The Ice Swan полностью

That inalienable truth had been infused into the very air Svetlana breathed since the first day she drew breath. The nobles and titled of the land had been chosen by God, were touched by His divine hand, and sat upon pedestals to be worshipped by the poorer masses. It had been a life of comfort, ease, and adoration. But the revolution had destroyed it all, leaving bitter ashes of all that once sparkled as diamonds. Princesses could spill blood as easily as peasants when bullets fired without prejudice on the burning streets of Petrograd.

“Privyet.” Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Varjensky waddled in with a steaming bowl and ladle in her good hand. Her ever-present peasant scarf was tied tightly under her baggy chin. “Hungry, printsessas? There plenty of broth left.”

Mama looked away and made her polite offended noise. She’d yet to grow accustomed to dining without caviar.

“Nyet,” Svetlana said. “I will wait until later, but please leave Marina a bowl for when she returns from her errand.” With food scarce, she tried filling up on water throughout the day to carry her into the evening and the waiting bowl of thinned soup or what meager means the priest had managed to scrape together.

“That mal’chik needs eat more.” Mrs. Varjensky waved her ladle toward the door as if Wynn were still within sight. “He waste away and then no good he be to sick.”

“That man,” Svetlana corrected, for there was nothing boyish about him, “can take care of himself.”

The old woman waggled her head back and forth, loosening strands of gray from under her scarf. “Nyet. Impossible for men. Need woman to help.”

Speaking of helping . . . “Where did all the comfrey go from yesterday?”

“It gone. That all I know.” Mrs. Varjensky touched her head and gestured as if she had not a clue, but her avoiding eyes admitted to knowing precisely where the plants had gone. Her version of a woman helping. “You had nice time outside, da?” Her gaze slipped to the lily.

Meddling was the pastime of older generations. Their favorite being affairs of the young and what they hoped to conjure into romance. Svetlana refused to become another sport.

“A nice time picking more herbs since the armload we collected yesterday mysteriously disappeared.”

“Mystery, da.” With a knowing smile, Mrs. Varjensky turned back to her own quarters humming an offbeat tune.

Made of tough Volga stock, the old woman wasn’t giving in without a fight. Svetlana had to respect her sheer determination.

“Speaking of mysterious disappearances . . . Mama, I want to speak with you about earlier.”

Mama’s face pained delicately. “Let it wait. I have a terrible headache and need to lie down.” Her headaches only came on for two reasons. One for stalling and the other for sympathy. If Svetlana’s hunch was correct, it was the former in this instance for the very reason she wished to discuss.

“It cannot wait.”

“Very well.” Mama moved to sit on a chair that had quite recently appeared, then eyed Svetlana’s leg before sinking to the unoccupied pallet, deftly covering the velvet bag with her skirts. “What must you speak to me about that cannot wait until my head is better?”

“Where did the chair come from?”

“That? Oh, I traded for it with one of Marina’s combs.”

“We agreed to only trade or sell out of necessity. For food or clothes.”

“It is a necessity for my back. You don’t wish me continual suffering from sitting on this hard floor all the time, do you?”

Stilling the boil of anger to keep the peace, Svetlana took the chair. Her leg cried with relief, but she didn’t allow it to detract from her intended purpose.

“What jewels did you give him?”

“Give who?” Mama’s voice pitched an entire octave higher.

“Ivan Petro. Right before I left for the garden, you disappeared into that horrible man’s chamber.”

“He is not a man to lay your suspicions on. He was Privy Councillor to the tsar, a highly respectable position.”

Svetlana’s patience rattled. “The jewels?”

“His wife, on the other hand, not so respectable,” her mother continued the detour as she examined her nails. “There were rumors about her and General Miller in the fountains at Peterhof.”

“Mama. I am not interested in court scandals.”

“That’s because fun doesn’t appeal to you. To think, a daughter of mine with a constitution so rigid it would put a Siberian ice block to shame.” Mama clutched her gold cross as if in pain.

Svetlana remained motionless under her mother’s lament of disapproval. Words meant to prick and proddle while making herself out to be the one suffering. She loved nothing more than an audience for her act, but Svetlana had witnessed it time and again over the years. The performance had long since grown stale.