Prologue

DECEMBER

PRIX OF FIGURE SKATING FINAL—MILANO, ITALY

T here's thirty seconds before the music starts.

She can already smell the smoke.

The audience blurs into a sea of coat-wrapped color as she takes a lap around the ice, the overwhelming sounds of competition fading into a dull roar. It’s different at home—by this time, the stands are shaking—but she knows where the people waving little paper flags and posters with her name on them are. They’re cheering for her. The knowledge is pounding at the back of her skull.

“Next skater–from Russia; Ekaterina Andreyeva!”

“La prossima pattinatrice, dalla Russia; Ekaterina Andreyeva!”

Katya can imagine what those insufferable commentators are saying over the television right now. Garbling up her name and gushing over her flawless technique as usual, only now they’ll be bringing up her short program. How Polina, Anna and Elizaveta are all ahead of her. How she’s currently in fourth place.

Katya hasn’t been any lower than third after a short program since–well, ever , at least not in recent memory. Polina beating her is no surprise, considering she has one more quadruple jump in her repertoire. But Elizaveta managed to avoid her flutz problem—meaning she took off into a Lutz jump from the correct edge, for once—and Anna somehow landed a combination she’d never pulled off, allowing both of them to squeeze ahead in the rankings.

But it’s fine. She just has to be perfect.

She stops, shaking out her hands. Raises her arms. Short exhale, but when the first chord of Khachaturian’s Masquerade Waltz resounds, she forgets she’s even living.

The violin lifts, and Katya takes off into crossovers, the footwork sequence lilting in time with the music. Quad toe, spin combination, triple loop, triple Axel, triple flip—then the music shifts, and it’s time for her quad combo.

This is what she’s been working for. This is it. If she lands this, the gold is hers.

The cameras track her every movement, and the operators wheel them around to follow her as she whizzes by. Katya glances behind her, making sure she has enough space, then prepares her entry for the Salchow and jumps, pressing in on herself to complete all four revolutions. She doesn’t have any time to waste on celebrating, though, and she immediately leaps into the quad toe.

One. Two. Three. Four.

She lands—barely. Her blade shakes so badly as it hits the ice it’s a miracle she doesn’t just fall over immediately. Katya’s forced to put her extended leg down to steady herself–a major no-no–which proceeds to catch the ice wrong. That’s when she trips backward and has to slam both hands on the ice to keep herself from crashing to the ground.

Which doesn’t work.

The gasps are audible, and she's floundering around like a baby seal, tripping over herself again as she tries to get up. Oh god, oh my god –Katya’s frozen. She’s panicking, which has never ever happened in competition, she almost forgets what she’s doing; but then she comes to her senses and tries desperately to catch up to the music.

She’s supposed to have reached center ice and entered her end position by now. But she’s late, and the music cuts before she even gets there.

She falls to her knees, chest heaving, reaching out to the audience. There’s a split second of hesitation before the applause comes.

Katya can’t breathe.

This isn’t happening.

She forces herself up, standing there in shock for a second before she ducks into a half-curtsy and rushes off the ice. She screeches to a stop in front of the exit, grabbing her skate guards from someone she doesn’t recognize through the fog in her head, slinging them on her blades and stepping onto solid ground.

It doesn’t make her feel any less seasick, any more secure. The faces of her coaches make her heart jump in her throat.

Tatyana’s in particular—Katya’s head coach is currently staring her down with a glare colder than the ice she was just skating on. Tatyana doesn’t say anything, just turns and walks away. The worst part is, she somehow doesn’t even look surprised.

The horror keeps seizing in her chest, and she turns to Mikhail, clearing her throat. “Well?”

Please say it wasn’t as bad as it felt. Please say it’s fine. Please say it’s not as bad as I think it is.

Her assistant coach looks worried. He’s never worried. He bites his lip, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Come on. We should probably catch up to them.”

They sit down in the kiss-and-cry to wait for the results. Katya’s in a daze. Mikhail’s still got his arm around her. Tatyana has returned and is dead silent. The rest of the team is glancing at each other, not sure what to do—none of Tatyana’s girls have had a skate like this all season, let alone the one who’s won silver in every damn competition.

The seconds drag by. Come on, I’ll settle for third, I’ll take it this once—

Mikhail drops his arm.

The number five burns bright in the place column. Tatyana shoots to her feet and storms off; the other trainers following meekly. Then Mikhail steps away, too.

Katya sits there alone, frozen. She drops her head to her hands.

She doesn’t even register the bleeding.