The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

What comforts Thornhill had offered now stood listless among the grief, like a bright burning lamp that once cast its glow on all who drew near but whose light had shivered into shadow, its purpose extinguished. Svetlana wandered the halls, her black shawl pulled tightly against the cold air knocking on the windows as her heels echoed in lonely staccato against the stone.

Four days. That was how long it had been since her hope and prayers had died. Papa and Nicky were never coming back. They had died for the Russia they loved, their strong presence no longer felt this side of eternity. She had lived with the possibility for well over a year now, a period in which a hundred lifetimes had passed, time enough for the eventuality to plow a dull rut through her heart with a hurt so wide that only numbness could ease it. Was detachment preferable to the sharp sting that felled Mama? Or the quiet sadness yet brave smile of Marina? Grief struck with oddity. Svetlana’s one consolation was that Papa and Nicky were killed swiftly and not destined to languish in a prison cell, subject to torture and prolonged deaths drawn out by the minute. They had died honorably as soldiers, befitting who they were.

Feet given no direction, she drifted to the solarium. It glittered like a winter palace under the falling snow with thousands of ice crystals dancing across the glass panes and white drifts crowding the window corners. The heart of winter had always been her favorite time of year. With its cleansing beauty of white blanketing the bareness left in autumn’s wake, its crispness snapping the air, and its ribbon of rainbow of light shining across the northern night sky, winter seeped into her bones with a vitality held dormant in warmer seasons. Others decried the coldness as a plague to be endured, but where they saw brittleness, she saw beauty. Where they turned from the harshness, she fell into the seductive hold. Winter was an exquisite lady, bedecked in her elegant ice and dripping icicles. She was carved with an artist’s hand, fragile yet strong. Delicate yet deadly.

Or at least that was the memory Svetlana held of winter. Today she felt none of that. She wandered around the solarium, a few dried leaves from the potted plants crunching under her feet. Their crushed earthiness drifted up like a lingering perfume from autumn’s glory. Having taken fully to its new home with delight, her fern’s tendrils cascaded down the sides of its pot like a frothy waterfall. The plant had nearly doubled its size since the night of the charity bazaar.

A lifetime ago, when the world held promise of safety and she had encouraged the possibility of a marriage in more than name. They would have kissed that night. She knew by the intuition women were born with when it came to a man desiring them. More than that, she desired him as well. Then everything had gone topsy-turvy.

She poked a finger into her fern’s dirt. Still moist. It had been hesitant to grow for her at first, even drooping in despair once she planted it in the new pot. She’d fallen into a mild panic at the thought of killing it but quickly learned that all living things hurt when they’re uprooted. Only once they are made to feel safe and cared for do they allow themselves to thrive. The double realization had not gone unnoticed with the changes in her own life. In Scotland her seized roots had unfurled into a richness she never could have expected. All because Wynn gave her the freedom to do so.

She longed for the hours to tick by so she could once again sit with him before the fire in their shared sitting room. It had become their ritual these past few nights since she’d cried in his arms. By day he administered laudanum to Mama, ensured plenty of hot tea was brought up to Marina, and apologized profusely for it not being brewed in a samovar. Svetlana divided her time between the two in an effort to rally their spirits while also trying not to suffocate under Sergey’s hovering. He was trying to be of help, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell him he was smothering her. At night when the house finally settled, she and Wynn would find one another and silently settle into the unspoken need to be together before the comforts of the fire.

The night before he had broken their silence by asking if she needed anything. What could she say? Yes, I need you to take me away, far from this pain to a place I can no longer think beyond the length of your arms? The words failed to come just as they had the night she’d wept against him, and so she simply laid her head on his shoulder in answer of a silent dance they were making all their own after being off step for so long.

A tiny splotch of darkness lifted from the corner of her heart. Yes, all their own.

A masculine tread announced itself in the room. Wynn. Svetlana dashed the tear from her cheek.

“Oh, Wynn. I’m so glad you’re—” She turned around and stopped. “Sergey.”

Resplendent in a black jacket and trousers with a gray silk waistcoat, he cut a fine figure for one who had donned a mourning armband. He’d always been handsome in a sleek manner, sleek in every way save his curling black hair, which often drew many female looks of envy. His months on the run had cut away the softness from his aristocratic lifestyle to showcase the immaculate bone structure beneath. Striking to gaze upon, but not the face she longed to see.

“Here you are, lyubimaya.” Those striking bones softened with compassion. Sergey came to her with arms wide and pulled her against him. “This week has been terrible for you. For all of you. I’m sorry I was the one to bring you such pain, but please allow me to overcome this and bring you comfort.” Speaking in their customary French with the Russian endearment crooned in, he gently pressed her head to his shoulder. He still smelled of expensive spice and cedarwood, the notes stirring up memories of a ballroom waltz and the first time he offered her his arm for a stroll in Alexander Garden.

Svetlana gently pulled away. Those memories, while sweet to dwell upon, belonged in the past. “Seeing you again, dear friend, is great comfort indeed.”

Mustache twitching, his dark eyes swam with emotion. “‘Dear friend.’ How I used to delight when you called me that. Now I hear a distance in the phrase I once treasured.”

“I hope you treasure our friendship still.”

“I treasure any relationship I may have with you, Svetka.”

Stepping back to put distance between herself and the sentiments of memory his eyes tried to pull from her, she wriggled her fingers between the fern fronds and plucked out the dead leaves near the stem’s base.

“My apologies as hostess for not seeing to your needs these past few days. I trust you have been well cared for.”

“Do not think one minute for me. Your absence has been well justified and your staff more than gracious to my intrusion. Even the master of the house has offered me the hospitality of your stables should I fancy a ride during my stay.”

“You’ve spoken to Wynn?” Had they discussed Sergey’s embracing kiss in the front hall for all their gathered guests to witness? Or was everyone playing ignorant and forgetful about it? At least Sergey didn’t sport a black eye.

“Briefly. He was on his way to repair a peasant’s roof that had collapsed. Do you not have estate managers to see to such menial tasks? Most other days the duke has spent in his study, though in truth I do not mind the solitude after my harrowing travels.”

The images of a burning city and fleeing through dark woods scrolled through Svetlana’s mind. She could feel the heat burning overhead and the scratch of tree branches on her cheek. She sank onto a wooden bench with Celtic knots carved into the back.

“The horrors you’ve been through. What you did to save our lives. We will forever be in your debt of selflessness.”

He slid onto the bench next to her, gliding his arm along the back rest. “My deep affection for you and your family could allow me no less. I would change nothing to ensure your safety. The Bolsheviks are from the very pits of the devil himself, but no amount of their inflicted pain compares to what I would have felt if you had been captured. They have razed our beloved Russia to the ground.”

Svetlana shivered and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders.

“Is there no hope of ever returning?”

He shook his head. A black curl slipped over his forehead. “It is our home no longer. The Reds have turned it against us into something sinister. Something unrecognizable.” He pushed the errant curl back into place with a smooth hand. “Would you ever consider going back? If the country were to be returned to its former sanity, that is.”

“I should very much like to see Russia again. I miss the comforts of familiarity there and the white summer nights. There is nothing in all the world like her, but life has moved on without my permission. Decisions had to be made, and I cannot allow myself the remorse of looking back. My home is here now with a life I’m looking forward to with Wynn.”

His black eyebrows spiked. “In this barbaric country? It does not suit the entitlements of a princess.” He gestured sharply to the land beyond the frosted windows as if to point out the error in her assessment before frowning at the dead leaves curled in her palm. “Neither do dirty hands.”

She tried not to allow his words to bristle her. Things were different now. She was different. No longer did she live in Petrograd with its confining rules.

“Dirty hands suit me in Scotland. The land is none so harsh after a time. I’ve learned to find a beauty in its wildness.” She looked through the window to the rolling hills beyond. Come summer they would be covered in purple heather. Wynn claimed they could stroll across the tops, so thick was it. “The Revolution taught me much, and I will not take for granted my position again. If I can use it toward good, I will.”

“You did good in St. Peters—gah, Petrograd. Will we ever grow accustomed to that new name? I heard talk of the Bolsheviks wanting to change it again to honor their leader, Lenin.”

“The only good I did was self-serving or what reflected well in the social parlors so the Dalsky name glittered even brighter. What good did that do when the Revolution struck? It made me an outcast, a thing to be hated, starved, and flung out into the cold. I will never be that again, nor allow anyone in my care to be so.”

On the back of the bench behind her, Sergey’s fingers tapped an erratic rhythm as if his thoughts proved too restless for containment.

“That is a peasant’s way of thinking. Share in the misery and all that. One must look out for themselves.”

“A decent person does not look out only for themselves.”

His fingers stopped as he considered her for a long moment.

“It seems the Revolution has changed us both. Me to hardness and you to tenderness. I think, perhaps, you are the victor in this metamorphosis, and I should heed your lead. I am your humble student, my lady.” He placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head in courtly manner.

A half smile curled the edge of Svetlana’s mouth. His gesture erased the years of terror, and they were once more sitting in her family’s parlor at the Blue Palace jesting without a care. She’d missed his familiar friendship, a link stabilizing her through time when so much had been stripped away.

As he straightened, the light caught on a thistle stickpin with an amethyst for the purple flower nestled into the folds of his necktie.

“This is unusual for you to wear,” she said. “The symbol of Scotland.”

“Your mother-in-law was kind enough to offer me suitable clothes for my stay.”

Consumed by her own sadness and keeping Mama from hysterics, she had barely given thought to others in need.

“I apologize for not thinking to offer them myself. I have been remiss in my duties as hostess and as your friend.”

“Nonsense. Your grief is priority, and your mother-in-law has been most gracious. These belonged to a son named Hugh, I believe. She said he needed them no longer.”

The dead leaves rested lightly in her palm, their musty scent of decay a pungent reminder of fallen life.

“He died in November. The war. He was Duke of Kilbride, but his death passed the title to Wynn, and now Wynn has a hole in his heart that can never be repaired.”

“Then you have both lost someone dear to you. Would that I could give Nicky back to you. I shall take the greatest care of this for your husband in honor of his brother.” Looking down, he fiddled with the folds of his necktie. The amethyst winked in and out of the silky material. “I cannot deny that such a piece would have proven beneficial on my travels.”

Svetlana thought back to those nights racing through the woods, her corset weighted with valuables she had sewn in for safekeeping.

“We had to sell so many of our precious gems along the way for food and clothing. What we had left was stolen in Paris.” She cast an eye over his fine clothes. At complete odds to the rags he had arrived in. “How ever did you afford passage from Paris?”

Eyes kept on the stickpin, he twisted it back and forth. “I managed a few odd jobs before I saved enough to buy a steerage ticket. The poor souls in the Russian quarters of the city were more than happy to help their fellow countryman in his time of need.”

Strange. The doors of Paris had slammed shut on her in her hour of need—both French and Russian. Only one dared to crack open with exception and show her kindness. And a second with a man who loved nothing more than to take advantage of her kind.

She crushed one of the dead leaves in her palm. The brittle pieces crunched under her thumb. “Did you ever come across a Sheremetev?”

Sergey’s fingers stilled for the briefest of moments. “As in the Muscovy Sheremetevs? Who ruled half the shipping and trading on the Black Sea before the Revolution? I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”

“The man who rules Little Neva—the Russian neighborhood in Paris. His presence was everywhere, particularly at a club called the White Bear.”

“I kept my profile low and away from places like that. Any inquiries I made were with discretion and never with names.”

“One of Sheremetev’s greatest abilities is using discretion to his purposes.” She watched for any flicker of recognition on his face. And why should there be? This was one of her oldest friends in the world who had sacrificed himself for her well-being. She had no reason to believe he would lie to her. Had the Revolution and scraping by to survive turned her so cynical? It had turned her desperate and look where that got her. Straight under the thumb of the vilest man on earth. She glanced down at the band of gold wrapped around her finger and covered it with her other hand, safe and protected. Without it she would still be under that hideously fat thumb. “Wynn tried to warn me.”

Abruptly, Sergey stood and paced away. “The duke proves himself invaluable on more than one occasion. How fortunate for you to find such a man.” Though he pulled his lips into a smile, it didn’t mask his clipped words.

A mingling of sadness and guilt weighed on her heart. “I know my marriage was a shock to you. It was to me as well, but times were desperate. I’m sorry for any heartache I may have caused you.”

“We were never formally engaged, it’s true, but I felt as if there was an understanding between us. As a gentleman I cannot hold you accountable for my fault in not proposing when I had the chance. Are you happy with your choice?”

“Wynn is a good man. He’s kind, and generous, and brilliant.”

“You avoid my question. I asked if you are happy.”

She’d once told Wynn happiness was a foreign illusion to Russians. Their national inclination was given to sadness and stoic reality. He’d laughed. Of course he had. It made her see the lightness missing from her life. A lightness that had stolen into her to make her realize she didn’t miss the stoicism quite as much as she thought she would.

“Despite the hardships and sorrows, yes, I’ve found happiness.”

“Do you love him?”

“Sergey! That is not an appropriate question to demand of a lady.”

He fell to his knees in front of her, knocking the dead leaves from her hands and scattering them about the floor. She moved to clean them up, but he blocked her.

“Leave those for the servants to clean. As you did in the Blue Palace. I fear your time here has altered you.”

“If by altered you mean I take more responsibility, then yes. And that starts by not creating messes for others to clean.”

Still, he did not move. “I apologize. My feelings have led carelessness to overtake me.” Anguish roamed in his dark eyes. “I ask this as a friend. As a man you once cared for. Has your love slipped from me to another?”

Apart from the wild impertinence of the question, Svetlana couldn’t bring herself to tell him no, she’d never loved him. In her own way, perhaps, knowing that most marriages started without the sentiment but with hope of growing into love, but that deep, head-over-heels thrill of exhilaration had never consumed her when it came to Sergey.

“I did have affection for you, Sergey, that I can never deny—”

“Then don’t!”

“But it is a feeling that belongs in the past. Wynn has become my future.”

“Your future was planned with me. There’s still time to make it so.” He grabbed her hand, cradling it between his own. His fingers were long and cool, matching the iciness of hers. Unlike Wynn’s warm ones, which could immediately draw the coldness from her.

“Come away with me. Now. To a place where no one can find us.”

She withdrew her hand from Sergey’s. “I am Wynn’s wife. I pledged my loyalty to him.”

“But you didn’t want to.” Sergey’s eyes flickered over her shoulder, then back to her as he leaned closer. “We’re destined to be together.”

Svetlana opened her mouth, but promptly closed it. She didn’t need to explain herself nor defend her decisions. She regretted the forced haste of her union, but not once had she had cause to regret marrying Wynn.

“Apologies for the interruption.” Wynn spoke from the open doorway behind them. Svetlana spun around and spied a telegram in his hand and a cool expression icing his face. “I’m off to London for a few days.”

The telegram. Svetlana shot to her feet, brushing Sergey out of the way. “What’s happened?”

“I’ve been called to speak before the medical board.” His gaze flickered to Sergey, then back to her. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to pack to catch the two o’clock train.” He turned and left.

Svetlana hurried down the corridor after him. Despite her long legs, her pace was no equal to his.

“Has it do with Harkin?”

“Most likely.”

“But you’ve given your statement.” Her words hit his retreating back.

“They want it again.”

“Has something in the report changed that they need you to verify? Why so many inquiries over a single death when your profession deals in tragedy every day?” She had not been privileged to see the business side of medicine for long, but what she had glimpsed consisted of mounds of paperwork, hidebound old men, and red tape. So many rules on how and when to save a life. If a life was lost due to a broken rule, the fury of repercussions would be great indeed. And if that life had been unnecessarily put at risk— “Do they suspect he was killed?”

“There’s been no mention of foul play.”

“Then I am coming with you.”

That stopped him. He turned around to face her. “No, there’s no need. I’ll be back in a few days. Besides, your mother needs you.”

“So do you.” She swallowed against a charge of emotion. She needed him to know that he was her choice despite events threatening to persuade him otherwise. “It meant nothing. When Sergey kissed me. Nothing has been reciprocated on my part.”

The coolness melted from his eyes and pooled to soft green. He trailed his fingertips along her jaw like a sculptor admiring his creation. Svetlana leaned in to his touch, marveling at his ability to center her as the one woman in his world.

“You’re so beautiful. Have I ever told you that? Looking at you, I lose my bearings between heaven and earth.” His husky voice ached with desire. Svetlana laid a trembling hand over his heart to show him she felt the same, but the movement shifted something in his eyes. The molten gold cooled and his touch dropped from her face. “Even if the moment is a fleeting indulgence.”

He was retreating from her again. Pulling into himself while keeping her at arms’ length. Too much separation and they might never find a way back together.

“Please allow me to come with you to London.”

His gaze swept over her face as she saw his mind whirling with conflict. Yes formed on his lips, but at the last he shook his head. “I need you to stay here. When I get back, I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

Unease sprang to her heart. “Explain what?”

“Will you trust that I have only your best intentions in mind?”

“I trust you completely. As I hope you do me.”

In answer he leaned down and brushed his cheek against hers before pressing a kiss to her skin. He lingered for the briefest moment before walking away. Svetlana cupped her hand over her cheek, longing to hold a part of him close since she could not hold the man himself. Steps apart again.

If she wished to close the distance, she would have to take matters into her own hands. That started with getting to the bottom of the medical board and their continued harassment of her husband. To do that, one needed to know the right people, and as before in Russia, she had begun to cultivate her own notable list in her new country. Striding with purpose to the library, she sat at her writing desk and pulled out a crisp slip of cream paper with the Duchess of Kilbride seal embossed in gold at the top. She may not be able to solve the torment in her husband’s mind, but she could try to bring peace. She dipped her nib in the ink and set it to paper.

Dear Mrs. Roscoe,

I deeply appreciate the rose bulbs you included in your last package. They shall make a splendid addition to my garden come spring, and I hope you will accept my invitation to see them in full bloom on an extended stay at Thornhill.

If I may be so bold, I wish to shorten my pleasantries in order to bring a matter of great importance to your knowledge and perhaps request a favor of the most generous kind. I understand that your husband has recently taken the position of hospital administrator at St. Matthew’s in London . . .