The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

“Mama, you must eat.” The spoon in Svetlana’s hand hovered in front of her mother’s mouth, but the aging princess turned her face to the lacey pillow and stared out the window. The chamber had been shrouded like a tomb when Svetlana first entered, but she’d peeled back the heavy drapes to let in the sunlight at great protest from the room’s occupant. The words were some of the few her mother had spoken since the news came of their terrible loss.

Wiping off the bits of sugared oatmeal seeping over the spoon’s rim, Svetlana tried another tactic: her mother’s vanity. “Your figure will waste away.”

Mama’s only response was a slow blink, as if her lashes were too heavy to hold up. Silver threaded between the dark blond strands of hair hanging past her sunken cheeks. She had always been meticulous about her appearance and aging cover-ups, but grief had woven a tattered spell of carelessness, leaving in its wake a stripped layer of the woman who once was.

Across the room, Marina shrugged at the daily battle. They’d taken turns coaxing their mother to eat at mealtimes, but Svetlana was never successful. Mama preferred Marina’s administrations, and even then it was hardly more than a nibble or sip. Svetlana could hardly blame her. She wasn’t pleasant enough company for herself these days. Not that it made a difference to her mother. She’d never found her eldest daughter’s company more than tolerable, closing off her affection to shower upon her other children instead. Svetlana had never questioned it, merely accepted it.

Staring down now at the once vibrant woman shriveling to a gaunt shell of herself, Svetlana realized she never really knew her mother beyond the fancy gowns and tittering parlor room laughter—a laugh she claimed to have first caught Dmitri Dalsky’s attention. It was one of the only claims Father had never refuted, so Svetlana knew it must have been true. A rare connection between her parents when she’d witnessed so few.

“Father would not wish to see you like this.”

Mama slowly shifted on the pillow. Her eyes stared with unfocused lucidity as if searching for a ghost on Svetlana’s face. Inch by inch, she raised her head and took a bite of the oatmeal. Eating four more bites, she tapped a brittle nail against the teacup. Svetlana poured the fragrant brew into the cup and held it up to her mother’s lips. Mama took a sip, grimaced, and fell back to the pillow.

“I know it’s not from a samovar, but we must make do.” Wrapping her fingers around the delicate cup, the more obvious problem became clear. “It’s cold. I’ll ring for a fresh pot.”

Marina jumped up from her chair near the fire, the book in her lap clattering to the floor. “I’ll fetch one. My legs could do with a stretch.” She took the tray from Mama’s lap and smiled. Sadness still clung to her eyes, but she was doing her best to put on a brave face. “I’ll see if I can find a few mashed cherries to put in the bottom. I know how much you like those. Makes it feel a bit more Russian.”

As Marina left, Svetlana set about straightening the coverlet across the bed, smoothing the drape pleats, and retying the pink ribbon on Mama’s nightdress after noting one loop on the bow was bigger than the other. Anything to occupy herself, for it was in the listless moments that the unwanted thoughts and feelings found her. The notes of a midnight waltz. The scent of wool and aftershave. The warmth of arms holding her at night. The stab of betrayal and heartache of lies. It all made her feel too much when she preferred the escapism of numbness.

“You’re like him.”

The scratchy voice turned Svetlana from the vanity table where she was aligning a tray of hairpins to find her mother watching her.

Svetlana slid a fingernail between a pin’s blades, the metal cool and rigid like the shining medals pinned across Father’s chest. He’d taught her the name of each one and allowed her the honor of pinning on his Order of Saint Catherine when he was decorated by the tsar.

“Organized, you mean?”

“Coldly efficient.”

After all those years it shouldn’t have stung, but it did. Svetlana nudged the silver pins into straight lines. “A soldier’s trait.”

“Prince Dmitri Nikolaiovich Dalsky, Captain of the Imperial Forces, with his resourceful mind and steadfast demeanor, and me with my wit and charm. The Dowager Empress Maria herself said we would make the perfect match.” A soft smile curved Mama’s pale lips as her thoughts drifted from the room to a happier time. Svetlana had heard the story of the matchmaking dowager more times than she could count, but it had always been told in a manner of boasting, never with this reminiscent fondness. As if an egg had cracked open to reveal its sweet, runny center, kept unspoiled all these years within its shell.

Desperate to assuage the earlier sting, Svetlana cradled the image in its delicacy. One false slip and the rare moment of vulnerability between mother and daughter would shatter. “You always looked smart together.”

Mama toyed with her cross necklace, running her finger over the slanted bottom bar. “There’s nothing more I love than a perfect match of anything. I tried so hard to please him, but I quickly learned there was nothing more he loved than order. I was anything but. No matter how many pretty gowns I wore or opulent dinner parties I threw with all the right attendees, I never pleased him as much as watching his soldiers drill or aligning his army boots in the closet.”

“I assumed most husbands and wives held their own interests independent of one another. Grand Duchess Xenia was often quoted as it being the only way to sustain a peaceful marriage.”

“Because you have been taught to think no differently, as all properly brought-up young ladies are.”

“Yet you wished otherwise, yes?”

“For a time, when I was young and naïve. Each passing year erected a brick around my heart. A growing wall your father never sought to scale. His eye was caught by too many other battles. He was a good man, but he made loving him nearly impossible.”

“You’re like him.”The delicate moment of intimacy crackled apart and in blew the bitter cold wind of truth. “Is that what you think of me? I’m impossible to love?”

Mama’s expression shuttered. She turned her face to the window once more. “Where is your husband?”

The denial of an answer and change in topic was like a slap to the face after having been spat in the eye. Unlovable and unable to love. In the days passing her fallout with Wynn, Svetlana’s bones felt of ice, as if she were no longer a part of her body. She listened for Wynn’s voice constantly but prayed her steps would not lead her to him. Her emotions were too raw to be reliable. Like a cord of beads strung on one after another with no intent of purpose. The lack of control was nearly as debilitating as the crack in her heart.

But this weakness she would never allow her mother to witness, not to be seized upon and brought down to Mama’s level of insecurities. Svetlana tapped the hair pin tray parallel to a silver-handled brush. “His time is occupied of late with matters from the medical board.”

“About that soldier who died under his knife in Paris?”

Svetlana’s attention snapped up. “Lieutenant Harkin did not die under Wynn’s knife. It was some time after the operation. Where are you hearing this information?”

“One of the maids has a brother who worked as an orderly in the London hospital when that sergeant—lieutenant?—was there.” Wrapping the necklace chain around her finger, Mama gave her a pointed look. “I have to get my information from somewhere when my own daughter won’t tell me.”

“That’s because there is nothing to tell. It was tragic that the young man died, but Wynn did his best to save him. As he did—does—with all his patients.” They may have been in the middle of a marital tempest, but no one could falsely accuse Wynn to her face and remain unchecked. He was a good man and a brilliant surgeon and would rather throw himself in front of a firing squad before seeing harm come to another person.

Had he not done just that to protect the woman he claimed to love? Her head pounded. Yes, he had. With a lie.

The sound of metal zippering over a chain filled the stretching silence. Mama’s cross pulling back and forth on its chain. “The maids also tell me they’ve been lighting the fire and making the beds in both of your separate chambers.”

Svetlana crossed the room in an undignified two strides and glared at her mother from the foot of the bed. All pretense of civility vanished at her mother’s gaming attempts to needle her. “The intimate information of my sleeping arrangements is none of your concern.”

“It tells a lot about a marriage. Particularly the early days.”

“I’m sure you’d find more delight to hear of me slipping into Sergey’s bed.”

Mama jerked upright. “There’s no call to be crude.”

“I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t realize there was a more delicate way of stating whose bed you’d rather see me in than my husband’s.”

“Good heavens. I did not raise you to speak this way.”

“It’s the only thing ladies of the court discuss.”

“Not in front of their daughters.”

“Behind the back is preferable? Or only with the maids?”

“This is not—that is not why I asked. Always twisting my words around to make me a harpy of the worst kind.” Lips pursed, her mother inhaled several times through her nose as her hands scuffed over the bed linen. Ever the victim. Ever so slowly, the high color on her cheeks receded. “I ask because . . . Well, what does it matter now? You’re your father’s daughter.”

The angry dart flew straight and true at Svetlana’s heart, but it was too late. She’d armed herself since the first attack. “I once felt special when you told me that. Now I know you never meant it as a compliment.”

“There you go again, knowing all. Whatever would we mere mortals of imperfection do without your insight? Apparently we would have starved, been thrown out into the streets, or killed without you to guide us. I’ve yet to see one lasting ray of hope since we left Russia.”

“I’ve done the best I can to keep us safe.”

“I’m sure you think so.”

With the covers pulled up high on her chest and the pink bow at her throat, her mother was not the bitter harpy she accused Svetlana of making her, but rather a selfish, scared child who knew no better than to lash out when she was hurting. Nothing hurt more than being denied love.

“Did you love my father?” Did you ever love me? Svetlana burned to ask but held back in fear of what the answer might be.

“I did, but it was too exhausting keeping up with that much perfection,” Mama whispered, clutching her cross and slumping into her pillows. “Go away. I’m tired.”

Svetlana turned, crossed the room, and opened the door. Marina stood there precariously balancing a fresh tray of steaming tea. The scent of apples lingered in the strained leaves.

“Oh good. I didn’t know how I was going to get the door open holding this.” The smile dropped from her face. “Svetka. What’s wrong?”

“Mama is tired, but I suspect she’ll feel revived after her tea.”

“We didn’t have cherries, but I strained a few of the chamomile petals you’ve been drying from your herb garden. You don’t think she’ll mind?”

“Of course not. Your thoughtfulness is always appreciated.”

“Do you know when Sergey will return? He left rather unexpectedly, and I worry for him in this strange country.”

Sergey had left not long after their last conversation in the solarium—where he had so brazenly declared himself to her—claiming he needed a few days alone to gather his thoughts while searching for new accommodations. It would be a lie to say she did not feel relief from his temporary absence. She had too many upsets to deal with, and summoning small talk for the man she’d rejected was not one she had the fortitude for.

“I’m not certain. Perhaps he needed time to clear his head. We Dalsky women can be overwhelming in our plights.”

Marina stepped close and touched a gentle hand to Svetlana’s shoulder. “Mama will get better, but it’ll take time. We’ll help her. There’s no sense in you worrying so much about all of us.”

The naïve sweetness on her sister’s face—thinking it was their mother who caused the only trouble—slipped a knife into Svetlana’s heart. “Part of being the big sister is to worry, kotyonok.”

“Then it’s good you have Wynn to look after you. He’s the only one strong enough.”

The knife twisted. Svetlana walked away as the pain swelled in her chest, culminating in the prickle of tears.

“Are we still conducting that village meeting later today?” Marina’s voice trailed down the hall after her.

“Yes. Be ready to leave by three o’clock.” Svetlana rounded the corner and threw open the nearest window. Icy wind rushed in and froze the tears cresting her bottom lashes. She swiped them away with a decisive flick of her hand before closing the window and continuing on.

*  *  *

The Glentyre schoolhouse was a sea of worn faces all bundled together against the chill rapping against the lead-paned windows. Women in headscarves held tightly to their red-nosed children while the men stared solemnly ahead. Men with missing arms or legs, scarred faces, limps, and haunted expressions of weariness. One might easily despair of their pitiable conditions, but that was a fool’s take. War had pillaged and destroyed with its ravenous appetite for death, but it had not claimed its final stake in this village. There was still a fight to be had, and the overwhelming attendance that day was a rallying cry.

Svetlana stood before them with a world map hanging behind her. Countries, mountains, and oceans were marked in English and Gaelic, the ancient Scottish language she was determined to learn if only a few words for greeting.

She’d taken care to wear a simple black dress of mourning with a silk rosette of blue and green pinned to her lapel. MacCallan colors. Today, above all, was about unity.

“War has mastered our circumstances these past four years and now we must find new ways to survive its aftermath. Together. I stand before you not as a princess or duchess but as one of you. As one who has lived through bloody horrors, mayhem, and death. Left forever scarred, but in no way defeated.” She took heart in the nods circling the room. “So many of you have shared your stories with me and for that I am grateful and humbled. I have felt your loss as my own.”

“Feel our loss, do ye, Yer Grace?” A wiry man with fading red hair and a bandage around his left ear stood up from the back row. “What’d ye ken sittin’ up in yer bonny castle wi’ yer fine furs and jewels to warm ye. Ye dinna speak fae us.”

Svetlana clasped her black lace–gloved hands together and offered a polite smile. “I do not believe I’ve had the opportunity of meeting you before, sir.”

“’Twas lain up in a frog hospital fae neigh on five months wi’ half me brains leakin’ out this hole in me heid.” He tapped the bandage. “Boyd Beardsly’s the name.”

“How do you do, Mr. Beardsly. Hopefully after our meeting we might have a private moment to speak, but for now I shall tell you that I was forced to flee my country as my home was burned over my head. My people were and still are hunted like dogs. My father and brother were murdered because of a sworn allegiance to their rightful king. I have begged in the gutters for scraps of bread to eat. All of my worldly possessions have been sold or stolen, leaving me only with the dignity of my name, which some would gleefully kill me over.

“So, no, Mr. Beardsly, I do not claim to speak for you. Merely as one who has shared a great loss, as you have.” Her steady words belied the pounding of her heart. Her endeavor and acceptance rose and fell with these people. They never asked her to come and situate herself as their lady, but she was determined to gain their trust. If that meant opening this private piece of herself, then so be it.

“God save you, Your Grace!”

“Bless ye, Yer Grace!”

“She’s not a toff, Beardsly! She’s a MacCallan.”

Beardsly scowled at the echoing voices around him before offering Svetlana a reluctant sniff. “Reckon ye hae at that. On wi’ yer speech then.” He waved a dismissive hand and plonked back down on the bench.

From the front row, Constance beamed while Marina sent her a sly wink. They, too, wore black and matching rosettes. If nothing else, she had their support.

Buoyed by the audience’s desire not to shun her, the nervous whirling in her stomach ceased. “Thank you, Mr. Beardsly. As I was saying, our most pressing need is medical assistance. At present you are required to travel to and from Glasgow for exams and medications, wasting valuable income and days away from your farms and shops. I propose we open a medical facility here in Glentyre with trained nurses and a dedicated physician knowledgeable in the latest advancements to treat returning soldiers.”

“His Grace kens about all that,” said a man missing his left arm. A Mr. Grover, if Svetlana recalled, who farmed sheep. Next to him sat his wife clutching two children. They had been due a third child, but recently lost the baby.

Nerves tripping back into place, Svetlana pinched her fingers together. Wynn was the last thing she wanted to talk about, but he might as well be the proverbial elephant in the room. “His Grace has many responsibilities requiring his medical skills and duties for the estate. He is in full support of this proposition.”

“His support, aye, but what o’ him tendin’ us as a healer? No every day there’s a duke what can stop a bleedin’ man.” Mr. Grover’s gaze softened to look at his wife. “Or woman, fae that matter.”

“The duke’s greatest desire is to serve the people of Glentyre, but in doing so he is forced to decline a commitment as permanent attending physician.” Truth, but not the whole of it. “In addition to a medical facility, we will also have classes for those wishing to learn viable skills, open to both men and women, fourteen years of age and older.”

Murmurs rippled around the room. Women bent their heads together while several of the men perked up.

“Ye’re proposin’ we pay fae this how? What few spare coins we hae left? Hospitals isna cheap,” Mr. Grover said.

“The old weaver’s mill is the prime location candidate. Repairs and renovations are at no cost to you, and we will be taking applications for tradesmen to work the site with priority given to Glentyre men. Classes and training sessions will be free of charge excluding any supplies needed. However, medical appointments and prescriptions will be your own expenses as per arrangement by the newly founded Ministry of Health and the Army Medical Board.”

Medical Board. A collected tomb of cranky white-haired old men, Wynn had called them. She instinctively scanned the room for him, her stomach fluttering with disappointment at not finding him. Her search found a small man dressed all in black hovering near the back corner. Sallow skin, greasy hair, and a pointed nose gave the repugnant image of a rat. The hairs prickled on the back of her neck as the memory of men dressed in black with red armbands dragging Sergey from the train platform trampled its horror over her once more. Some nights she still dreamed of them coming for her.

And like the instant waking from a dream, the man slipped behind the crowd. An expectant audience stared back at her.

“Thank you all for coming today,” she hurried. “Before you leave please enjoy the pies and vatrushkas.”

Constance and Marina moved to where Mrs. Varjensky stood with the baskets of food spread across a row of desks against the far wall. Svetlana weaved through the crowd in search of the rat man. Only by looking him in the eye could she put her nightmare to rest.

“Yer Grace. How ever can we be thankin’ ye?” Katie MacKinnon, whom she’d first heard about while sitting with Mrs. Douglas, wobbled into a curtsy in front of her. She waved at her three little children to follow.

“Mrs. MacKinnon, a delight to see you.” If not a little untimely.

The woman’s chapped cheeks glowed pink. “An answer to prayer, this is. What with me man laid up ’tis hard to find proper work.”

“I hope this will ease a burden weighing so heavily on our community.”

“’Tis braw hearin’ ye say ‘our community.’ We’ve a real princess championin’ us, but my only hitch is what’s to become of the bairns if’n I should take a class? Their da canna manage them on his own.”

The three children’s tattered clothes barely brushed their exposed ankles, but their hair was neatly combed as they stared at Svetlana with hungry eyes. When was the last time they’d seen a full meal on their table?

“I see the dilemma. This will take thought, but I give my word something will be managed.”

“Oh, thank ye, Yer Grace. A godsend, ye are.” Mrs. MacKinnon wobbled another curtsy. Over the top of her bowed head, the rat man stared at Svetlana. Nose twitching, he scurried into the outer hall.

“Excuse me, please. Be sure to sample the vatrushkas and take some home if you like.” Svetlana hurried after the rat as people reached out to talk to her. She waved them off as politely as she could. It wasn’t a coincidence that man was here. If there was a threat, she needed to know.

Charging into the outer hall lined with coat hooks, she smacked into Sergey.

“What’s all this?” He grasped her shoulders, holding her steady.

“You’ve returned.”

“I could not stay away for long. You must know that.”

Wasting no time deciphering that comment, she wriggled away just as the black flap of a cloak disappeared outside and the door banged shut on a gust of wind. She ran after the intruder. The wind whipped across her face and scattered the leaves around her feet as she scanned the schoolyard. A few tired horses and one fine gray from Thornhill’s stable dotted the area, but not a soul to be seen.

Dead grass crunched beneath Sergey’s polished boots as he joined her. “What’s the commotion?”

“Did you see him?”

“See who?”

“A man. All in black.” She stared down the single road leading from the schoolhouse and into the village. “You must have seen him in the hallway.”

“I saw no one but hunched over villagers stuffing their faces.” Taking her arm, he propelled her back inside. “It’s much too cold for you to be standing in the elements.”

“I’m Russian. My blood is made of winter’s ice.” She peered past him to the peep window squared out of the school’s door.

“Tell that to your red ears and cheeks.”

“He must have walked right by you.”

“I saw no one, I tell you.” He looked down at her. Every single mustache hair was perfectly combed and softened with oil smelling of nutmeg. “Are you feeling yourself, kroshka?”

She’d never cared for nutmeg. “I am not your little crumb.”

The corners of his mouth turned down and he took half a step back, locking his hands behind his back. “Forgive my old habit of informality, it’s only that I worry for you. Perhaps you spend too much time around these muzhika.”

“They are not peasants.”

“They might as well be for the social divide between us and them. As a gentleman and your oldest friend, I urge you to reconsider circulating among them so closely. It’s not appropriate for a lady of your rank. They carry diseases.”

This amount of idiocy was expected from her mother, but she never thought to witness it in Sergey. “I am not ill in the head if that is what you are suggesting, nor will I tolerate slander against these good people.”

“Forgive me. I do not wish to insult you, merely to see you well looked after. Allow me to care for you, Svetka. The way you deserve. Far from this. Let me take you away. No one will ever find us. We’ll be safe.” He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her to the fine wool of his overcoat. Hugh’s overcoat.

Mottled with anger at his bold persistence, Svetlana shoved him away. Something wasn’t right. Sergey had never acted so out of character. “You forget yourself. Out of respect for the friendship we once held, I shall forget this distasteful notion while reminding you that I am a married woman.”

“Married to a disgraced man standing accused of murder whom you never loved. Is that what you mean?”

“How do you know about that?”

“How do I not know when you rightfully belong to me? My eyes are everywhere you are. I love you, Svetka. This is our last chance to be together or all will be ruined. Send him away and come with—” Sergey jerked backward.

Wynn stood there holding the back of Sergey’s collar. Rage thundered across his face. “I’ve a suggestion of where to send you.” He dragged Sergey outside and pinned him against the back wall of the schoolhouse. His forearm crushed against Sergey’s windpipe. “Lower than a snake’s belly, slithering into my home and trying to seduce my wife. I’ve a mind to send you straight back to the hole from whence you crawled.”

Wheezing, the whites of Sergey’s eyes bulged as his gaze skittered to Svetlana. “H-help.”

Wynn leaned forward. Sergey purpled as the full weight of Wynn’s bulk settled on him. “Pack your bags and leave the country. If I hear even a rumor of your name, I won’t waste a second in breaking your scrawny neck.”

Wynn dropped his arm and Sergey crumpled to the ground in a coughing fit. “S-so much f-for y-your oath to d-do no harm-m.”

“That oath was for humans. It said nothing about evil beasts. Go.”

Sergey grabbed at the rough stone wall and hauled himself up. Red blotched his slim face as his dark eyes bored hatred into Wynn. Shuddering, he looked to Svetlana.

Wynn blocked him. “Last warning.”

Panting, Sergey stumbled away to mount the fine gray horse and rode off. He looked back only once.

Svetlana trembled, but not from the gusting cold nor from the violent scene. Somehow through it all she’d felt utterly calm watching Wynn’s barely restrained fury come within an inch of release, knowing he exerted complete control. Nothing was going to happen without him allowing it. Seeing him for the first time since their confrontation was what sent uncertainty shaking along her nerves. The ice crackled around her heart as it yearned for his nearness, while her head shouted for fortification around its beating vulnerabilities.

Hatless as usual, his hair waved unfettered in the breeze while the richness of his brown suit set off the gold in his eyes to perfection. Eyes that took her in with that efficient manner of his where nothing remained hidden. He reached for her hand. “You’re shivering. Let’s get you inside.”

Exposed under that penetrating gaze, she angled away from his touch. It would undo her. “What are you doing here?”

His attention drifted from her face to her left ear. A hazy smile pulled at his lips. “Those are the earrings I gave you. I told you that I’d—”

“—captured a star.”

“Captured a star that had shrunk in the presence of your beauty. I also said—”

“We said many things that night.” Svetlana tugged at the curls she’d tried to cover her ears with that morning. A vain effort. Why of all her earrings could she not help herself from choosing these?

“I meant every one of them. I still do.”

Another shard of ice fractured off her heart. She imagined the pain of his duplicity seeping into the crack, hurting her all over again. “Do not avoid the question with an entanglement of emotions.”

“Loving you isn’t an entanglement. It’s a privilege.”

“Then you should not have endangered it by withholding information vital to our future.” Lies in a royal court or chandelier-graced parlor she could swat off with a flick of her glittering fan, but a lie from the man she had most trusted could not so easily be discarded.

He sighed. A weary, wordless sound that her tired soul recognized. “I wasn’t going to come today. It might’ve raised too many questions, and I didn’t want you put on the spot to answer them. Unfortunately, a summons from Glasgow forces me to crash your event.” He scowled down the road where Sergey had disappeared. “Though not a moment too late.”

She could not care less about Sergey at that moment. “The medical board?”

“Last hearing. They’ll be making a formal decision at the end. I won’t ask you to come, but I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to.”

Svetlana noticed his overnight valise strapped behind the saddle on his horse, tethered a few feet away. Her stomach dropped. “Are you leaving now?”

“It starts tomorrow morning. I think they like to let me know last minute in hopes I won’t show up.” He grinned, but it wasn’t convincing. His life’s work hung in the balance. “I know things have been strained between us of late and I take full responsibility. My pride and ambitions have hurt the people I care for most. My patients. Our tenants. You. I want to do what’s best by all of you. For us.”

She longed to hold him, to tell him she needed him and that she believed justice was on his side. Not because he was a surgeon or a duke, but because her life was incomplete without him. His words rocked against her anger, but pride bolstered her defenses and sealed off the confession.

“I believe you, but what has fractured between us cannot be mended so easily.”

“But it can be mended. Tell me it can, please.”

“I-I wish I could be certain.”

“At least it’s not a no.”

He kissed her gently on the cheek, no more than a whisper of saddened regrets, and then he was gone. Svetlana stood in the schoolyard long after, impervious to the cold air. An ache swirled inside where her heart hung heavy in her chest like a broken pendulum.