The Ice Swan полностью

Or so Wynn hoped. He never lied to his patients. It promoted distrust in his sworn duties as a healer, an oath he did not take lightly, though there were times to hold back the truth. Patients often needed a glimmer of hope to cling to and if that rested in Wynn’s silence, then so be it.

Signing off duty, Wynn stopped by his rented room and buttoned into a fresh shirt that didn’t smell of carbolic lotion. He added a drop of eau de cologne that had nothing whatsoever to do with the woman he was about to visit.

Patient, he corrected. The patient he was about to visit.

Mayhap she would smile today. He’d never given much thought to making a woman smile. Certainly he’d endeavored to offer a pleasant evening to whichever debutante his mother cajoled him into escorting to the season’s balls or theater outings, but the experiences never left a lasting impression. This woman had. Her sadness and the stubborn way she tried to overrule it tugged at him in a way he never expected. All he wished to do was relieve her of the burden.

With the challenge set before him, Wynn headed down the street to Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. Thick white clouds formed overhead, blocking out the mid-summer sky. With any luck a light rain shower would cool down the temperatures and keep the Tommies from heat exhaustion. There was nothing more embarrassing for an experienced soldier than to be brought into hospital with sunburns instead of a stray bullet.

Wynn paused at the cellar door. Smoothed his waistcoat—having foregone a jacket in the heat—and rerolled a shirtsleeve that had slipped. He chided himself for being so ludicrous. He was here as a physician. Nothing more. Before he could question the shine on his shoes, he entered.

Voices rose to meet him on the descent into the cool chamber. People milled about in states of boredom and all the variations that took on individual characters. Children running about, women folding and refolding their meager belongings, and men in heavy discussion among themselves. People caught in limbo as war raged around them. They couldn’t take up arms nor could they go about the ordinary duties of hearth and home. It was a demoralizing existence of waiting while one’s fate was determined elsewhere.

The whispers and stares intensified the farther he waded in. He caught snatches of one word rising with reverence above the rest: printsessa. Svetlana. He’d never given much thought to titles. Nobles and peasants bled alike on the operating table, but these people had stared at her yesterday in awe. He’d witnessed a few crossing themselves—not in a devil-get-thee-behind-me way, but more as if seeing the Almighty’s chosen. All of which had been wiped away the second they spotted him trailing behind.

“Good afternoon.” He smiled at a little girl staring boldly at him. Her mother yanked her away. Was there something about him that Russians didn’t like?

Stepping over what he assumed to be the line into aristocratic territory, disgruntled voices shifted between the blanket dividers. Svetlana, her mother, sister, and four other agitated adults stood at the far end of the last row in what could only be described as a full-blown disagreement complete with gesturing and finger-pointing. Why did they all speak French?

Unaffected as a cliff against howling winds, Svetlana stood in the center of the warring parties speaking calmly and keeping her mother from leaping forward like a pepped-up rabbit. She caught Wynn watching and hurried over. “I will be with you shortly, Doctor. Excuse us.”

A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and yanked him into a blanketed chamber littered with vials and tin pots. Mrs. Varjensky smiled up at him. “Oy, smotrite kto prishol to. Golubchik.” She pushed him onto a folded blanket serving as a cushion and bent over one of the pots with ladle in hand while prattling away. Spooning what smelled like an earth broth into a small wooden bowl, she pushed it into his hands and stared at him with spare eyebrows raised in expectation.

He wasn’t the least bit hungry and by the looks of things the occupants of the cellar needed the nourishment more than he did, but manners were manners. He lifted the bowl to his lips and took a deep swallow. “Very good.”

Mrs. Varjensky gestured for him to eat more, and he obliged. She quickly ladled in more soup.

After three more sips, Wynn put down the bowl. “It’s delicious, but I’m too full to take another bite.” He gestured to indicate a full belly.

Clucking, she patted his cheeks, his forehead, and his stomach, then shook her head and ladled in more. “Kushai, golubchik.”