‘Stepdaughters,’ I tell her, through a mouthful of dusty biscuit. I ignore Anastasia’s glare.
‘This is Olga,’ says Anastasia. ‘She is preparing for her Spring Blossom Ball.’
‘Oh.’ Larisa looks at me dubiously. Perhaps because, with my top lip speckled with biscuit crumbs, I don’t look like Spring Blossom material. I’m wiping the crumbs away from my mouth when I realise that Larisa isn’t concerned whether I’ll make a good Spring Blossom. She doubts I’ll return to Stolitsa in time for the Spring Blossom Ball at all.
‘And this,’ says Anastasia, ‘is Mira. Mira is an accomplished ballerina. Only ten and there’s talk of her joining the junior corps at the Mariinsky Theatre.’
‘How wonderful to have such a talented daughter —stepdaughter,’ smiles Larisa, and I feel my cheeks glow red. I stare into my teacup.
‘We’re both talented,’ says Mira stoutly, ‘in our own ways.’
This is meant to be nice, I know, but it stings. We are not both talented, no matter what Mira says.
‘I am so very fond of the ballet,’ simpers Larisa over the rim of her teacup. ‘Perhaps, if Mira wouldn’t mind… Mira never minds. And before Larisa has even finished her sentence, she has sprung up from her chair and cleared a space in the parlour.
But I’ve seen enough of her dancing for today. No one will notice if I slip away.
I poke through the cobwebbed kitchen and, in a corridor leading from the kitchen, I find another ladder. As I stand there, Pritnip’s shiny black boot appears on the top rung. I slip back into a shadowy corner of the kitchen and listen.
I hear Pritnip climb down, then Krupnik, and then Father.
‘That was the observation deck,’ says Krupnik. ‘Impressive, don’t you agree?’
‘Indeed,’ says Father.
‘Now,’ continues Krupnik, ‘if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you our communications room. It’s equipped with the latest in telegram technology and a direct line to the Stone Palace.’
The footsteps fade. I creep back out into the corridor and climb the ladder.
The observation deck is a small room. Its walls are made of thick glass, but all I can see through them is a grey soup of cloud. There is a jumble of meteorological equipment—a barometer, an anemometer—in one corner, and a large globe in another. Fixed to the centre of the ceiling is a periscope. I hold the viewer to my face and angle the periscope away from the cloud, twisting the knob at its side to focus my view. And, peering through the lens, I see the lines and markings I know so well from the Tsarish map springing to life across the landscape. The mountain we are perched atop is part of a range of mountains. On the Tsarish map, the peaks are stitched together into the blue line that marks the Low Stikhlos and the edge of the Tsardom. I turn the periscope to the place where the mountains give way to thick forest. This is the Borderlands. Somewhere past the Borderlands, hidden by cloud, are the High Stikhlos, the highest mountains in all Tsaretsvo. Beyond them is the Republic of Birds.
I swivel the periscope westward and look along the line of mountains until they disappear into the distance. Here is the Infinite Steppe, where Georgei Golovnin found the firebird’s egg. I look to the east, to where the Unmappable Blank begins. It looks frosty and white and featureless, as blank as the blank space that marks it on the map. I increase the periscope’s magnification, but even then, there’s no way of seeing where the Blank ends or if it ends at all.
It’s a strange thrill, seeing the lands of the maps I have pored over so many times. It makes my fingers itch for a pencil and some drafting paper. Perhaps somewhere out there is a bend in the River Dezhdy that no one has noticed before, or an uncharted outcropping of mountain slope somewhere in the Stikhlos. Something I could add to the map. Something that could secure me a footnote in the history of Tsarish cartography.
I imagine myself sharing a page with Golovnin or Londonov, but almost instantly I am blushing at my own foolishness. I replace the lens cap on the periscope. I’ve only been out of Stolitsa a few hours, and I’ve already forgotten its rules: there are no women in Great Names in Tsarish Cartography.
Mira is still dancing when I climb back down the ladder, only now Father and Krupnik and Colonel Pritnip are watching her, too. She dances so beautifully. The glow of the lamp looks like the shine of a spotlight and the parlour seems to stretch out into a stage.
Mira leaps and twirls. Everyone is so busy watching her that no one notices me, and no one notices the swish of movement outside the window. No one except me sees that a large white creature with a sharp black beak stands on the windowsill.
The creature—the bird—fans its wings. I know I should say something, but I can’t stop staring. It is the first time I have seen a real bird. The birds in the library book, the birds in my dreams—I realise now they were flat and small and dull compared to the creature before me now. This bird has bright red legs, and the feathers of her white wings turn black at their very ends, as if the tips had been dipped in ink. The fluffy feathers round her neck look softer than a cloud. I marvel at the precise origami of her folded wings and her strange, twitchy elegance.
Mira is mid-leap when she spots the bird. She wobbles ever so slightly and then crumples to the floor.
Anastasia scurries into the corner furthest from the window, dragging Mira with her. At the same time, Father charges forward, but Pritnip pulls him back. Krupnik goes to the window and greets the bird with a solemn nod. Just as solemn, the bird nods back, then takes flight. Its wings hardly move. It slices its way, swift and sure, through the darkening sky.
‘Calm yourself, Oblomov,’ says Krupnik.
‘But it’s—there’s—that was a bird!’ splutters Father.
‘Just as we observe them, they observe us,’ says Krupnik. ‘No doubt, the Republic has heard there’s a new director at the Centre and is confirming your arrival.’
Father is bright red: his cheeks are the same colour as Pritnip’s jacket. ‘And you tolerate this?’ he splutters, looking from Pritnip to Krupnik then back again.
‘Things are…different here,’ says Krupnik. ‘We have an arrangement. A few of our balloons drift into the Republic. A few birds fly over the Centre.’
Father looks like he is about to explode.
Pritnip hurriedly says, ‘I expect you’ll want to brief Oblomov and his family on how things stand with the Republic, Krupnik.’
Krupnik nods and sits heavily in the nearest armchair. ‘The Republic is ruled by Ptashka III,’ he says. ‘She’s a dangerous bird, if you ask me. Ruthless and clever, not to be crossed. The Republic has a strong military, but it’s not strong enough to mount an attack on the Tsardom. And, like the Tsardom, the Republic keeps an eye on the other side, as you have just seen.’
Pritnip nods. ‘There’s been…shall we say, increased activity in the skies over the Centre these last few days.’
‘Still,’ says Krupnik, ‘I have every reason to believe relations between the Republic and the Tsardom will stay just as they are. Peaceful, if tense.’
‘It’s a strained kind of peace,’ says Pritnip with a wry laugh.
‘But should anything happen to tip the balance in Ptashka’s favour,’ says Krupnik, ‘I have no doubt she will seize her chance. The Republic won’t be afraid of another war, Oblomov. Not if they think they can win it.’
‘But we’re not in any danger, are we?’ says Anastasia, still shrinking in the corner.
‘Of course not,’ says Father. ‘At least, we won’t be for much longer. By the time I’ve put things in order around here, the birds will know exactly which side of the Stikhlos they belong on.’
But no one responds to his confident statement.
The Krupniks leave soon after this exchange. Krupnik’s grin grows even wider as he says goodbye, and I understand why he is so happy: he is leaving. Larisa hovers impatiently as we farewell them at the top of the ladder. They load the tarpans and start down the mountain. Krupnik turns and waves. Larisa doesn’t give the Centre so much
as a backwards glance.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mushroom Soup
A WELCOME DINNER HAS been arranged for our first evening by the ladies at the Beneficent Home. They meet us at their door, each one of them older and more shrivelled than the one before.
First is Glafira, whose bones make a clicking noise when she walks.
Next is Luda, as tiny and beautiful as a wrinkled porcelain doll.
Last is Varvara, wearing a black dress buttoned all the way to her chin. Her skin is so thin I can see through it to the bones beneath. She must be at least a hundr—
‘I am one hundred and fourteen years old, young lady,’ snaps Varvara. ‘What’s more, I shall live for six days past my hundred and thirty-third birthday.’
‘Don’t mind Varvara,’ Glafira says, as she takes Varvara’s elbow and steers her down the gloomy hall. ‘She’s a voyant,’ she whispers over her shoulder to me. ‘But her gift has become…erratic lately.’
A voyant? Is that some kind of yaga? I wonder.
‘It is certainly not. A voyant is one who can read minds,’ Varvara’s voice drifts back down the hall, ‘and divine the future. Magic is not my purview.’
We enter a dim room lit by grubby candles. In the centre of the room is a table, and on it is a tureen with a mouldy smell seeping from under its lid.
Luda presses Anastasia for the details of all the latest palace gossip. Father nods along while Glafira details her grievances about the various yagas to be found in the surrounds of the Beneficent Home.
I remember the yaga we encountered on our sled journey, her face so close to mine, and I wonder if there are more of her kind in the woods below the Centre. I suppose I could interrupt Glafira and ask—then again, it doesn’t do to seem too curious about yagas. I hold my tongue.
Varvara watches Mira and me intently and says nothing. I try not to think anything in particular, in case Varvara overhears me.
At last, Glafira lifts the lid of the tureen and begins to ladle out the dinner.
At breakfast this morning in Stolitsa, before we were sent into exile, I ate salty cheese wrapped in crisp pastry along with beetroot soup, sharp yet sweet, and slices of fresh salmon as thin as tissue paper. The soup Glafira sloshes into my bowl looks like old bathwater.
‘It’s mushroom broth,’ Glafira says, and she points to the solitary mushroom floating on the liquid’s surface.
I hurriedly slurp a spoonful. ‘Delicious,’ I say.
Mira sucks in her cheeks when a bowl is placed before her. Mira hates mushrooms.
Varvara turns to her. ‘I, too, detest mushrooms,’ she says.
Mira blushes.
‘Unfortunately,’ says Luda, ‘mushrooms are the only things that grow in abundance here. They thrive in the damp. And until our next delivery of canned food—’
‘Nasty, untrustworthy vegetables,’ says Varvara. ‘Never popping up until your back is turned.’
‘I’m not very fond of radishes, either,’ offers Mira.
‘Eat a radish!’ exclaims Varvara. ‘You might just as soon eat an old shoe!’
Mira is eloquent on the subject of vegetables she can’t tolerate. She and Varvara are soon absorbed in conversation. Luda is eager for more details of the goingson at the palace and Glafira has plenty more to say on the subject of pesky yagas. I stir at my soup, catching snatches of the conversations that float around me.
‘…the ice sculptures were exquisite of course, but they melted far quicker than they have in previous years…’
‘…since the Magical Limitations Act, of course, yagas have been all but eradicated from most of the country…’
‘Have you ever eaten broccoli, Mira? I never have and I never shall!’
I am listening as Glafira explains to Father that the banya here is inhabited by a ‘most tiresome bannikha’ when a creaky voice sounds in my ear.
‘Tell me, Olga,’ says Varvara. ‘What did you do?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘What did you do to find yourself here?’
‘Don’t you already know?’ I ask.
‘I am a voyant,’ she sniffs. ‘Occasionally I read thoughts. Occasionally I see into the future. But sometimes I need to rely on more traditional means of finding out what’s going on. Conversation, for example. So, tell me. What did you do to get sent into exile?’
I know very well why we have been exiled. The Sky Metro was Tsarina Yekaterina’s pet project, an innovation that would have made her Tsardom the envy of the modern world. She wants Tsaretsvo to be a harmony of Earth and Air; she wants Stolitsa to be the City that Reaches the Sky. Some people say she is trying to conquer the birds with her Sky Metro and her zeppelins. I don’t think anyone has been foolish enough to say it in her presence, mind.
When the Sky Metro was complete, Stolitsa really would be the City that Reached the Sky. But it isn’t complete and Father is to blame.
I’m not close to Father. He thinks I am rude to Anastasia—antagonistic is the word he uses—and I think he’s more interested in his scale drawings and architectural plans than his daughters. But I feel a rare tug of loyalty, and I say, ‘Father has been promoted.’
‘A promotion?’ Varvara looks at me with pity. ‘A promotion to the Borderlands? Oh no, my dear. Your Father has been exiled and you along with him.’
Glafira sets a platter of pickled mushrooms on the table. I spear one sharply with my fork.
‘I don’t mean to offend you,’ says Varvara. ‘Believe me, all of us here are being punished for something. See Glafira? She was more skilled at needlework than Yekaterina’s mother, the Tsarina Agota. And Luda? Her offence is her face. She was, once upon a time, far too beautiful to last long in the court of someone as jealous as Agota.’
‘What about you?’ I ask.
Varvara pauses. ‘My particular skills,’ she says at last, ‘are useful, but dangerous, too. I learned that quickly enough, not long after I was sent to the Tsarish Court as a gift from the King of Kyiv, three days before my seventh birthday. Of course, in those days…’
I lean back in my chair. I’d better get comfortable. This story sounds like it’s going to be long.
‘Well, if that’s how you feel, Olga,’ snaps Varvara, ‘allow me to tell you the abridged version.’
I straighten up, and Varvara nods with approval.
‘That’s better,’ she says, and she continues. ‘One day, the Tsarina asked me the whereabouts of—well, it’s rather delicate, let me just say she asked the whereabouts of something very important. And I wasn’t able to give her the information she desired.’
‘Is that all?’ I ask. ‘One mistake and Tsarina Agota banished you?’
‘Oh, I was banished long before Agota’s time. It was her mother who sent me into exile.’
‘Tsarina Pyotrovna?’ I ask, and Varvara nods.
I think back to my history lessons. Pyotrovna was Tsarina a hundred years ago: it was she who declared war on the birds.
‘You’ve been here for an awfully long time, then,’ I say.
Varvara nods. ‘You’d think, after such an awfully long time, I’d be used to these mushrooms. But they still taste like slugs fished out of sewage if you ask me.’
Glafira glares at Varvara, but Varvara pretends that she hasn’t noticed. She turns back to Mira and says, ‘You know, I’d rather be eating anything else, but what I would most enjoy is a slice of birthday cake…’
I push the rest of my pickled mushrooms away.
When Glafira brings dessert to the table I worry she has found a way to include mushrooms in this dish, too. But it is a thin goat-milk jelly, which tastes surprisingly good. I apply myself to my jelly. Varvara turns her attention back to Mira.
By the time I have cleared my bowl, the wind outside is so loud we shout over it to be heard.
‘…dancing was in the Ice Ballroom, of course…’
‘…and the ghosts in the trees are a terrible nuisance…’
‘Tell me, have you e
ver had strawberry cake, Mira? I tried it once and it was quite heavenly…’
There is a loud crack. The wind forces a window open. Outside, there is a swift, sharp sound, like knives slicing the sky.
Luda starts to scream, then stuffs her mouth with a napkin to muffle the sound.
It’s birds. I hear them, flying low, close to the roof of the Beneficent Home. Between the slice of wings, I sometimes catch a rattling, scratchy sort of sound. I wonder what it is—I can’t quite place it.
‘Claws,’ Varvara whispers. ‘It’s their claws, scrabbling at the roof.’
The sound dissipates quickly. The birds are there and then they are gone. I never even saw them. Perhaps this should be a relief, but there is something unsettling about their sheer speed.
Father’s face is very still. Mira’s eyes are glazed with tears. She blinks them back.
Luda stands and bolts the window. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s silly of me to be frightened after all this time. And yet…’ She shudders.
Father pushes his plate away. ‘Brazen creatures!’ he says. ‘This cannot be allowed to go on.’ His voice is tense, almost angry.
The meal finishes in something very close to silence.
As soon as we’re back at the Imperial Centre for Avian Observation, Mira and I go straight to our bedroom. It is a small room that holds two narrow beds. There is a threadbare carpet on the floor and a circular window, like the porthole of a ship’s cabin. I blow out the lamp—there’s no electricity here—and we are plunged into darkness.
Mira falls asleep easily and soon I can hear her snoring. Soft, kitten-snores. Even her snoring is sweet and charming.
I lie on my back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Is there a stalactite creeping through a crack in the ceiling? No wonder I’m so cold. I sit up and wrap myself tight in my blanket, and, when I’m still not warmed, I take my coat from the back of a chair, beat the day’s dust off it and put it on. I give Mira a prod so she rolls over and stops snoring, and then I climb back under the covers, where I continue staring at the ceiling.
The Republic of Birds Page 3
