Wynn turned back to the hills. If Mrs. Varjensky was cooking, the offerings were likely to be delicious, but only he, Mother, Marina, and
He flipped the kopek in the air, head over tails, and caught it. A choice to be made, fifty-fifty either way it landed. He’d never had difficulty choosing before, the path always confident under his feet, but the ground had shifted. He could no longer look at the world through the same lens with his future balanced on the edge of a scalpel because unwittingly he’d put that same blade in the hands of his peers. And for what? To prove to himself how great he was? To prove to them how much they needed him?
He flipped the coin again. When had this monolith of success entered the competition against the human beings he had sworn to care for? His patients and tenants didn’t require him to be the best in his field, and they certainly didn’t care a bit for the arrogance toted around with self-proclaimed prestige. Perhaps a tiny part of it had been for the glory, but what real change did glory mark in the universal scheme when he failed to put his talents to good use on the people entrusted to his care? His talent may never change the history books, but he could change lives worth far more than the opinion of a board of white-haired old men. Hang their opinion and his need for their approval. It wouldn’t stop him from serving those in need whether he received the praise or not.
At least that was one perspective he could change. Svetlana would take a wee more finessing.
Not brave enough to face that bitter pain yet again, he pocketed the kopek and hunched his shoulders against the coming darkness as the temperature fell around him.
Chapter 29
“Mama, you must eat.” The spoon in Svetlana’s hand hovered in front of her mother’s mouth, but the aging princess turned her face to the lacey pillow and stared out the window. The chamber had been shrouded like a tomb when Svetlana first entered, but she’d peeled back the heavy drapes to let in the sunlight at great protest from the room’s occupant. The words were some of the few her mother had spoken since the news came of their terrible loss.
Wiping off the bits of sugared oatmeal seeping over the spoon’s rim, Svetlana tried another tactic: her mother’s vanity. “Your figure will waste away.”
Mama’s only response was a slow blink, as if her lashes were too heavy to hold up. Silver threaded between the dark blond strands of hair hanging past her sunken cheeks. She had always been meticulous about her appearance and aging cover-ups, but grief had woven a tattered spell of carelessness, leaving in its wake a stripped layer of the woman who once was.
Across the room, Marina shrugged at the daily battle. They’d taken turns coaxing their mother to eat at mealtimes, but Svetlana was never successful. Mama preferred Marina’s administrations, and even then it was hardly more than a nibble or sip. Svetlana could hardly blame her. She wasn’t pleasant enough company for herself these days. Not that it made a difference to her mother. She’d never found her eldest daughter’s company more than tolerable, closing off her affection to shower upon her other children instead. Svetlana had never questioned it, merely accepted it.
Staring down now at the once vibrant woman shriveling to a gaunt shell of herself, Svetlana realized she never really knew her mother beyond the fancy gowns and tittering parlor room laughter—a laugh she claimed to have first caught Dmitri Dalsky’s attention. It was one of the only claims Father had never refuted, so Svetlana knew it must have been true. A rare connection between her parents when she’d witnessed so few.
“Father would not wish to see you like this.”
Mama slowly shifted on the pillow. Her eyes stared with unfocused lucidity as if searching for a ghost on Svetlana’s face. Inch by inch, she raised her head and took a bite of the oatmeal. Eating four more bites, she tapped a brittle nail against the teacup. Svetlana poured the fragrant brew into the cup and held it up to her mother’s lips. Mama took a sip, grimaced, and fell back to the pillow.
“I know it’s not from a samovar, but we must make do.” Wrapping her fingers around the delicate cup, the more obvious problem became clear. “It’s cold. I’ll ring for a fresh pot.”