from my face. “I’ll be here if you need me or anything at all. I’m just going to take a quick shower, but consider my door open.”
Interested in pre-ordering this serial (or any others)? If so, just click here!
