The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “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.

  Not receiving the groveling response she desired, Mama stood and fluffed a pair of silk drawers she had drying over a crate.

  “It was one tiny ruby. That flawed absurdity your father’s grandmother gave me as a wedding gift. She knew it was flawed when she gifted it to me.” She took a deep breath in preparation for her next act. “Ivan has contacts in Paris.”

  “No. No mysterious contacts. If the Reds find out where we are, they’ll come for us and kill us. Or drag us back to Russia and kill us there as an example of what’s to be done with aristocrats. Do you not remember Prince Boris Baranov? Beat to death at a train station while his wife barely escaped disguised as a maid.”

  Mama flung her arms wide and stared accusingly. “At least they’re not hiding in a basement. Reduced to sharing quarters and eating from a pot with these people. It’s undignified.”

  “So is being shot in the head.”

  “Do not say such vulgar things to me. You are a lady of high breeding. These contacts could place us back into the lifestyle we are accustomed to—a divine apartment, food, and clothes—while we wait for this turmoil to blow over. We have lived in the same clothing for months. It is not to be endured.”

  Svetlana’s leg cramped. Standing, she gripped the back of the chair and eased into a demi plie before pushing to her toes in relevé. The cramp slowly knotted from her calf. She focused on the precise movements and not the flood of irritation at her mother’s complete lack of understanding their precarious situation. It had always been Mama’s way, and Svetlana learned long ago that it would never change.

  “Even if the Reds surrendered tomorrow, there is still another war raging right where we are. Do you not remember how difficult it was to travel here? Sleeping in cattle cars, hiding in the woods, begging for a crust at village doors, and you want to turn around and do it all over again.”

  “Our circumstances have yet to improve. Must you do that here?” Mama frowned as Svetlana added a tendu. “We must wait for Sergey to find us as he promised, but he will never look for us in a place like this.” The frown eased from her brow, and a rare glimpse of genuine concern softened her expression. “Perhaps he will bring us triumphant news of your father and Nikolai, for they’ll be too busy securing the country to come themselves.”

  God willing. Svetlana could not rest easy until their family was reunited. Strong, valiant Papa had always carried the familial responsibilities with soldierly dignity. A lesson she had taken to heart, drawing upon his absent strength as they carried on without him.

  “I will continue to make discreet inquiries for new accommodations and news from Russia. We do not need outside help.”

  “Always with the fear and isolation. We are not the only émigrés here. On our journey I met a dozen duchesses and four princes. We do not need to live in this terror you insist on, not here when the country is crawling in confusion.”

  The knot in Svetlana’s leg crawled up her spine and rooted itself into a headache. “Even so, we must take precautions, and that includes not pawning off our gems at every vacant promise that comes along. We need those to secure shelter and food. From now on, talk to me first.”

  “How do you propose to do a better job than Petro’s contact at locating something for us? You know nothing of Paris.”

  Svetlana’s eyes laned on the lily, and she touched one of the flower’s creamy petals. The softness curled to a yellow center dusted with pollen. “Leave it to me.”

  Chapter 4

  The warm drizzle soaked through the top of Svetlana’s shawl and puddled in her hair before dribbling down her back. Rain should have been a relief to tamp down the summer dust, but the droplets struck the hot gr
ound in sizzles, turning the congested city into a swamp.

  Standing on the steps of a tenant building four streets over from the church and a world away in culture, Svetlana batted away an errant drop careening into her eye and met the reluctant Frenchwoman’s stare.

  “We will pay whatever you ask. We will not cause you any trouble.”

  “As I explained, chere, we only have room for a single occupant to rent.”

  “My mother, sister, and I do not mind sharing a small space. Look.” Svetlana stepped onto the small stoop and pulled a bulky handkerchief from the pocket in her skirt. Inside nestled Mama’s favorite citrine diamond earrings. “A gift from Empress Dowager Maria herself.”

  The woman’s eyes widened as she ogled the precious gems. Slowly, she shook her head. “They are très belle, but I am sorry. There is no room. You are better to stay where you are.” Stepping back into her darkened hall, she closed the door. A lock quickly echoed.

  Another rejection. Ten so far, barely before noon. Each with a different reason, but all equating to no. A distasteful word that grated on the ears. Svetlana had heard it more often since escaping Russia than in the entirety of her life. She didn’t care for the change one bit.

  Rewrapping the earrings and returning them to her pocket, Svetlana descended the short flight of stairs to the cracked sidewalk. A grand carriage should have been waiting for her. And a footman dressed in immaculate livery to open the door so she could sweep into the cushioned confines, dry and comfortable with perhaps a small vase filled with lavender to drive away the fusty scents drifting up from the streets. A crack of the whip would urge on the matching bays and off they would go to the palace.

  This avenue was a far cry from the grandness of carriages and livery. Perhaps under the rule of the Sun King these imposing buildings had stood in refinement, but the years sagged against the structural lines as the paint chipped wearily away. Though they were not without color. Canon smoke and gunpowder drifted into the city on brisk winds, coating roofs and lampposts with black dust and drawing the war that much closer. Miles separated them from the frontline, but no matter the distance, no one was safe.

  Pulling the shawl tight over her head, Svetlana hurried away with toes squishing in her soggy stockings.

  “No luck from old bird, Vashe blagorodiye?” The formal address spoken in common Russian stopped Svetlana in her tracks. A woman dressed in pre-war fashion stepped out of the shadows of a neighboring stoop. A cigarette dangled between her fingers.

  “I beg your pardon. We have not been introduced for you to address me.”

  “Forgive lack in manners. It is war. Takes what gentility we have and tosses to dump heap.”

  “In that you are correct.”

  The woman clomped down the steps. She appeared close in age to Svetlana, but a harsh survival etched itself into the lines around the woman’s eyes and mouth. Rouge, the call sign of a less than upright woman, smudged her lean cheeks.

  “What mean is, French don’t know true value when see it. Not as we do. Not when you offer such lovely bauble.”

  “I carry no such thing.” Svetlana moved to walk around her, but the woman wasn’t so easily put off.

  She fell in step with Svetlana. “Ladies like us always spot genuine article. Your courtly senses no disappear back in Russia, Vashe blagorodiye. Neither did mine.”

  “What court did you find yourself in? Nearer the docks or the soldiers’ barracks?”

  The woman laughed and ground her cigarette into the pavement with a heel in desperate need of black polish.

  “That what I like about you, Vashe Svyetlost. Sense of humor.”

  At least Svetlana was moving up in the ranks. First a mere Well Born and now an Imperial Highness. If she kept the delightfulness going, she might hold the title of Empress before the conversation was over. She rounded a corner in hopes of shaking loose her undesirable companion.

  “Please do excuse me. I’ve a rather busy schedule to attend.”

  “Looking for place to stay, da?”

  An older gentleman holding an umbrella approached, his gaze casting with interest between Svetlana and the woman, who smiled enticingly in return. Svetlana raised one eyebrow in scathing rebuke, and he scuttled across the street to the opposite sidewalk.

  “I need learn that trick. Old men not bathe often.” Wrinkling her nose, the woman drew a fresh cigarette and match from her beaded handbag, lit the fag, and puffed. The cherry glowing end hissed as the drizzle splattered onto the paper. “I know few places. French snobs waste of time. Need you ask around Rue de la Néva and Pierre le Grand.”

  Those streets were within a stone’s throw from the church, but Svetlana wasn’t about to lead this stranger to where her family lived.

  “Those streets are tiny with barely enough room for shops.”

  “It heart of Russian neighborhood. Always room for another son and daughter of beloved motherland. You need know who ask.”

  “And you do?”

  “I know every Russian in Paris. It privilege of living here five years. Before I gave up duchess tiara in Moscow.” The woman laughed and weaved her arm through Svetlana’s as if they shared a secret.

  “What is this I hear of Moscow, Tatya?” Moving like an oil-sleeked seal, a man appeared in front of them holding an umbrella. He cut a lean figure with dark hair combed to the side and a tailored blue suit with crisp edges not often seen during the war years.

  Tatya’s smile tightened as she tugged the front of her dress. “Pyotr, meet new friend. Russian lady of quality.”

  “Is that so?” Assessing and quick, his gaze cut over Svetlana like a jeweler’s would a gem. He bowed before angling the umbrella over her head. Tatya was forced to make do with her drooping wool hat. “Privyet, gentle lady. My name is Pyotr Argunov.”

  “Zdrastvuytye,” Svetlana replied in the more formal greeting. A lifetime of unfortunate circumstances could be hidden beneath a well-tailored cuff, but speech was a revelation to one’s true breeding. One had it or one did not. For all his trimmed collars and buttons, Pyotr Argunov did not. All the better for her to remain guarded.

  “May I ask your name?”

  “You may ask if you are so inclined.”

  Tatya snorted through a puff of smoke. “All class, this one.”

  “So I see. Could do very well for us.” Pyotr pulled the cigarette from Tatya’s mouth and flicked it in the gutter. “Why don’t I take the two most beautiful women this side of the Neva River out for a drink? Catch up on old times with the tsar, determine the best place to find stroganoff, and pour a glass of vodka for the comrades we left behind.” His arm slipped around Svetlana with a light touch to the small of her back. Leading in a dance she had no desire to join.

  Having reigned a lifetime in ballrooms armed with the noble art of avoidance, Svetlana sidestepped his nefarious intentions with ease.

  “As I’ve told the duchess here, I have my own errands to see to.”

  Tatya leaned forward, poking her head just under the protection of the umbrella. “That right. She looks place to stay. I show her Sheremetev place.”

  Pyotr tilted the umbrella more over his own head and away from Tatya. “Ah, Sheremetev. The man who knows everyone and everything happening from Paris to Petrograd. Whatever you need, he has it or the ability to procure it.”

  Whatever Svetlana needed. The promise of hope so near at hand crooked its beckoning finger at her, enticing her with deliverance from fear. Could it be so simple as knowing the right man’s name? Such information never came without a cost, but it was a fortune she would gladly pay to keep the Bolsheviks from finding them.

  “Where might I find this Sheremetev?”

  “A stroke of fortune in that I’m heading to the White Bear now to meet him. I’ll introduce you.” A smile slicked across Pyotr’s wide mouth as he no doubt imagined himself landing his prize.

  But she was no game piece to claim in victory. He’d overplayed his hand from first introduction, and it was hig
h time he learned a lesson in civilized defeat.

  “I will produce my own means of introduction should I find myself in need of such services. Yours are not required.”

  “No need to be cold, printsessa.”

  The careless tossing out of her rightful title stung. She had a right to claim it and rebuke his insolence, but no longer were they at the imperial court. No longer did her title carry clout. It was a death warrant in the wrong hands, and if her instincts were correct, Pyotr’s hands were far from clean.

  “If I were as cold as you claim, you would have been frozen to the spot long ago. As such, I’ll thank you to remove your hand and never dare touch a lady again.”

  He stepped closer. Spiced wine fouled the air. “I’ve met tyolka like you before. Braying about, thinking you’re better than everyone.”

  “I try not to presume such a claim, but in your case I’ll make an exception.”

  “We’re not in Russia anymore. Your kind are toppling.”

  “A shame if your kind were crushed in the rubble.”

  “Move away from the lady.” Wynn’s voice cut through the building tension. He thrust himself into the space between Svetlana and Pyotr. Anger rolled off him in heated waves. “I said, move away.”

  Tall as she was, Svetlana saw little beyond Wynn’s wide shoulders. They blocked everything from view. She peered around him.

  “Who are you to interrupt so rudely a conversation that does not concern you, anglichanin?” Pyotr sneered, nearly knocking Wynn in the head with his umbrella.

  Wynn didn’t flinch. “I’ll ask you once to move along.”

  “Or what?”

  “It’ll end with broken bones and they won’t be mine.”

  Aiming a disgusting spit at Wynn’s feet, Pyotr grabbed Tatya’s arm and yanked her away. Tatya’s feet skipped to keep up. Passersby stared at the uncivilized behavior before shrugging it off as wont to do for a girl of her working station. She cast a pitiful look over her shoulder at Svetlana before she was hauled around a corner and out of sight.