The Ice Swan полностью

“No, I think this addition will be perfect for now. It’s the wrong time of year to plant them, but I think he’ll grow nicely in the solarium where I can control the temperature better.” She touched one of the small green leaves sprouting from one of the dozen stems as the faint scent of dirt wafted under her nose. Spotting it in the florist’s shop window a block over, she knew the plant begged to be taken home to Thornhill. A beautiful life to grow and care for all her own in any kind of vase she chose. No finely cut empress’s vase required for this little one.

Running feet pounded on the pavement behind them. Shouting filled the air. Fear froze Svetlana to the spot. Bolsheviks.

Three boys chasing a ball streaked by.

Wynn’s worried face hovered in front of her. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought . . .” She pressed a shaking hand to her chest. Her heart thundered for release beneath her restrictive corset. “Sheremetev.”

“You don’t ever have to worry about him again.” Wynn grasped her arm and gently squeezed. “You’re safe now. No one has followed us here.”

Safe. He kept saying it, yet the first time she returned to a city the memories of burning Petrograd and hunted Paris rose from the ashes where she’d thought them buried and dead.

“I’ll take you back to the hotel,” he said.

“No. If I run at every scare, I’ll never stop.” She took a deep breath and forced herself to look around boldly to scare back the shadows threatening to creep around her. “I’m tired of running.”

Crossing the square, they turned down Hanover Street. The smell of coffee and bread lingered among the eateries as the last of the breakfast dishes were cleared away in time for lunch. A woman in a shawl with threads unraveling at the ends stepped out of a café and wiped off the tables. Her eyes widened at Svetlana as she passed before quickly dipping her head. Svetlana tried to acknowledge the curtsy, but the woman wouldn’t meet her eye. No doubt she was freezing in that threadbare wrap.

“Before we leave, I would like to find Mrs. Varjensky a new shawl,” Svetlana said. “She’s very fond of the peasant ones they wear back in the villages, but hers is tattered. Perhaps I’ll get her two. A sturdy wool for every day and a more delicate one for special occasions.”

“I’ll get her a brooch to match. It’s time she used something better than a safety pin for decoration.”

“She’s not the extravagant kind.”

“You told me all women appreciate jewelry.”

“Yes, that’s true, but nothing too grand. She would never wear it.”

“What if I have one made into the image of that doll you told me about? The kind her husband used to carve as a toymaker.”

“Matryoshki dolls. Yes, I think she would like that.” As a child, Svetlana had several of the nesting dolls that decreased in size. She would spend hours placing them one inside another until only the largest one remained. Hers had all been painted as Russian tsarinas, but Mrs. Varjensky said her husband carved his as animals, flowers, soldiers, and fairies. How she would have loved to see such whimsy.

“Good. Tomorrow morning I’ll find a jeweler to have one commissioned.” Wynn frowned. “There’s one problem. I don’t know what they look like.”

“I’ll make you a sketch.”

His eyebrows rose, inching his gray fedora up his forehead. It shaded his eyes to a soft brown. “I didn’t realize you drew.”

“All accomplished young ladies do. One of the few acceptable parlor pastimes, but I’m not very good at noses so don’t laugh when you see my attempt.”

“I promise not to. Too much.” Promise or not, the edge of his lip curled up. It only added to his rakish charm. Yes, she thought her husband charming. The fashionably cut coat and knotted tie did little to restrain the vitality exuding from him, as if life’s problems met their end in his presence.

Many of hers certainly had.

Yet he was not immune to troubles. They sought him by way of sickness, Russian crime lords, runaway princesses, wounded patients, and the death of a brother, but through it all he remained grounded. Never allowing the circumstances to overwhelm him, instead, meeting them as new challenges. It was a trait she was starting to find irritatingly irresistible.

“There must be something you’re not perfect at,” she said.

He jerked to a halt. “Who told?”

“A wild guess.”

“My handwriting is atrocious. They test you in medical school. If it’s legible, you fail.”

Svetlana laughed and tugged him into walking again. “I already knew that from your letters. Try again.”

“I can’t boil an egg.”

“Neither can I.”

“I think you just want to see how many things I can come up with. Let’s see.” His gloved fingers tapped an off-cadence beat on her hand that was tucked in his elbow. “I can’t sing. Dogs howl when I open my mouth.”

“I’m sure they do not.”

“Let’s find out.” He opened his mouth wide.