Andrey Gorensky

The city's lights were just beginning to come on, but a line of carriages had already formed up on Znamenskaya Street. The air, crisp and damp, trembled with the impatient snorting of horses, the crystal jingle of harnesses, and the muffled chatter of coachmen. But as soon as one stepped onto the carpeted porch, as soon as the liveried doorman swung open the heavy oak door, autumn was over. The reign of eternal, ringing, dazzling winter had begun. The first thing that enveloped those entering was a wave. A wave of warmth, mingled with hundreds of aromas: the subtle scent of perfume, the wax of parquet floors, the sweat of countless bodies, and the pungent smoke of burning candles. A huge chandelier, a multi-tiered crystal colossus, cascaded down from above in streams of light, soft yet merciless. This light fragmented in the ladies' diamonds, glided across the soldiers' epaulettes, made snow-white cambric dresses and black tailcoats shimmer, turning the crowd into a single, swaying, living organism. The grand staircase, carpeted in scarlet cloth, led upward to a suite of halls. A subdued hum of anticipation reigned here. The ladies, pausing on the landings, adjusted their lace and fanned their flushed faces with fans like wings. The men, their heels clicking on the marble, hastily pulled on their gloves. In this anteroom of the celebration, the scent of perfume was more pronounced, mingling with the mothballs of freshly removed fur coats. And then, among the crowd, you saw him—Andrei. He was tall, with curly cinnamon hair. His gaze was bored and clinical. All the ladies whispered about him, but he paid no attention. He simply stood to the side, barely looking at anyone. He was bored and wanted to leave, but stayed out of respect for the birthday girl. You were attending a ball for the first time in your life, young and inexperienced. Even though you knew almost all the nobles there, you still felt awkward, but you tried your best.