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breathing. He checked her pulse and took her temperature, and was surprised to find her temperature a little lower, but her pulse was thin and thready. “She is putting up a good fight. We're lucky she is young and strong.” But even the young had been dying in shocking numbers in Moscow, particularly children. “Has she taken any water?”
    “Not in several hours,” Madame Markova admitted. “I can't seem to get her to swallow, and I was afraid to choke her.” He nodded. There was truly nothing they could do now, but he had arranged to stay for several hours. His senior colleague, Dr. Botkin, had improved sufficiently to be able to attend to the Czarevitch if he had to. Dr. Obrajensky wanted to be with Danina if she died, if only to offer comfort to her mentor.
    They sat quietly side by side for hours, on hard chairs in the barren room, speaking little, and checking her from time to time. He suggested that Madame Markova try and get some rest while he was there, but she refused to leave her beloved ballerina.
    It was noon when Danina finally made an anguished sound, and stirred uncomfortably. She sounded as though she was in pain, but as the doctor checked her again, he found nothing new or different in her condition. He could only marvel that she had hung on this long. It was a real tribute to her youth, her strength, and her physical condition. And remarkably, thus far, no one else in the ballet had caught it. Only Danina.
    At four o'clock that afternoon, Dr. Obrajensky was still there, not wanting to abandon them before the end. Madame Markova had dozed off in her chair, and the doctor saw Danina become restless. She was moaning again, and stirring uncomfortably, but Madame Markova was too exhausted to hear her. The doctor examined her, and found her heart weak and irregular when he checked her. He was sure it was a sign that the end was near. Her pulse was rough as well, and she began having trouble breathing, all signs that he had been expecting. He would have liked to ease the end for her, but there was nothing he could do, except be there. He took her hand in his own, after taking her pulse again, and just stroked it gently, watching her, seeing the lovely young face so ill and so tormented. It hurt him to see it, and to be of so little use to her. It was like wrestling with demons, trying to win her. He wanted to will her back to life, to health. And he gently touched her forehead with his hand. She stirred again and said something. She sounded as though she were saying something to a friend, or one of her brothers. And then she said a single word and opened her eyes and looked at him. He had seen it a hundred times, it was a last surge of life before the end. Her eyes were wide open then, as she spoke clearly and said, “Mama, I see you.”
    “It's all right, Danina, I'm here,” he said soothingly. “Everything is going to be all right now.” Very soon, it would be over.
    “Who are you?” she said in a hoarse, ragged voice, as though she could see him clearly, but he knew she couldn't. She was seeing someone in her delirium, but it was unlikely it was the doctor she was seeing.
    “I'm your doctor,” he said quietly. “I came here to help you.”
    “Oh,” she said, and closed her eyes again, laying her head back against the pillow. “I'm going to see my mother.” He remembered then what Madame Markova had said about her only having a father and brothers, and he understood what she meant, but he wouldn't let her continue.
    “I don't want you to do that,” he said firmly. “I want you to stay here with me. We need you, Danina.”
    “No, I must go …” she said with her eyes closed, turning her head away from him. “I'll be late for class, and Madame Markova will be angry at me.” It was the most she had said in two days, and it was clear that she wanted to leave them, or knew she had to.
    “You must stay for class here, Danina … or Madame Markova and I will both be very angry. Open your