The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

“Where is all that noise coming from?” Svetlana got up from her chair, crossed to the window, and drew open the yellow drapes. Light flooded the bedchamber in a golden halo.

Marina roused in her bed. “Are we being invaded?”

“If we are, the citizens of Paris look quite jubilant about it.”

A sea of humanity swept down the street in front of the townhouse with shouts of celebration and fluttering of blue, white, and red flags. Svetlana opened the glass door and stepped onto the small balcony. Canons shot in the distance as a wave of voices singing “La Marseillaise” rose higher and higher above the din. Tears and smiles glistened on the peoples’ faces as they marched south toward the Place de la Concorde. This was no invasion.

She spotted Wynn’s head weaving through the crowd. The only one without a hat. He looked up and saw her. A wide grin split his face, and he waved before shouldering his way to the front door. A few seconds later, feet pounded on the stairs. He bounded into the room and swept her off her feet, swinging her in a circle and laughing.

“It’s over! The war. At eleven o’clock this morning. Our lads are no longer fighting.”

Elation like she’d never known flooded her and she laughed along with him. The horrible nightmare that had swept the world into death had gasped its last destructive breath. Wynn set her on her feet but didn’t let go. Pressed close to him, her face inches from his, the world and its celebrations narrowed to the space between them. For an instant she forgot about the happenings that brought them together, the vows that claimed her as his wife. All she saw was the deepened desire in his golden eyes, knowing it reflected in her own and drew her to him.

She stepped back, out of his arms, away from his pull, and clasped her hands in front of her for protection. Against his magnetism or her own unsettling reaction to it she couldn’t decide. This was a business arrangement, a mutual companionship. Not a romantic fantasy to be swept away in.

“I’m delighted there will be peace at last.”

The desire in his eyes flickered then snuffed out and a polite expression slipped in place. “They said it would be over by Christmas the first year. So far, we’ve had four Christmases pass, but this year we can finally celebrate.” He walked to Marina’s bed and grasped her hand. “How about that? Would you like to have a festive Christmas in Scotland this year?”

Marina nodded eagerly. A light no longer feverish danced in her eyes. “How wonderful! We can see if the sochivo sticks to the ceiling. After all this misfortune, I bet it will.”

Wynn frowned. “You throw socks at the ceiling?”

“Sochivo. It’s a porridge made with wheat, honey, and fruits. It’s good luck if it sticks to the ceiling.”

“The dining hall at Thornhill is near three stories tall, but I’ll make a go of getting porridge up there if it brings us luck.”

Marina laughed again, but it quickly turned to coughing. Wynn placed a hand on her back. “Breathe deeply through your nose. Good. Again.” He poured water into a glass from the bedside table and handed it to her. “Small sips. We need to calm the bronchial hairs from agitating your lungs.”

Marina’s eyes widened over the rim of her cup. “I have hairs in my lungs?”

Wynn nodded. “When they get tickled, we cough.” He tossed a wink in Svetlana’s direction.

How effortless he made it all look. Never rushing but always moving with purpose and complete embodiment of his confidence. He was easy to get caught up in. If she wasn’t careful, she might do just that.

Mama ran into the room, her hair still in rag curls and sleep blinking in her panicked eyes. “Has a herd of elephants come crashing in?” Her attention shot to Marina. “Kotyonok! What has happened? Do we need the hospital?”

Coughing less, Marina batted Mama away as she came at her with hands aflutter. “I’m well enough. We have our own doctor here.”

Mama grabbed Wynn by the lapels of his coat, clinging to him like a scuff on a shoe. “I was resting—my nerves, you understand—when I heard a terrible noise like thunderclaps.”

Wynn tried to loosen her grip. “Probably me running up the stairs. Or the captured German canons they’re hauling down the Champs Élysées.”

“I dreamed we were in Petersburg—I mean, Petrograd—again and the revolutionaries were coming.”

“They aren’t. No one is. The war is over.”

Mama glared at his outrageous claim. “Do not tell me the war is over when those crazy men sit in the Winter Palace as if they own— What do you mean? Which war?”

“The Great War. The one the nations of Europe have been waging for four years.”

“No one is dying?”

Wynn pried her fingers loose from his crimped lapels. “Hopefully not anymore.”

“This is wonderful news! Why did you not tell me right away?” Mama clapped her hands. “We must celebrate. I’ll have that maid fetch us chicken and beef, vegetables, fruit, and pastries, and anything left from the wedding feast yesterday. You really must hire a trained cook. I found part of an eggshell in my soup last night.”

“Food will be rationed for some time to come, but I’ll give her a few more coins to find what she can. We do deserve a celebration.”

“And dresses. We must all have new wardrobes now.” Mama twirled about the room with a dreamy smile on her face. A look that was always expensive.

“This is hardly the time to discuss such matters,” Svetlana said.

Mama stopped twirling and pressed her mouth into a tight line. She never liked being told no when she was excited, and she certainly didn’t enjoy learning from her past debts. Debts Wynn had paid off on her behalf.

“Another time then. I’ll go and set a menu with that maid until a proper cook is hired. Heaven knows she’s in need of a proper mistress. The French aren’t known for hard work like the Russian peasants.” With a sweep of her heavy skirts, pilfered from Wynn’s mother’s Victorian wardrobe, she left.

The room seemed to sigh in relief.

“I’m afraid that along with food rationing, I’ve more bad news,” Wynn said. “I wasn’t able to procure travel tickets. In fact, I wasn’t able to make it to the ticket office at all. The crowds were too great to make it beyond three streets. Took me nearly an hour to walk the way back. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Won’t the ships be needed to take the soldiers home?” Svetlana asked.

“Yes, but it’s going to take weeks, months even for command to start making new orders. Everything will be in chaos for a while. I’ll get you to Scotland. Don’t worry.”

She nodded to keep the worry from surfacing. She had no doubt he would do everything in his power to get them to safety, but every minute spent in Paris was another minute for Sheremetev to track them down. She walked to the window. The gloom had lifted from the streets, cast off as easily as a cold shroud upon the emergence of the heartening sun. Eyes no longer turned to the ground as if weighted by their own misery. Faces no longer tensed in hardship. Every miserable second they had endured for the past four years disappeared in the new day’s celebration of peace. They could begin living again.

Laughter, tears, relief, unmeasurable pain, and disappointment sought footing on this new day. One could live many times over in such torrents of emotion. For some the agony would never end. For some like Svetlana, a war still raged in a distant country that no longer wanted her. She had been cast into the shadow, left searching for where the light might shine.

A face far below in the street stilled among the swarming throng as it looked at her. A face she had not seen in a very long time. A face that yet appeared in her dreams. Svetlana gasped.

Sergey.

She raced down the stairs and out the front door and was immediately swept into the pulsing crowd. Pushed and pulled, she couldn’t control her own feet as the people carried her along. She twisted her head left and right. Where was he? Had she imagined him? She tried to call his name. The crush of bodies hemmed her in until she could hardly breathe. A foot clamped onto the back of her dress and she pitched forward, slamming into a man’s back. She tried to push away, but the wall of bodies pinned her from moving.

Suddenly the bodies peeled back. Wynn’s arm came around her like a shield while he used the other as a ram to shove through the crowd. In a matter of seconds, they were back on the townhouse’s front steps.

“The next time you want to get yourself stampeded, give me warning.” Wynn’s fingers dug into her shoulders. His eyes scanned her face, body, and back up. “Are you all right? What were you thinking running out like that?”

She gasped against the racing of her heart. The faces in the crowd blurred. No Sergey. “I thought I saw someone.”

“Who?”

“Someone, but he’s not there. He looked right at me, but he’s gone.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Sergey. He was right here.”

Wynn scanned the crowd, then slipped his arm around her waist. “Let’s go inside. If it was him, he may have gotten taken away by the crowd. He’ll come back.”

Inside, Svetlana hurried to the sitting room window that overlooked the front street to look for him. Wynn followed her. He stood behind her, his face reflecting in the glass. “Are you certain it was him?”

“No. I saw him only for a moment, but it had to be. He said he would find us in Paris, but then the Bolsheviks took him. How would he find us at this address?” The moment of unexpected joy fractured into pieces of a frightening puzzle. “He would have heard where the Russian émigrés have consolidated and gone there. Someone may have pointed him to Sheremetev. Sheremetev knows everyone and everything. It wouldn’t be that difficult for him to track us here and use Sergey as bait to lure us out.”

Wynn turned her to face him. His hands cupped her cheeks, large and warm and steady. “Don’t even think that. That man is never coming near you—”

Knock. Knock.

Svetlana jumped. She couldn’t help the pathetic reaction. The world, so bright and glorious minutes before, now closed in on her.

Wynn’s thumb stroked her cheek. “It’s only the hospital’s message boy. Gerard must have sent him. Wait here and I’ll be right back.”

He left to answer the door, and Svetlana was abandoned to the swarm of fear. An animal trapped in a cage with no way of escape. She wrung her hands together. The unfamiliarity of her wedding band rubbed against her skin. What would Sergey think of her marriage? There was never a formal engagement between them, yet part of her felt guilty with betrayal. He would have to understand she’d had no choice.

That is, if she were allowed to explain first before being executed.

In that instant, she was done. Fear had reigned as master for far too long. She may not have complete control of her circumstances, but above all she could have control of herself and herself refused to cower any longer. She was a princess marchioness. Not a beaten animal.

She swept from the room into the foyer where Wynn stood. “Tomorrow I’m going with you to the ticket mast—”

A yellow telegram was clenched in his fist. The fear she’d overcome moments ago rippled into action.

“What’s wrong?”

His fist shook, the knuckles stark white against the yellow paper. “My brother was killed.”