by Raye Wagner
Marika released her hold and slapped Vasi across the face. “What’s wrong with you?”
The slap barely registered, and Vasi brought her wrist to her chest, clutching the wound tight, feeling the sting of cold metal for a moment, and then warm blood trailed through her grip.
“Oh. Goodness,” Marika said, looking at her hand, her fingers wet with Vasi’s blood. “I’d forgotten my nails. This trend is clearly not going to work in this house. See here, you’ve ruined them.” She sniffed and, after a moment of silence, huffed, “Why must I always set the example?”
Vasi looked up at her stepmother with abhorrence. Example of what? Horror? Misery? Malice?
The dark-haired beauty was examining her bloodied nails with a grimace. Her gaze fell to Vasilisa, and Marika’s lip curled. “I’ll forgive you,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “But you must forgive me . . . if I accidentally . . . poked you with my nails.”
Poked? Blood dripped from between Vasi’s fingers, staining her apron and faded skirt. Vasi rolled her lips, biting down hard to keep from whimpering, and she dropped her gaze to the stone floor.
“Well?” Marika demanded with a shriek, smacking the back of Vasi’s head. “You owe me an apology, girl!”
But Vasi couldn’t say anything. If she opened her mouth, even the slightest, she would howl with pain, or worse, sob uncontrollably. Furthermore, she refused to pretend that she’d forgiven Marika. Vasi didn’t, and she wouldn’t.
Grabbing Vasi’s chin, Marika pushed just hard enough for the edges of her nails to dig into Vasi’s skin again, forcing her to face the Viscountess. Mother and daughter stood side-by-side, both glaring at Vasi. But where Marika’s hatred took joy in Vasi’s pain, Roza’s disgust wavered, and her wide-eyed gaze shifted to her mother.
“You have the most atrocious manners, Vasilisa,” Marika ground out through clenched teeth. She clutched Vasi’s chin tight for a moment and then flung her face backward. Marika raised her voice as she continued her tantrum. “I have no idea what your mother taught you or what she would put up with, but I will not accept this.” Marika swept the expanse of the kitchen. “Clean up your mess. Until you learn your manners, you will get nothing more from me or my household. You’ll need to sleep outside, get your own food—and not from my garden, mind you. You’ll get nothing more out of me, you hear?”
Vasi stared at her stepmother in shock, unable to say anything.
“Do you hear me?” Marika screamed, spittle flying from her mouth. She brought her hand up as if to slap Vasi again but froze. Marika’s already fair skin blanched, and then her gaze narrowed.
Vasilisa followed her stepmother’s gaze. Relief flooded Vasi when she saw Cook holding a butcher’s knife in one hand and a large, round winter squash by its stem in the other. Cook’s face was beet red, but she said nothing as she set the big, orange vegetable on the table and, with a single stroke, cut through the thick gourd.
“Clean this up,” Marika snapped. She pointed back and forth between Cook and Vasi and continued. “You would do well to remember that both of you are replaceable, and your little helper girl, too. I expect more than a few mushrooms from you, Vasilisa.”
Marika stormed out of the room. Roza stood silent, blinked several times, and then fled after her mother.
Stunned, Vasi stared at the door in their wake.
Cook sighed, seemingly unsurprised by the turn of events.
Vasi stared at the stone floor as if there were answers in the cracks, and her gaze fell on the folded paper. It was a letter, the broken seal in blue wax. Vasi picked the paper up and tucked it into her apron pocket.
“Come on then,” said Cook. Circling around the table, she extended her hand to Vasi. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
13
Vasi struggled to control the whimpers as Cook cleaned the ragged flesh. Tears dripped down the young girl’s face, and the older woman gently applied a poultice smelling of comfrey, sage, and lavender to the wound before wrapping it with clean linen.
Brida returned, her eyes widening as she stared at Vasi. After a moment, the young maid shook her head and mumbled to herself while she put the bucket of daisies by the sink.
“You’ll need to have that changed every day, you hear?” Cook demanded when she’d finished. “And best stay out of her way as much as you can.”
“What happened?” Vasi asked, searching for the piece of the puzzle that triggered Marika’s wrath. “Did something else happen at dinner tonight?” Thinking of the conversation in the garden between Marika and Lord Baine, Vasi wondered if that was enough to prompt her stepmother’s violence?
Cook snorted and went back to the stove, and Brida frowned as she watched the older woman walk away. Then the thin girl sighed, pointed to the mess on the floor, and said, “Let’s clean up while I tell you. Just be careful, right?”
Vasi nodded and knelt to pick up the biggest shards of the platter.
Brida leaned in and in a low voice explained, “Tsar Baine said Casimir didn’t negotiate a monopoly with Temavy, so he won’t get as much money. It’s still heaps of money, more wealth than that witch could spend in years, but you know it’s never enough for her. And she won’t receive any ’til Casimir gets back.”
But that was only days away, so why was Marika so desperate to sell Casimir’s estate?
Cook huffed as she moved around the kitchen, but to her credit, she continued to work as she muttered, “That by itself would be ’nough to set her off, but then the tsar said he was going to send someone else to negotiate peace with Cervene ’stead of Casimir ’cause he’s been gone so long.”
Vasi knew her stepmother would be upset about the money, but surely she wanted Casimir back, too. “But we’ll be all right, and he’s coming home this week.”
Brida shook her head. “I heard her talking to the tsar, telling him that Casimir would be perfect for negotiations in Cervene on account of all the connections he had there. She said your mum was from there, high up in the aristocracy—”
Vasi’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. “That’s not true; my mom’s from Zelena. Tsar Baine even knows that.”
“I know,” Brida exclaimed with vehemence. “That witch just kept lying and laying it on thick, too. Saying how happy Casimir would be to serve the kingdom, that it’s his first joy. When that didn’t work, she . . .” Brida blushed, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “She kept touching him, brushing his hands, or wiping his face, or leaning over so he could see her goods if you know what I mean.”
“She’s revolting,” Vasi muttered as she dropped another shard into the waste basket.
Brida nodded slowly, her eyebrows raised high on her forehead, before continuing, “Anyway, as the party were fixin’ to leave, Nikolai asked why you hadn’t come to dinner and said something ’bout seeing you in the garden earlier this week. Marika said how odd you are now that your mum is dead. After they left, the mistress was saying how much power she would have someday. She’s convinced the tsar will make your father a duke and her a duchess if he’s successful. The last I heard was her telling Roza that surely one of the princes would marry her, then I left. I don’t know what else happened after she saw everyone off, but when she came back in, she was fuming sore and lookin’ for you.”
“The only way one of them boys would marry Roza was if they were forced to,” said Cook, still grumbling in her low voice.
Vasilisa’s mind reeled. It was easy to believe Marika would sell everything that wasn’t nailed down and then the floorboards if they would fetch a decent price, but this? “Even for Marika, that’s . . . unbelievable.”
Both women looked on Vasi with matching sympathetic frowns.
“Not so hard for me, to be honest,” Brida whispered before turning back to the mess.
“But surely Papa won’t go to Cervene. He’s been gone for . . .” Vasi choked back a sob. He’d been gone for so long. “He can’t come home only for Tsar Baine to send him away again straight away. Why would Marika
tell the tsar to send him?”
But Vasi knew why. Marika’s appetite for fashion and prestige was unparalleled.
“You best hope he don’ go,” said Cook as she attempted to scrub a hole in a ceramic plate. “Cervene’s gone beserk, ’specially about Beloch. Rumor is the new queen regent is beheadin’our citizens in their city market. Belochians jus’ scramblin’ to come back. So much hate in that country, and they be blamin’ us for the tragedy of their royal family. Tsar Baine needs to stop worrying about the next festival and get serious ’bout his kingdom.”
Vasi pushed back her sweaty hair to stare up at Cook. “Do you think we’ll go to war with Cervene?”
“There was big gold and red signs all over the market square two days ago, tellin’ Belochian boys, ‘serve your country and get two square meals a day . . . and new boots.’ Them boys be signing up to die by the dozens, the poor fools,” Cook grumbled as she slopped soap onto the floor and slammed her next plate down.
“I heard rumors the king and queen of Cervene were dead at the hands of bandits. They’re blaming Beloch?” Vasi asked, stunned.
Cook grunted and turned back to her sink.
“From what Ol’ Klev tells me, they definitely hate us,” Brida said.
Old Klev Tenik traveled from Cervene to Beloch twice a month with a cart full of produce. His information was as reliable as his wares, and the sobering news dried up the conversation.
Several hours passed in silence as the women worked to clean up the kitchen and Great Hall from the evening’s festivities. Finally, when the work was nearly done, Vasi fumbled splinters and pieces of kindling into buckets for each of the rooms, eyes burning and blurring with fatigue. As she patted her pocket for tinder and flint, the crinkling of paper reminded her of the letter her stepmother had dropped in the kitchen.
Vasi returned to the great hall and lit a candle from the dying embers in the hearth. She smoothed out the letter, and her heart jumped when she recognized her father’s heavy stroke in the flickering candlelight.
My dearest Marika,
I’ve completed my negotiations with Temavy’s sovereign. The gravity of recent offenses made this an especially challenging assignment. There is much commotion regarding the animosity between Beloch and Cervene.
If war comes to Beloch, I’m concerned for our safety if we remain in Rizy. I have taken the liberty of letting a house in the country until we know how this conflict will play out. I hope you are amenable.
I look forward to a bit of rest; the deliberations did not start well and were quite arduous. I think our girls would enjoy the serenity of a quieter life, too. Give Roza a hug and Vasi a kiss for me. I can’t wait to see my girls.
With affection,
Casimir
The date on the letter was three weeks ago. To travel from Skryty, the capital of Temavy, to Rizy should’ve only taken ten, maybe fourteen, days.
Vasi’s candle sputtered, and she whispered to the darkness, “Where are you, Papa?”
Fatigue fled as worry rushed in to take its place.
Something was amiss.
14
The next morning, Marika ordered all of the food to be stored in the pantry. While Vasilisa lit the fires, Cook and Brida managed the transfer, and Marika locked the storeroom. Marika disappeared for a few hours, and when she returned, she discharged Cook, sending a pinched-face skinny woman in to take her place with strict instructions that Vasi was not to be fed, even from the table scraps.
Marika ordered Vasi and Brida to work in the garden each afternoon, and after three days of no meals, Vasi only felt relief today. Kneeling in the dirt, she stabbed the trowel down, loosening the ground around a carrot. The ground held fast as if reluctant to give up its prize, and the deep ache in Vasi’s chest swelled. The greedy earth had been thus with every root today. The painful sores and dark bruises surrounding her wrists screamed as she gripped the bushy stem of her carrot.
“Here, move over, Vasi. I’ll pull that one out for you,” Brida said, circling from the next row over. She’d been hovering ever since Cook was discharged.
“Almost there,” Vasi said, and with a release of pressure, the ground relinquished the carrot. Vasi brushed off the dirt, a small clot falling on her filthy skirt, and her mouth tingled. She bit into the fresh vegetable, the gritty dirt mixing with the sweet carrot, and Vasi grinned. “I’ve never tasted anything so good.”
Brida leveled a look on Vasi. “You could eat and drink plenty if you only told Marika you’re sorry and forgave her. If you made peace with her—”
“By apologizing for what? You want me to say sorry for simply existing?” Vasi shook her head before taking another bite of the small carrot while wishing it was bigger. Her other hand went into her pocket, and she rubbed the wooden djinn doll from her mother. Vasi closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sky, basking in the warmth.
Since discovering that Marika was plotting against Casimir, Vasi went about her chores, silently biding her time. Vasi refused to let bruises and insults frighten her, but Marika’s political plotting was terrifying because if the plotting worked, Casimir would disappear, too.
The day hinted at hours more of golden sunshine; she would take comfort in that. The holidays for Jaro had passed and the earth jinn, Svet, honored. In years past, this would be a time for Vasi to celebrate the bountiful harvest, spend hours befriending forest creatures, swim in the river, and nap on the sun-baked rocks. But the summers of childhood were gone.
Vasi took another bite of carrot and savored the small abatement of her hunger and thirst.
“I can outlast Marika,” Vasi said, more to assuage Brida’s worry than because she believed it. A letter came yesterday from the tsar, confirming Casimir was expected no more than two days hence.
Two days.
Leaning in, Brida’s warm brown eyes gleamed. “I can get some bread from the oven before that mean-eyed cook locks up dinner, and maybe even meat—”
“No,” Vasi said, closing her eyes as the world tilted and spun. She wasn’t even sure Brida knew that Marika had taken away Vasi’s water this morning. The dizziness waned, and Vasi continued, “You are to do nothing that would put your job at risk. None of us can afford for you to be replaced.”
The maid was Vasi’s last connection with humanity, and Brida could ill-afford to be let go as she sent her wages home to her family. Furthermore, Vasi couldn’t even imagine how terrible life would be without her only friend in the house.
“You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.” Brida gripped her apron and clenched her teeth, anger brimming from her eyes and trickling down her freckled cheeks. “You must talk to Marika. Swallow your pride. Beg her to restore your room and meals. She’ll give it to you if you beg.”
Vasi grimaced, placing her hands on the ground to stay upright as another wave of lightheadedness hit her. “Perhaps I was born without a talent for begging.”
Brida gave an exasperated huff as she rolled her eyes. “You need to eat. And don’t you want to stop sleeping by the hearth in the kitchens?”
“I would prefer the hearth’s stony embrace to Marika’s.” Vasi tried to make the words light to ease her friend’s mind, but the worry on Brida’s face only increased as she dug up another potato. Vasi finished the last bite of her carrot before poking the stem back into the hole and brushing dirt over the top. The likelihood of Marika coming into the gardens was ever increasing. According to Brida, Marika was obsessed with knowing where Vasi was at all times.
Brida sighed, drawing Vasi’s attention, and added a couple more carrots and tubers to her basket’s meager bearings. “Never has the garden yielded so much and almost all of it gone to waste.”
Wiping her dampened hair out of her eyes, Vasi looked down the rows of plentiful growth. They’d harvested so much food over the months, much more than in any previous years. But whatever Marika didn’t use for entertaining, she sold, and the lavish meals their cook prepared didn’t keep.
“You
’re right. At this rate, all we’ll have for winter is legumes and potatoes, and we’ll have those only because Marika calls them peasant food.” Vasi leaned over to poke her friend in the side and added, “Good thing we like beans and taters.”
Brida almost smiled back. “Hopefully her ladyship will learn how to conserve over a barren winter.”
“Not likely,” Vasi said with a huff. “She’s more likely to cannibalize you and me than go hungry.”
Brida did smile at that, even giving up a little snicker before replying. “That’s wicked and scary because it might be true.”
“It can’t be helped I suppose.” Vasi blinked, trying to focus on the row ahead as her head swam. One more row to harvest, and they could get out of the sun. She pulled the stem of another carrot. Ignoring the ache in her wrist, she pinched at the thickest, coarsest part, and said, “Mmm . . . lentil soup, bread with a little butter and salt—”
A low plodding sound came from the west, and both girls stopped their laughter as they stretched to see through the grapevines one row over.
The plodding continued, growing in volume, and then the brim of a man’s hat came into view above the vines.
Lightness poured through Vasi as she recognized the slope of her papa’s shoulders.
“Father!” she cried, struggling to get to her feet. The ground rolled beneath her, and Vasi fell to her knees. Vasi’s heart sank when she realized the rider on the painted mustang hadn’t heard her.
He trotted up the road toward the entrance of his house. Behind the first rider, a wagon trundled along with another familiar figure and Vasi’s favorite gelding. The horse’s tail whipped around as he walked, inspired either by flies or the heat, repeatedly hitting the driver. The young man with the reins alternated between slapping the air and hollering, “Quit it, Cobalt.”
