Galina Mosin never even gave us the opportunity to forget about her invitation to the theater. She showed up every single day, reminding us of our promise. It was only to Ferdinand and myself, however. Perhaps she did not like the looks of Mrs. Popov, who hung around far too much, hoping to get close to a woman who knew the queen, or perhaps she had some reason for only pursuing two of us. At any rate, she let them know she'd invite them to the next meeting, but this one she'd rather just the dancers attend the theater with her. It made Mrs. Popov and Katya visibly tense, but I could do nothing when Galina was so set on her own plans.

When the day arrived, Galina showed up at the door bright and early, avoiding the rest of the Popovs quite neatly. With her booming voice, she strode into the LeClaire's sitting room, nearly scooped us up like a hen, and rushed us out of the door. I found myself sitting in her motorcar in a daze, whisked down the road in the crisp morning light.

"The Committee will be so pleased to see you both! A countess and one of the most famous ballet dancers in Rumonin!" She clapped her hands, like a child about to enter a sweets shop.

Ferdinand chatted with her politely as we wound our way down street after street, passing the early risers headed toward cafes where they could order croissants and thick hot chocolates. While all the snow had melted by now, the morning's still carried a sharp bite to them. Fur coats and hats marked all the Rumonin refugees, at least the ones still wealthy enough to afford them. I watched them as we passed, wondering what plans they had in their days.

After ten minutes, the driver of our motorcar pulled up onto the concrete courtyard of a large building. Its mint green and white facade tucked between conjoined homes, and two massive towers rose on either end. Golden statues topped the towers, glinting in the sun, and marble pillars held up a portico where portly little cherubs raced across the arch, dangling ribbons and clouds behind them.

"Saint Vitus Theater!" Galina announced, sweeping her arm outward.

I fought not to let my mouth hang open in astonishment. This was the small theater that Queen Leonore was willing to lend out to Rumoni refugees? It looked almost like a palace in its scope and beauty. I couldn't imagine what the Queen's Theater looked like, if this one was so grand.

"Follow me, children!" Galina said, climbing down from the motorcar when the driver opened the door for her. Ferdinand noticeably bristled at the use of 'children', but I didn't mind. I knew she meant no harm, and, to be honest, we were still children in most people's eyes. Though it felt like we'd lived lifetimes, it hadn't even been two decades yet.

Galina led the way into the building through two oak doors gilded with stained glass. Inside, a lobby covered in red and beige carpet stretched out until it met a massive marble staircase leading to the upper levels and box seats. Large brown pillars soared up to the vaulted ceiling, and crystal chandeliers hung down at intervals to light our way. Along the walls that banked against the staircase, little alcoves sold refreshments in a quaint imitation of street stalls. It was at one of the alcoves that a great mass of men and women stood, chatting with each other and sipping champagne from delicate flutes.

This was how we found out that before seeing the ballet, we were going to meet with the noblemen and women who made up the Rumonin Restoration.

Galina introduced us to the crowd, and at first they seemed intensely interested in me. I could barely breathe due to all the bodies pressed in tight, plying me with questions and wide eyes. Yet, once they realized that my accent was rough and that I did not know any of the counts and dukes they did, their interest cooled and they turned instead to Ferdinand. Here, they found the noble they yearned for. He knew all the right things to reply to their questions, and turned on a cheerful and bright personality that would have been at home in a palace. Then, when the famous Maestro Vanzin from the National found him, all the talk turned to his ballets and the ones each noble had seen him perform.

I stood to one side, thankful to be out of the spotlight. It was doubtful anyone here had seen me perform, and if they had, I would have most likely been under a veil due to the costume Mr. Lennox wanted me to wear. For the most part, I was a countess who did not act like one, and that was no fun at all to the nobles.

On the other hand, the Restoration was not made up entirely of nobles. Noticeably mundane next to the silks and velvets, were the tweeds and cottons. Artists and philosophers and poets and writers. The fabric of Rumoni's culture. Intellectuals and creatives, those not blessed with a high position or material wealth, but graced with talents from heaven that earned them a spot next to the pantheon of titles and ancient bloodlines. Still, though they were accepted as respected members of the elite, they stood out next to the nobles. While there was a sense of naivety and wasteful cheerfulness among the titled, the artistes were somber and sullen, standing by themselves and nursing drinks a bit stronger than bubbling champagne.

These scholars of academics and arts seemed to realize that I belonged to their set, more than the nobles, and a few approached me to discuss my part in the day. I explained that I came to see the ballet, and this admission of being in the class of performer, solidified their good graces. Soon, I found myself chatting with an old philosopher from the National University, though I could not remember his name.

"A few weeks ago, we received notice that the Vigilant piled all the paintings of the great Masters into the roads and burnt them. Dumped alcohol onto them, lit a match, and--" the professor slashed his arm through the air, "--history wiped from the face of the planet."

Even though the air was the same temperature it had always been, a creeping cold scuttled across my skin, drawing up goosebumps. I remembered late nights in Rumonin, hiding in alleys as the Vigilant gathered in mobs and stalked down the roads, hatred and fury in their eyes, burning whatever they could find and pulverising anything that flames could not destroy.

"It's so terrible," I nearly whispered. "They burn harmless landscape paintings and music scores. What does it accomplish?"

The philosopher leveled his gaze at me. "It's not meant to accomplish anything. It is merely meant to destroy what was left of Rumonin. Destroy a nation's culture, their art and music and writing, and you destroy the very core of its being. The Vigilant do not wish to remake Rumonin into anything. They wish to obliterate it and create in its place a whole new order, with that Matveev as their new god. Why should they keep anything, or anyone, that belongs to the 'heathen' others? Faith must be placed solely in Matveev and his new ideas, no matter the cost. The birth of his new world is one bathed in flames and ashes."

I swallowed hard, tears prickling my eyes. The philosopher watched me, and I saw in the viridian depths of his eyes the same bone-weary weight that I carried on my own shoulders. It was the burden of knowing that the Vigilant were unlikely to be stopped, and that all the innocents they harmed or killed, all the poison they spread through their violence, would never be punished or brought to justice. This was history now, and we could do nothing to stop it.

Just then, Ferdinand appeared at my side, his hand resting on the strip of bare skin around my wrist. I drew in a shaky breath, the spell of the philosopher's weighty words dying away, and realized that the men and women of the Restoration were now moving slowly toward a pair of mahogany doors underneath the grand staircase. The philosopher bowed his farewells to us, before following the crowd away. He didn't take with him the pall that now slithered around in my stomach like an eel in the fishmonger's tanks.

"Galina said we are going to see the rehearsals for the ballet company now," Ferdinand whispered, his brow furrowed and his voice soft.

I pushed a smile through the worry. "We should hurry up, then," I replied, sliding my hand down to take his.

We walked through the doors, which led into the ground floor seating of the theater. We were in the middle aisle, the biggest of the five that split the seats evenly from wall to wall. The lights were all dimmed, but there was still plenty enough to take in the cavernous room before us. It was all red velvet and beige woodwork, with faux pillars and arches that did little structurally, but an immense decoratively. The stage, much larger than most I was used to, stretched in a semi-circle at the back of the room, decorated with a bland pastoral backdrop and midnight black curtains pulled away to the sides.

The men and women making up the ballet already stood on the wooden stage, stretching and warming up their legs and arms and backs. It was quite obvious most were not Rumoni dancers, what with their light and airy movements that did not at all match the more earthy and powerful moves we'd been taught by the Rumoni traditional of ballet. These were dancers used to the frothy ballets of Flauns, and their almost doll-like features, with delicate eyelashes and button noses, set them even further apart. The few Rumoni standing in their midst stuck out with their broad shoulders, thickly coiled muscles, and powerful leaps and leg sweeps.

As Ferdinand and I caught up with Galina and her guests, the ballet dancers gathered in the middle of the stage to prepare for rehearsals. The women dancers wore plain dresses, cut a bit below their knee with flouncy skirts, and the men wore loose shirts, open at the collar to reveal flashes of clavicles, and fitted pants. They talked amongst themselves, as if they knew each other from somewhere else, and I immediately felt that old sense of being the outsider wash over me.

I was about to sit down when Galina appeared in the aisle at my elbow. She smiled, all teeth, and grabbed me in a vice grip. "No, I can't possibly let you just watch! Come along! You're both going to dance!"

Panic flooded me. Dance? I hadn't done that since Rumonin. What had once been my only identity, now felt like someone else's. As the stage loomed closer and closer, my heart flopped more and more. In a few seconds, I would invite dance back into my life. The question was, did I want it there?