by K L Conger
“What is going on, here?” Nikolai thundered.
“The younger boys are throwing snowballs at that poor servant girl,” Sergei offered, his eyes wider than Taras had ever seen them before.
“And why is that?”
“I—we don’t know. We were about to go stop them.” Sergei tried to dip his head obsequiously, but the dark-haired man had him pinned. It made Sergei look like a cooing pigeon.
Nikolai shifted his gaze from Sergei and Yuri back to Taras. He looked like they'd tried to convince him the grand prince had run off to become a juggler. Taras got the feeling Nikolai knew exactly what had happened.
“Come,” Nikolai said. “We will find out.”
Without another word, he dragged Taras from behind the barn and toward the scene of the battle. Taras could hear the other man coming behind them, Yuri and Sergei in tow.
Nikolai walked directly into the space between the girl and her tormentors. As soon as he did, the snowballs stopped flying and fell to the ground in droves. Nikolai’s hawkish eyes ran over the group of young boys. He settled on one, Boris, who was the ringleader of the group. Nikolai crooked a finger and Boris walked forward.
“What is going on here?” Nikolai’s voice was not harsh, but Boris jumped anyway.
“We are throwing snowballs at the maid-girl.”
“Why?”
Boris glanced toward Sergei and his mouth settled into a firm line. Then he glanced up at Nikolai, and it was obvious which one he feared more.
“They told us to,” he said, pointing at Yuri, Sergei, and Taras.
Nikolai glanced over at the girl in the snow. Taras followed his gaze. The girl did not look dazed anymore. She'd wrapped her shivering arms around her knees and stared at her clogs. Ugly welts had popped up on her head and arms and tear-streaked face, and the left side of her hair was matted with frozen blood.
“The girl is bleeding,” Nikolai addressed Boris again. “Mere snowballs don’t do that.”
Boris’s eyes stayed on the snow in front of him. “They . . . told us she was a fox. We thought we would kill it to impress everyone. We put rocks in the snowballs. We wanted to knock it out. We didn’t know it was a girl. Honest.”
Taras felt sick. They might have seriously injured her. And he'd been party to it.
Nikolai sighed.
“You should have stopped when you saw she was not a fox.” His voice became harsher as he spoke. “You ought to know better than to torment one of the grand prince’s own kitchen maids. I will speak to each of your parents about this tonight.”
The color drained from each of the boys’ faces. Nikolai dismissed them, turning toward the three older boys. The younger boys melted silently away toward the palace.
Taras could not meet Nikolai's scathing gaze. “Whose idea was this?”
When no one answered, Taras whispered, “We all participated.”
“That’s not true! It was his idea. He’s a bad English boy. He wanted to get us into trouble—”
“Sergei, enough!” Nikolai growled, and Sergei’s gaze hit the snow again. After a moment’s contemplation, Nikolai turned to the dark-haired man. “Take these two to my chambers. I will find their parents and meet you there.” The man dragged Sergei and Yuri away, and Taras felt the uncomfortable pressure of being the sole object of Nikolai’s stern gaze.
“Look at me, boy.” With great effort, Taras did. “You have not been here long, and your father is in great favor with the grand prince, so I will spare you. This time. Trouble here will not be tolerated. Is that understood?” Taras nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry,” he said. Nikolai’s eyebrows jumped. Taras didn’t know why an apology would surprise him. His gaze bored into Taras.
“I have been around long enough to know only Sergei could concoct such a scheme. I know he’s older than you, but he’s trouble. You would do well to steer clear of him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Off with you.” Nikolai nodded his head toward the stables.
“Sir?”
Nikolai waited.
“Could I apologize to the maid?”
Nikolai’s eyebrows rose almost to his blond hairline. He glanced over his shoulder to where the little girl remained seated. “I don’t think that is a good idea. She is not apt to want much attention right now. The best apology you can give her is to leave her alone. Or perhaps, if Sergei tries to torture her again, to keep him from it. Now, off with you.”
Taras turned to obey with some vexation. His mother was devoutly religious, and he'd been raised to make amends. As he headed back the way he'd come, he dared a glance at the little maid. She no longer stared at her shoes, but at him. Red rimmed her eyes and frozen tears speckled her cheeks. The look she gave him made his chest hurt so much he couldn't breathe. Not knowing what else to do, Taras turned and ran toward the stables.
He didn’t want anyone to see him cry.
Chapter 5
NICHOLAS DEMIDOV ARRIVED at his rooms, exhausted. He’d hoped Mary would be asleep by now. He should have known better. She sat beside the fire, reading. Her dark hair gleamed in the firelight, and he smiled in spite of himself. His wife’s presence always soothed him.
“Finally,” she said, though she did not look up from her book. “If I did not know you better, I’d think you were keeping a mistress.” Mirth tinged her voice, but when she closed her book and turned to look at him, the smirk faded quickly. “Nicholas, what is it?”
She rose, but he motioned her back down, coming to sit by her. “I’ve come from arguing with the grand prince.”
Her face changed from concern to alarm. “Arguing? With the grand prince? Nicholas, I thought that meant death.”
“Can be death, my dear,” he corrected. "It isn’t always.” He glanced back toward the darkness of the room, where his son slept. “How is Taras doing?”
Mary glanced toward Taras’s room and then to Nicholas, stammering, “He’s fine, I think. Nicholas, what’s going on?”
Nicholas sighed. He wished there were some way he could keep this from her. It would be disheartening news, to say the least. “Mary, he knows. The grand prince has . . . found out.”
Her face became utterly still. “About me?”
“Yes.”
She stared, her face a mask of calm. She seemed to be trying to control her breathing. Nicholas waited. She knew to what he referred, of course.
“And?” She still did not look away from the fire.
“And . . . Vasily and I are close, Mary. I hoped after all we’ve been through the last few months, this wouldn’t be such . . . an issue with him.”
“It is, though?”
Nicholas studied his wife. He wanted so much to comfort her. He knew she liked Moscow and the Kremlin. Taras was adjusting well, too.
“I think we must leave, Mary. For your sake. And for Taras’s.” Her shoulders slumped. He reached over and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for you . . . and for our son. If you want to be angry with me for a while, I’ll understand.”
Silence hung between them for a time. She lifted her hand to caress his arm before pulling back so she could look at him. Her eyes were not sad, but determined.
“Take comfort, husband,” she said, sounding confident, though Nicholas recognized it as a ruse, purely for his benefit. “Taras doesn’t like it here. He’s lonely much of the time. I think he will be happy to return home.”
Nicholas gazed into his wife’s face. She consoled him, though she must be heartbroken at this news. He couldn’t even leave it at that. The woman was a saint, and yet he had to drive the stake in further. He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Mary, we cannot go home yet. It isn’t safe in England.”
She frowned.
“Then where, Nicholas? Our home is in England, and you are Russian. We have nowhere else to go. How will we live?”
He stroked her shoulder, keeping his voice gentle. “Remember
when I told you I had relatives in France?”
“We don’t know anything about them,” she objected. “You said you’d never met them.”
“I said I’d never met my uncle or his wife. I met my cousin and he seemed a decent sort of fellow.”
“But—”
“Mary.” She stared down at his chest, rather than in his eyes. “I know this isn’t ideal. Nothing is these days. They are our relatives, and propriety demands they take us in. So, we will impose on them for a while, out of necessity.”
After a few moments, she nodded. “What will you tell Vasily?”
“Nothing of the truth. There is an expedition heading north. I will tell the grand prince my family wants to see the country. We will slip away at the first chance and head east. I want Taras to see Anechka before we make for France. I think it best if we simply disappear.”
“The grand prince will see that as treason. This is your homeland, and you would never be welcome in it again. Is that what you want?”
“Shh. We do not want to wake Taras.”
She checked herself.
“Nicholas,” she whispered, “I don’t want that for you.”
“Neither do I, but it’s what must be done.” Mary turned away from him. “I know this is difficult, Mary. I know you hate moving around so much and—”
“No, Nicholas, it isn’t that. I will go anywhere you are, and certainly anywhere necessary to protect Taras. It’s. . .”
“What?” he pressed.
“I don’t want you to resent me for this. It’s my fault we have to leave. Again.”
He shook his head. “I could never resent you, my love. This is my home country, but when I married you, my loyalty to country took second place to my marriage vows. I will be true to this loyalty now.” He brought her hand to his chest and placed it over his heart. Her eyes filled with tears, and he embraced her again. Her soft, dark hair glinted in the firelight as he stroked it. “It will all work out.”
He tried to convince himself of that as much as her.
Days later, Taras once again paced in the snow.
Something felt wrong. For the last three days, his parents had acted strangely . . . distant and falsely cheerful. He didn’t know what was going on, and his parents wouldn’t tell him. Taras loved them both, but they still treated him like a child. They’d been downright secretive all week, and now Mother was late coming home.
Taras suspected his father had a falling out with the grand prince or someone else at court, or . . . or something. Taras didn’t know what, but he knew life at the Russian court could be dangerous. His parents were in trouble; he was sure of it.
They’d decided the family would go on an expedition to the north, to see the countryside, his father said. Not that Taras had any choice. He cared no more about going than about staying, but it was an odd thing for his parents to do. Father's presence was required here at court, mother had made friends, and winter's heart was upon them. The previous night, he’d confronted his mother, but she avoided his questions.
“Taras,” she finally said, “stop asking me. It will be explained to you soon enough. For now, we know what’s best, and you must trust us.”
He hadn't pressed her further. She'd gone out today—he didn’t know where—and should have been back hours ago. Normally he wouldn’t have worried, but coupled with his parents’ strange behavior, it troubled him. Mother rarely ran late. She left early, and snow had fallen all morning.
When the snow quit, Taras paced in front of his apartments. Father was in a meeting with the grand prince, so Taras could not even tell him his fears. He tried to alert others. They told him to stop worrying. No doubt she'd been caught in the snow, or distracted by other duties, and would return soon.
They spoke logic, but Taras could not shake the dark feeling, as though someone drew a feather lightly down his spine. He shivered; that sensation always came when something was amiss.
Then he saw it: a tall dark figure moving toward him from across the palace grounds. He could not hear the figure until it got closer due to the fresh powder. By the time he could hear the whisper of the newcomer kicking up snow as he ran, Taras could also see it was a man. He wore a long brown coat and a square fur shapka on his head that covered his ears against the cold. Whatever news this man brought, Taras knew it would not be good.
Taras ran out to meet him. The snow had reached thigh-depth, so he didn’t get far. The man slowed as he approached. Suddenly Taras recognized him. Nikolai. The same man who'd lectured him about the snowball incident. He looked at Taras, then the building behind him.
“Where is your father, boy?”
“In a meeting with the grand prince,” Taras replied.
Nikolai looked perplexed. He glanced back the way he'd come, then at the building behind Taras, as though unsure of what to do. He glowered, undecided between the two horizons for several minutes, until Taras could stand it no longer. “Please, tell me your news. Is something wrong?”
Nikolai glanced cursorily down at Taras, then once again gazed back the way he'd come.
“Is it my mother?”
Nikolai’s head snapped back to look at Taras, surprise written on his face. Taras stared at him levelly, terrified of the answer. Nikolai leaned forward and put his hands on Taras’s shoulders. They felt solid and strong.
“Why do you ask that?”
“She left early and should have been back already. She’s never late.”
“Do you know where your mother went today?”
“She left before I woke.”
Nikolai sighed, head dropping to study the snow between them for a moment. Then he peered into Taras’s eyes. “Send a courier to your father, Taras, and then come with me. There’s been an accident.”
TWO DAYS LATER, TARAS stood beside his father at the cemetery. No one came to the funeral, which puzzled him. Mother had been well liked here. Taras had no answers and endless questions. Why did God take his mother from him?
A tear escaped down his cheek, freezing midway in the frigid air. He sniffed. Father stood solemnly next to him. He did not know if Father pretended to be strong or if he truly had no tears. He wished Father would cry. Taras would find comfort in his father’s sadness.
A sledge accident. No one knew where she’d gone that day. Even Father hadn't known she'd planned to go out. At the accident site, the falling snow covered the tracks the sledge made that morning, obscuring which direction she'd come from.
It must have hit some invisible obstacle—an unseen rock, or perhaps a dead animal. The sledge flipped over. One of the horses broke a leg and had to be killed. Mother was thrown out and the sledge rolled. One of the metal runners went right over her. When Taras went to see her, thick cloths covered her torso. Blood oozed through them from her chest and belly below.
She never regained consciousness. Taras and his father could not say goodbye. She died alone in the snow.
Taras drew in a shuddering, ragged breath. “What will we do now, Father?”
Nicholas turned dull, lifeless blue eyes on his son. “We will go with the expedition when it leaves tomorrow.”
Taras did not know what reply he’d expected, but that was not it. “You still want to go with the expedition? To see the North country? Why?”
Nicholas turned to stare at the headstone. Mary Demidovna. Beloved of father and son, followed by her birth and death dates. She'd married father at seventeen, and Taras was born to her at eighteen. She'd only claimed thirty-two winters.
“I think, Taras,” his father said at last, “it is more important than ever for us to leave Moscow. We need to get away, clear our minds, try to heal.”
The pain in Taras’s chest came so violently, he found it difficult to breathe. Mother was not two hours in the ground, and Father talked about healing and moving on. How could he even suggest it? For the first time in his life, Taras resented his father.
“Mother is . . . dead. How . . . how can you. . . abandon—?”
; “Taras!” Nicholas turned toward his son so abruptly, Taras thought his father would strike him. He did not. Instead, he stood there, fists clenched at his sides. Taras kept his eyes on his father’s knees. He knew his father must be grieving too, but Taras’s anger eclipsed reason.
After a few moments, a stifled sob came from his father and Taras looked up. There were still no tears, but his father’s face crumpled, and guilt flooded in. So, Father was simply being strong for him. Taras began to cry in earnest, and with the sobs came shivering he couldn’t control. When Nicholas regained his composure, he put his hand on Taras’s shoulder.
“You must trust me, Son. We must go. Make sure you are packed. The expedition leaves tomorrow.” Nicholas turned to his wife’s grave and touched the headstone softly. “You are right,” he spoke so softly, Taras didn't know whether his father spoke to him or the gravestone. “I never thought I would leave the woman I loved behind.”
“Then why are you,” Taras spat. He was being unfair to his father, but didn’t care. His father turned to look at him, his hand still on his wife’s headstone.
“I have no other choices, Taras,” he said. “But I’ve no doubt that, when the time is right, she will come and find me. And we will be together again.” Nicholas bent and kissed the top of the headstone. Taras thought a tear ran down his father’s cheek, but when Nicholas turned to his son, his face was dry once more. “Say goodbye to your mother, Taras, and then go pack.”
Long after the sound of his father’s boots crunching in the snow faded, Taras stood staring at his mother’s grave. Something happened here. Something went terribly wrong—something he was not being told about. He fell to his knees in the snow. This must be the result of something much more sinister than a sledge accident. Taras didn’t think he could count on his father to explain things, and he didn’t know who else could. The adults at court did not think he could understand their world. Perhaps he couldn’t. But some day he would.
He was already packed, so he knelt in the snow for hours, crying for his mother. Twilight fell and darkness closed in around him. He needed to get back or Father would be angry. Following his father’s example, he kissed his mother’s gravestone. Another thing he knew with certainty: he would not return. The expedition would return to Moscow in a few weeks, but Taras somehow knew he would not be coming back to his mother’s grave.
