The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “Compliments of Dr. MacCallan, who has been detained at the hospital and conveys his deepest regrets.”

  What was that discomforting feeling of disappointment settling in Svetlana’s stomach?

  Mama stepped into the carriage as if she were owed nothing less than a fine ride waiting for her. Like old times. Inside, she squealed at a single white rosebud on the seat.

  The driver looked at her and then to Svetlana. “Apologizes, mademoiselle. I was told only one passenger, and the flower—”

  “It’s quite all right, monsieur. The doctor was unaware of my guest.” As much as she was unaware of this tremulous expense. Carriages were not easy to come by in the city—much less horses—with all wheels and hooves needed for the war effort. Why must the man insist on surprising her? Even in his absence she could not find distance from him.

  “But of course. S’il vous plait.” The driver offered her his hand and helped her inside. Climbing to his perch, he gave a command and the horses set off.

  “The physician’s manners have improved in the treatment of nobility, even if he is bourgeois.” Mama anchored the rose to her gown with a pearl-tipped pin that had been secured to the shortened stem. “At least there’s more room. Carriages easily become overly populated.”

  The fluted white petals spiraled to a ruffled center of pure cream. The sweet scent pirouetted under Svetlana’s nose with images of spring gardens, rain showers, and violin strings. She could almost feel the velvetiness gliding under her finger. Had Wynn picked it out himself? Catching herself, she turned away and stared out the window as darkness descended on the streets. What did it matter if he sent a hundred roses? They meant nothing, as did this carriage. What mattered was meeting one of the wealthiest and most influential families in all of Russia that night. If anyone could help her family’s dire situation, it would be them. If anyone could gather information about Nikolai and Papa, the Sheremetevs could.

  The rose scent wafted closer. Svetlana clenched her hands in her lap against its enticement. She never should have bared her vulnerability to him. But the rain and fear and his soothing manner had weakened her defenses, which should have remained impenetrable. Yet the crack came as bits of her slipped through and into the solace between them. In that suspended moment she’d felt the relief of release to another who understood—understood and provided steady ground when her own feet shifted beneath her.

  A flitting moment of weakness, that’s all it was. She had more important matters at hand.

  Before long, the carriage stopped and the door opened to a white bricked building with a green metal-and-glass awning fanning over two dark wood doors. There were no windows.

  “Is this the correct address?” Mama squinted at the façade. “It looks deserted.”

  Svetlana moved up the short flight of stairs and read the gold plaque next to the door. The White Bear. She pulled Leonid’s card from her beaded purse. The names matched.

  Out of nowhere a hand plucked the card from her fingers. The hand quickly morphed into an arm and then a barrel-chested man who looked like he could stop canon fire by himself. From the looks of his face he probably did.

  “You may enter,” he boomed in Russian. He returned the card and opened one of the doors.

  They entered a small room with dark paneling and low-lit sconces on the wall. A woman dressed in a traditional Russian kokoshnik and sarafan stood behind a counter on the left.

  “Can I take your wraps?” she asked. Accepting their outer garments, the woman indicated a somewhat hidden door at the back of the room. “Have a pleasant evening.”

  The door swung open to a blaze of red, gold, and green. A swell of music and laughter carried them inside to an imperial palace of decadence. Red carpets sprawled across the floor to the dark green walls that swept to a gold-leafed ceiling that refracted the dozens of crystal chandeliers. Dark booths lined the walls while a step down to a lower tier was dotted with tables draped in snowy linens and candles ensconced in glass. Men dressed in formal white tie and women dripping in silk and jewels crowded every space available while cigarette smoke and music wove between the cracks, enticing couples to the dance floor.

  “Are we not to be announced?” Mama complained over the din. No one noticed.

  “I do not think this is the kind of place for announcing,” Svetlana said as a waiter sped past them with a loaded tray of drinks. She resisted the urge to slide her feet into third position, which always produced a grounding effect.

  “Then what sort of place have you forced us to?”

  “Mama, remember we are not here for frivolities. We are here to assess if this Sheremetev can help us out of the church cellar and find a safer place to live in Paris, but he is not to know our true intentions or our true titles until I deem him trustworthy enough to confide in. Mama, are you listening?” In fact, her mother was not once a tray heaped with caviar and chocolate truffles had swerved in front of them. Without warning, Svetlana’s stomach rumbled with the unfilling portions of cabbage and celery stew she had sipped hours before. The last time she’d eaten a truffle . . . Her stomach rumbled louder.

  “Svetlana Dalsky!” Leonid forced his way through the crowd, his flat face lifting in charismatic pleasure. “I thought you never to arrive! And look. Most beautiful woman in our place.” He kissed her on both cheeks, careful to keep his cigarette from catching her hair. “But where doctor? He not saving other gunshots?”

  “He was called to the hospital but sends his deepest regrets and well wishes on your name day celebration.”

  “That is sad, but now I smoke. Do not tell this.” He took a defiant puff and looked behind her. “This is who?”

  “Allow me to present my mother, Ana Dalsky.”

  “Princess Ana Andreevna Dalsky,” Mama clarified. She angled an eyebrow at Svetlana, challenging her to object when not a minute before Svetlana had expressly told her to remain silent about their titles. They would all end up in shackled sacks at the bottom of the Seine River before long. Why did no one else see the danger of giving themselves away to perfect strangers? Had the October Revolution taught them nothing?

  “Illustrious guests. Why did you no tell me you are princess, angel? Come, come. I will take you to my father.” Puffing away like a steam engine, Leonid strode through the crowd that parted for him like a blade through bread.

  Too late to put the proverbial cat back into the bag, Svetlana shot her mother a disapproving look, which made Ana smirk in triumph. Following Leonid, Svetlana kept her face impassive and head erect as women stared. She was accustomed to being sized up; it was a favorite pastime of the nobility at play, but she had always been armored in her own clothing and jewels. Tonight she was in borrowed hand-me-downs two sizes too large and four inches too short in a hideous shade of puce.

  Elegance isn’t found in one’s wardrobe but in one’s manner. A favored quote of her governess and one that had steeled Svetlana’s spine for years. Still, a wistful part of her wished for the tiara she’d left behind in Petrograd.

  Leonid led them to a large circular booth partially shrouded with thick damask drapes tied back with gold tassels. Around the booth sat thickly muscled men with a wild collection of facial scars and bulging side jackets.

  “Papochka, she is here!” Leonid announced as they reached the table.

  Taking up nearly a quarter of the booth and dressed in a black suit with gold epaulets was Papochka Sheremetev himself. He was round everywhere, like a ball of kneaded dough, with a drooping nose, eyes pushed into the thick skin, and bald with silver hairs wisping around the back. He smiled and his eyes disappeared into the folds.

  “At last. Her Serenity the Princess Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky. You are welcomed with humble indebtedness for saving my son’s life. Ask and it will be made yours.”

  It had been so long since her full title had been spoken aloud, so long since she was allowed to feel the thrilling rush it gave her. The sense of purpose it bestowed, but fear was not long in its wake. She ha
d yet to ascertain this man’s loyalties, yet he knew precisely who she was.

  “The pleasure is mine, sir.” She made a polite dip. “May I inquire as to how you know who I am, or rather what I am, when even your son until a moment ago did not know of my rank?”

  “Nothing slips past without my knowing. Every Russian in Paris is known to me. When I hear names new to the city, it is my top priority to discover who they are. I keep a long, well-informed list from the old country.” Smiling conspiratorially, he tapped the side of his head.

  The cat from the bag was well and truly gone. No use in keeping up the pretense. Svetlana indicated her mother. “Allow me to introduce my mother.”

  Sheremetev nodded without surprise. “Welcome to you as well, Princess. Sit with me, please.”

  Mama settled into the booth with ease. “It’s been much too long since I’ve been properly addressed.”

  “Look around you, Princess. Friends are among you. All White émigrés. Everyone here is a count or duchess or excellency of the imperial court of Tsar Nicholas.” Sheremetev touched the stick pin in his neckcloth. The pin was a solid ruby carved in the shape of a double-headed eagle. The symbol of Imperial Russia. “Our new homeland until returning safe to ours.”

  “A delightful relief to be among our own kind again. My daughter worries so. Do you know she wants us to slink around without use of our titles as if we were common peasants?”

  “Mama, please.” Svetlana squeezed her fingers together to keep from slapping a hand over her mother’s wide mouth.

  Ana ignored her. “I believe she imagines a Bolshevik around every corner set to drag us back to a firing squad.”

  Did other mothers prove so difficult and shameless? “It is not unheard of.”

  “She is right, but Paris is safe enough,” Sheremetev said. “A buffer is provided by war, but the outcome does not bring me fear. Not with men like your husband and son fighting in the White Army. Honorable and a good solider is your Prince Dmitri. Losing we cannot with men like him battling for us.”

  Tears sprang to Mama’s eyes. She touched her ever-present cross pendant. “How do you know of my husband and son?”

  “As I said, everyone and everything is mine to know, Princess. Word does not take long to cross my attention.” Sheremetev twitched his finger, and a bottle of vodka and another of red wine appeared on the table along with fresh glasses. “Such as the absence of your doctor. Has the Marquess of Tarltan abandoned us?”

  “Only for patients. He is devoted to them. I have the proof.” Leonid raised the cigarette to his lips, hesitated, then ground it into the crystal ashtray on the table. He slid a wink to Svetlana.

  “Marquess.” Mama’s tears evaporated as she indicated for a glass of the red to be filled. “I have never heard of this marquess. He is a physician, yes?”

  “It’s a noble title in Scotland where he comes from. Below a duke,” Svetlana said. “Which I assume you already know, along with the holdings in his possession.”

  Sheremetev tapped the side of his nose. “Ahead of the competition I remain.”

  Mama’s accusatory gaze slid to her over the top of the wine glass. She despised being absent of pertinent information. The only thing she loathed more was being intentionally left out. “Well, I see he amounts to more than what I was led to believe. Though why he continues with menial work when the respectability of a title rests on him is beyond my comprehension.”

  “I believe he cares more for the title of surgeon,” Svetlana said.

  Mama rolled her eyes with exasperation to Sheremetev. “These younger generations have no sense of tradition. Of the demands on retaining their place in society.” She took a sip of her wine and leaned close to Svetlana. “This wine is delicious. When you marry Sergey be sure his shipping business imports this and not the cheap grapes from Italy.”

  Unable to listen anymore, Svetlana turned her attention to the crowd who bounced around to the unusual musical combination of piano, violin, tambourine, and balalaika. Drinks, one could assume vodka, flowed like the River Neva and the people mere fish swimming from one frothy bubble to the next, gulping up the offered sips of life. One might never know death, poverty, and war stalked outside.

  “Dance, Angel?” Leonid whispered on a puff of cigarette breath. “Parents talk much and say little. These ears of mine are bleeding.”

  Svetlana nodded. “I would be delighted.”

  On the dance floor, Leonid swept her around in something akin to a waltz with a strange beat similar to what a skomorokh, or traveling minstrel, might pluck.

  “Enjoying the party?” he asked as they whisked past a waiter carrying bowls of caviar. Where had they found these extravagances? It was nothing short of a return to the world she had known, one that had all but disappeared into a dank basement of merest survival. For one night she wished only to revel in the memory of what once was.

  “It’s very exciting.”

  “Everything is loud and big with Papochka. Love life is a Sheremetev tradition.”

  “I’ve never been to a party quite like this.”

  “That is because you are from old Saint Petersburg. Whole city filled with walking corpses.” He pretended to snore. He was right. Her home city was one of grand architecture, watercolors, and stale conversation by aristocrats too busy imagining themselves in a French court. The only life that existed was the vein of gossip pumping to keep society upright. “We Muscovite. Know how to live!” He thumped his chest, which garnered a loud cheer from whirling couples.

  A slight pain shivered on her shin. The wound from the shard of glass was healing nicely, but it would be some time before the discomfort vanished completely. “Is this what it’s like every night in Moscow? Music, dancing, drinking, and general merrymaking?”

  “Da, though drink first. First, and second, and third, and always at end.” He laughed loudly in his easy manner. “It is rude ending a party before sun rises. Bad host.”

  “I imagine the Sheremetevs are magnanimous hosts.”

  “Da. It is noble custom to open doors at mealtime. ‘On Sheremetev account’ is considered other name for generosity in Moscow.”

  “Careful. You open those doors too wide and any ol’ riffraff can walk in.” Wynn stood at the edge of the dance floor, effortlessly relaxed amid a sea of jostling Russians.

  “Doctor! How excellent see you.” Leonid twirled them to a stop, his words bubbling out in broken English. “We think no come.”

  “I almost didn’t, but things calmed down enough for me to slip out. I hope you’ll forgive my tardiness.”

  “Anything for man save life.”

  “In that case, may I steal your partner? If the lady is agreeable, of course.” Though he was dressed identical to many of the gentlemen in the room in black tails and white tie, Wynn’s was tailored to show off broad shoulders and a trim waist. His hair, customarily shoved back with an indifferent hand, was combed and pomaded to the side with one defiant wave passing over his right ear. A dangerously handsome complication, if ever there was one. Why did he not stay away?

  Every woman in the nearby vicinity stared at him with more than passing interest. And he watched Svetlana.

  “Da, da! Go, go.” Grinning wildly, Leonid stepped back and was immediately swallowed into the crowd of well-wishers.

  Wynn held his hand out. “Shall we?”

  Svetlana stepped into his arms, placing one hand on his shoulder and slipping her other into his waiting hand. Her hands and arms felt scandalously bare without proper gloves as she touched palm to palm with him. His hands were wide with long fingers that wrapped completely around her own, and his skin felt cool against hers, which had suddenly climbed several degrees.

  An accordion vibrated in her ears in a clash with her beating heart.

  “I don’t think I know this one.”

  “Pardon?” The noise and rush of blood cleared. Svetlana looked around to find them the only couple standing on the floor. All others were moving back to the table
s as a troupe of men and women in brightly colored sarafans and kaftans danced out to a pliaska, a traditional peasant dance.

  “We better move before they think we want to join their circle.” Still holding her hand, Wynn led her to one of the few empty tables.

  Svetlana eased onto the chair he held out for her. “I do know this dance. It’s traditional.”

  Wynn pulled his chair close to hers and sat. He smelled of shaving lotion, ironed starch, and faint metal. Like his hospital instruments. “Do all Russian children learn the traditional dances?”

  “In villages, I suppose. The aristocracy are taught more courtly dances.” She traced the pattern of the steps with her eyes before the dancers’ feet moved. “I learned for one of our ballets.”

  “You’re a ballerina?”

  “Yes. Or I was.”

  “That would explain your calves.”

  Her gaze snapped to his. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your calves. The gastrocnemius muscles are more well-defined than most women’s.” He held her gaze, not the least bit embarrassed at the topic. “Apologies. Anatomy isn’t the talk of polite society outside the surgery. Forget where I am sometimes. And who I’m with. You look beautiful tonight.”

  The straightforwardness caught her off balance, but she quickly recovered. If life in a palace had taught her one thing, it was not to be thrown off by charm. Besides, she had a course to maintain.

  “The hospital must be desolate without you.”

  “Alas, it must survive in my absence. I needed to see for myself why you were so eager to attend tonight.”

  Her impulsive hand grab in Leonid’s apartment hadn’t gone unnoticed, as she would have preferred. “I thought it only polite when Leonid wished to express his gratitude.”

  “And the enticing Sheremetev name, by chance?” He’d noticed more than she gave him credit for. Denial at this point was her worst option and likely to incur more of his curiosity.

  “They are one of the most influential families outside of the Romanovs themselves.”