The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky. Princess. A Russian princess. Princess Svetlana of the silver hair and arctic eyes who didn’t smile. Svetlana of the too many names who wanted no one to find her.

But Wynn had found her and she’d been a constant on his mind ever since.

“Wake up, Your Excellency. You’re in a daze.” Gerard ribbed him.

Wynn blinked. Drying soap suds covered his hands. “Sorry. Mind elsewhere.” He quickly rinsed off the lather and dried his hands with a fresh cloth. The sounds of cleanup from the surgery thumped in the room next door.

“Let me guess. Somewhere far north of here with the strains of a balalaika playing in the background.” At Wynn’s frown, Gerard rolled his eyes and stuck his hands under the steaming stream of water. “If you’re to woo a lady of Russian origins, you might as well start learning her culture. Women appreciate that sort of attention to detail. I’ll lend you my copy of Pushkin.”

“I see the rumor mill is already churning.”

“How can it not? I hear the lady puts a glittering diamond to shame.”

“Was it also mentioned that said lady had a large glass fragment embedded in her tibialis anterior muscle?” Wynn tossed a clean towel directly at his mate’s head. Or that she’d had the strength of a soldier not to cry out in pain when he’d yanked said glass from her leg?

The towel knocked Gerard’s glasses sideways. “Ah, so that’s why you walked her home. Going to see her again?” Adjusting the wire frames, his large eyes blinked behind the glass.

“I’m taking medicine to her and the other patient who came in with her.”

“Good play. Always need a reason to make a second impression. Or so I’ve been told. Never gotten a chance to make one myself.”

“The fact that I’m treating them for wounds makes no never mind.”

“Of course, that too.” Gerard tossed his towel in the bin with the other used ones and followed Wynn out of the washroom and into the carpeted hall where nurses bustled with supply trollies. “Is she staying nearby?”

Wynn stopped himself from nodding. Svetlana had taken great pains to hide her family, to the point of foregoing their titles, and had been terrified at his discovery. Whatever hunted them, they were safe enough at the church. Yet he had no desire to usher in needless fear by giving them away.

“Near enough. Seems to be quite a few of her countrymen on the run.”

“Who can blame them? The people are revolting, and their tsar abdicated to a mob who is keeping him and his family locked in a palace like prisoners. The whole country is in turmoil. I hope they set it right again and soon before Germany takes advantage of the chaos. The Allies need stabilizing in this war.”

They rounded the corner to the administrative hall. Hotel staff once operated within these small offices that were now overrun with dead-on-their-feet medical staff. Wynn opened the door to their designated office, switched on the light, and immediately regretted it. Ignoring the mounds of paperwork was easier in the dark.

“Speaking of stable, that first lieutenant who was brought in from machine-gun wounds has a heart stutter,” Wynn said.

“He took six bullets to the chest. I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”

“I don’t feel right about it.”

“I doubt he does either.” Walking around his desk, Gerard slumped into his chair. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, but you need to keep your head down about this cardiac development. The surgeons around here aren’t keen on these newfangled ideas.”

Wynn scoffed as he did anytime those white-haired naysayers halted progress for the sake of tradition. “Just because we don’t completely understand cardiology doesn’t invalidate its imperative need. We as doctors should not fear it. If anything, we should work harder to refine a procedure that doesn’t involve stopping a patient’s heart. Permanently.”

“You want to take that risk to your career? You’re the best surgeon I know, Wynn, but even you have your limits.” Gerard scratched his freckled hand through his red hair, sticking it up like needles in a pincushion. “Enough of the heavy. I’m off shift, but I’ll see you at supper. If you can make it away from your prettier patients, that is.”

Wynn grinned. “A fact I will not argue. Now go on with you.”

Despite the anticipation of seeing Svetlana again, the predicament of his heart patient ate away at Wynn’s peace of mind. There had to be an explanation he couldn’t yet ascertain. Slipping into the white coat that signaled to one and all his doctoral status, he climbed the staircase to the third-floor post-operation recovery ward. After the Somme push two years prior, the existing walls of individual rooms had been knocked down to accommodate the influx of wounded. Privacy was at a premium and reserved for the most severe cases that needed more one-on-one attention, but here the patrol of nurses could march from one end of the corridor to the other with an attentive eye on the whole of their domain.

A nurse dressed in the pristine white apron of the Red Cross looked up from her small desk by the landing. “Good afternoon, Doctor MacCallan.”

“Afternoon, Sister. I’m here to make a small round with particular interest to Lieutenant Harkin.”

“He’s been put halfway down the left wing next to the window.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “While in good spirits, he’s been complaining about a dull ache in his chest.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m here to see about. Thank you, Sister.”

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the evenly spaced windows, casting the ward and its lined hospital beds into a haze. Patients swathed in all manner of bandages from head to broken toes lay sleeping or reading quietly. More than one stared blankly at the wall with the haunted look that chased them from the trenches.

Wynn made a quick round of the more concerning cases and found there was nothing his measly skills could do to improve upon the nurses’ tender and thorough care. Finally, he came to Harkin’s bed. Wrapped from neck to waist in bandages, the man held a letter written in flowery script. He looked up as Wynn scanned the status clipboard hanging from the end of his bed.

“Afternoon, Doc.” Harkin’s voice was rusty from the trauma inflicted on his lungs.

“Good afternoon. How are you feeling?”

“Better than yesterday when I had more than one hole in my bellows to breathe through.” A wheezing laugh tumbled out. Harkin grimaced and clutched his chest.

Setting down the clipboard, Wynn came around the side of the bed and placed a steady hand on the man’s shoulder. He skimmed the bandages for pinpricks of blood. “Take it easy. We don’t want those wounds splitting open on account of humor. In this case laughter is not the best medicine.”

“Still got pains, Doc. Right here.” Harkin pointed to his heart. “Like a dull ache pressing on me.”

“How often are the pains coming?”

“Steady as a second hand on a clock.”

Wynn pulled out his stethoscope and placed it over Harkin’s heart. Nothing but a steady beat. Uneasiness pitted in his stomach. He motioned over the ward matron. “Sister, send Lieutenant Harkin for an X-ray. I want to see what’s going on in there.”

She nodded. “I believe Major Reynolds was having a spot of trouble with it this morning. New technology is always troublesome, but he assured me it would be operational by later this afternoon, if not tomorrow morning.” She made a note on her clipboard. “I’ll send one of the VADs to check the status right away.”

“Notify me at once with the results.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

Wynn gave Harkin his best reassuring smile. “We’ll get this cleared up. Don’t worry.”

Harkin glanced down at the letter in his hand as a shadow crossed his face. “I ain’t a croaker yet, am I?”

“You were mowed down by a machine gun and survived. Everything else is a walk in the park.”

Or so Wynn hoped. He never lied to his patients. It promoted distrust in his sworn duties as a healer, an oath he did not take lightly, though there were times to hold back the truth. Patients often needed a glimmer of hope to cling to and if that rested in Wynn’s silence, then so be it.

Signing off duty, Wynn stopped by his rented room and buttoned into a fresh shirt that didn’t smell of carbolic lotion. He added a drop of eau de cologne that had nothing whatsoever to do with the woman he was about to visit.

Patient, he corrected. The patient he was about to visit.

Mayhap she would smile today. He’d never given much thought to making a woman smile. Certainly he’d endeavored to offer a pleasant evening to whichever debutante his mother cajoled him into escorting to the season’s balls or theater outings, but the experiences never left a lasting impression. This woman had. Her sadness and the stubborn way she tried to overrule it tugged at him in a way he never expected. All he wished to do was relieve her of the burden.

With the challenge set before him, Wynn headed down the street to Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. Thick white clouds formed overhead, blocking out the mid-summer sky. With any luck a light rain shower would cool down the temperatures and keep the Tommies from heat exhaustion. There was nothing more embarrassing for an experienced soldier than to be brought into hospital with sunburns instead of a stray bullet.

Wynn paused at the cellar door. Smoothed his waistcoat—having foregone a jacket in the heat—and rerolled a shirtsleeve that had slipped. He chided himself for being so ludicrous. He was here as a physician. Nothing more. Before he could question the shine on his shoes, he entered.

Voices rose to meet him on the descent into the cool chamber. People milled about in states of boredom and all the variations that took on individual characters. Children running about, women folding and refolding their meager belongings, and men in heavy discussion among themselves. People caught in limbo as war raged around them. They couldn’t take up arms nor could they go about the ordinary duties of hearth and home. It was a demoralizing existence of waiting while one’s fate was determined elsewhere.

The whispers and stares intensified the farther he waded in. He caught snatches of one word rising with reverence above the rest: printsessa. Svetlana. He’d never given much thought to titles. Nobles and peasants bled alike on the operating table, but these people had stared at her yesterday in awe. He’d witnessed a few crossing themselves—not in a devil-get-thee-behind-me way, but more as if seeing the Almighty’s chosen. All of which had been wiped away the second they spotted him trailing behind.

“Good afternoon.” He smiled at a little girl staring boldly at him. Her mother yanked her away. Was there something about him that Russians didn’t like?

Stepping over what he assumed to be the line into aristocratic territory, disgruntled voices shifted between the blanket dividers. Svetlana, her mother, sister, and four other agitated adults stood at the far end of the last row in what could only be described as a full-blown disagreement complete with gesturing and finger-pointing. Why did they all speak French?

Unaffected as a cliff against howling winds, Svetlana stood in the center of the warring parties speaking calmly and keeping her mother from leaping forward like a pepped-up rabbit. She caught Wynn watching and hurried over. “I will be with you shortly, Doctor. Excuse us.”

A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and yanked him into a blanketed chamber littered with vials and tin pots. Mrs. Varjensky smiled up at him. “Oy, smotrite kto prishol to. Golubchik.” She pushed him onto a folded blanket serving as a cushion and bent over one of the pots with ladle in hand while prattling away. Spooning what smelled like an earth broth into a small wooden bowl, she pushed it into his hands and stared at him with spare eyebrows raised in expectation.

He wasn’t the least bit hungry and by the looks of things the occupants of the cellar needed the nourishment more than he did, but manners were manners. He lifted the bowl to his lips and took a deep swallow. “Very good.”

Mrs. Varjensky gestured for him to eat more, and he obliged. She quickly ladled in more soup.

After three more sips, Wynn put down the bowl. “It’s delicious, but I’m too full to take another bite.” He gestured to indicate a full belly.

Clucking, she patted his cheeks, his forehead, and his stomach, then shook her head and ladled in more. “Kushai, golubchik.”

“On ne goloden.” Svetlana stood in the doorway. Hair twisted off her neck, she was still dressed in the clothing from yesterday, but the tear in her skirt had been repaired with dainty stiches that put his own suturing to shame. Then again, material was different from skin.

Wynn scrambled to his feet. “Good afternoon.”

She didn’t look at him as she continued in back-and-forth Russian with Mrs. Varjensky. Wynn stood awkwardly as the conversation flowed around him without bothering to include him. Mrs. Varjensky patted his stomach again, to which Svetlana finally looked at him.

“She thinks you’re too thin,” she said, those pale blue eyes with the slight tilt at the outer corners taking in everything.

“That’s something I’ve never been accused of. Handsome, funny, and charming, yes. I concede to those accusations, but never thin. My mother used to chide me for eating everything in the pantry before Cook had a chance to restock. I once ate an entire platter of game hens that were supposed to be reserved for a dinner party. Cook chased me around the kitchen for an hour with her wooden spoon.”

Her expression never changed but for a slight flicker behind her eyes calculating his words. At last she clasped her hands in front of her in the tell-tale sign of a polite apology. “I am sorry we do not have meat to offer you.”

So far he was losing the smile challenge. Miserably. “No, that’s not what I meant. Your hospitality has been very gracious. How do you say ‘thank you’ in Russian?”

“Spasibo.”

“Spasibo, babushka.”

Mrs. Varjensky grinned, revealing a gold tooth in place of her left canine. “Pozhaluysta.”

Steering back to safer waters, Wynn emptied out his pockets. “I’ve brought medicine and extra bandages, as my true purpose is to check on both of you.” Taking the ladle from Mrs. Varjensky before she had a chance to wield it further, Wynn directed her to the cushion.

Svetlana put out a graceful hand as if to stop him. “Doctor MacCallan. Your dedication is appreciated, but we can no longer indebt ourselves to your courtesy.”

“If that’s a polite way to say ‘get lost,’ I respectfully decline. At least until I’ve examined you both. If you get an infection, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me whether you want to or not.” He unwrapped the older woman’s hand and slanted it toward the tiny window for better light. A touch of red, but not like before. Reaching into the muslin bag he’d brought, he took out a swab and dipped it in the small bottle of iodine, then blotted it across the wound. She winced but let him finish without complaint.

“Did you manage with a pain relief of tea last night?” he asked as he bandaged the hand with fresh linen.

“Yes. We found the ingredients in the church’s garden. Mrs. Varjensky is very good at determining plants.”

“I suspect a healer would be. You are done, my lady.” Wynn patted the older woman’s wrist and helped her stand before turning to Svetlana. “Your turn.”

Sitting straight-backed on an overturned bucket, her head erect as if wearing a crown, Svetlana lifted her skirt as high as modesty would allow. Wynn knelt in front of her and pondered the best way to go about the examination. There was nothing for it now. Taking her foot, he propped it on his knee so that her leg was straight. She inhaled sharply but said nothing.

As a first-year medical student he couldn’t cease blushing when examining a female patient, but he’d quickly grown accustomed to the professional intimacy afforded between a physician and his patient. The human body was a wondrous creation of bone, sinew, muscle, and blood that moved in a rhythm designed to perfection. A miraculous universe contained within a single entity that he gave his life to study and heal. He’d examined limbs, arteries, and tissues in all manner of construction, but never had he seen one so lovely formed as the woman sitting before him now, inducing the tiniest bit of nerves to shoot through him.

Doing his best to ignore the slender ankle and well-defined calf muscle that was anything but a professional examination, he unwrapped the bandage. A bit more red than he would’ve liked, but it wasn’t spreading. No purulent discharge. Guilt stabbed him anew. If he hadn’t called out and frightened her, she never would have been hurt. Then again, he may never have met her either.

Cleansing the area and dabbing it with iodine, he placed fresh gauze over the wound and bandaged it. “A few more days and you should be able to leave the wrap off. It’s important for wounds to have fresh air, otherwise they don’t heal properly.” He lowered her foot to the floor.

She gracefully smoothed her skirts back into place. “How long before it is healed?”

“You’ll have a scar there for the rest of your life, but I should say by the end of next week you’ll be able to waltz up and down the stairs without much issue.”

“That long?”

“It’s not really that long. Unless you have some place to be.”

“I— No.”

“Chay.” Mrs. Varjensky announced, breaking the disgruntled spell. She traded in her ladle and held up a cracked teapot.

Shaking her head, Svetlana replied before translating to Wynn. “Tea, but we won’t inconvenience you any longer. Thank you for coming.”

He had been as pleasant as possible thinking her standoffishness was a cultural difference he’d yet to navigate, but mayhap her constant dismissal had more to do with him and not interpersonal courtesies.

“Is it me or visitors in general you try to kick out at the earliest opportunity?”

Her eyes widened a fraction. A sliver enough for him to see embarrassment. “You misunderstand.”

It summed up the whole of their short interactions so far, but he was more than willing to get them on the right foot. Even for one simple conversation.

“Chay.” Mrs. Varjensky rattled an empty tin and showed him the remnants of dried leaves at the bottom. She shoved the tin into Wynn’s hands before pushing him and Svetlana out of her chamber. He caught the twinkle in the old woman’s eyes before she closed the blanket partition on their protests. Well, Svetlana’s protests. He was doing no such thing; he was grateful to have a bit more time with her.

“Where are you going?” Her Serenity the Princess Ana stood alone in the same spot as before clutching a velvet bag to her chest. She eyed Wynn with suspicion.

“To the garden. Mrs. Varjensky wishes tea,” Svetlana said.

Placated but not pleased, Ana nodded. “Tarry not. This southern sun will melt your complexion.”

“Yes, Mama.”

The blanket behind Ana pulled back to reveal a man with dated side chops and a pinched-face woman who stared at the bag in Ana’s hands. They gestured her into the chamber and pulled taut the blanket.

“Voleurs,” Svetlana hissed.

Not one for languages outside of the medical Latin and the passing French he’d acquired since being in country, Wynn knew that word from traveling the overcrowded and starving streets of Paris. Thieves.

On edge, he stepped closer to her. “Is there something else I can be of assistance with?”

“Most of the émigrés want to find peace while others seek only advantage. Come.”

Outside, a sunny haze enveloped the walled courtyard, blurring the harsh lines of stone and slate roof and filling the elm trees with golden light. They turned away from the boiling pots of laundry and soup and walked to the small garden in the far back corner hidden behind a crumbling wall. Much of the dirt patch was overgrown with tangled vines and leaves, but several rows appeared to be somewhat maintained with individual plants poking through the earth.

“The Father Superior gave us permission to use what we needed. He doubted anything of use still grew here, but Mrs. Varjensky has coaxed a few herbs from hiding in their forgotten state.” Svetlana ran a hand across her puckered brow. “We picked much of the comfrey yesterday. I do not understand how we ran out.”

“Mayhap she boiled a secret batch and drank it all while you slept. Ladies and their tea.”

Svetlana took the few steps forward while heavily favoring her good leg. Her lips pursed into a thin line with the effort. Wynn took her hand and looped it under his arm, forcing her to lean against him as he led her to a crooked bench perched under a tree.

“Here, let me get it. You rest.”

“Thank you.” Smoothing her cotton skirt, she flexed and straightened her foot as a dancer might to ascertain pliability. If she was a dancer, that would explain her movements. Like water they were. “Do you know where the plant is?”

Wynn stood in the middle of the overgrown garden and did his best to tell the plants apart. He could discern the flexor carpi radialis, flexor carpi ulnaris, and palmaris longus with his eyes closed, yet the growing green stalks defied him. “Not a clue.”

“I thought doctors knew all their medicines.”

“From a textbook, certainly. Or ground up in tubes from the lab. It’s another beast all together when foraging in the wild.”

Svetlana shifted on the bench and pointed to the middle of the plot. “It is the long leaf pointed at the end. There are dead purple flowers beneath it. Do you see? Mrs. Varjensky was adamant it is this and not the plant next to it that she claimed to produce blood from the ear.”

Wynn grimaced. Not a prognosis he wished to get involved with. “Stay away from that one.” Picking his way to the center, he squatted next to the desirable plant and eyed the indicated fallen purple flowers. “Do you know those people your mother was speaking with?”

“Not in particular.”

“Are they causing problems for your family?”

“It is of no consequence. We will not be here for long.”

Two reactions pinned him simultaneously. The first, a physician’s concern. “I hope you’re not thinking of traveling anytime soon. Not with your injury.” The other, something far more human responding to the guarded measures of her tone. “You’re safe here.”

“There is no place safe. Not anymore.” She stiffened and looked away. Wynn had the feeling she was looking far beyond the back wall. To a place only seen in memory.

He picked a handful of comfrey sprigs as he weighed his words. “It’s true the war makes such reliability obsolete, but the Germans are far from here. They’ll never breach Paris.”

“Who are you to guarantee such a thing?”

“I’m offering you a chance to hope. You don’t seem to have much of it lately.”

She looked at him fully for the first time, unashamedly in her direct perusal. He returned the directness. Hair of palest blond it was nearly white; unblemished skin kept from a lifetime of sun; and eyes the color of a wintry sea. So pale blue in the center one might lose himself in the vastness until drifting to the rim of arctic blue around the outside. Beautiful was not enough. Words such as elegant and exquisite were used to describe women like her, and while he felt himself affected by such attributes, it was not what held his attention.

Intelligence was not a calling card for most women he knew as society highly disapproved of such liberal notions. Her Serenity the Princess Svetlana—and all those other names he couldn’t remember—displayed hers without reserve. She didn’t defer or feign false modesty. She held herself with quiet pride, and nothing could kindle his admiration more.

“I had hope once.” Her soft admission was snatched on a breeze of sorrow. “Such notions belong to ruins of the past.”

“Back when you were a princess?” She startled and he immediately regretted his bluntness, though it was hardly a secret after her mother’s brazen introduction. Surely they were far enough from Russia and its troubles to no longer remain fearful of their identities, but one look at the panic in her eyes told him the fear was rooted in death. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret safe—as long as you don’t let on that I’m a marquis.”

As before, it took a moment for her panic to recede. When it did a new confusion took its place. “What is this marquis?”

“I’m the second son of a duke. Upon my father’s death, my brother, Hugh, became Duke of Kilbride and I the humble Marquis of Tarltan.”

She shrugged, unimpressed. “There are many dukes in Russia.”

“Which makes me the only marquis of your acquaintance.” Wynn stood with the picked comfrey and brushed dirt from his trousers. “Well, that’s something anyway. What is that plant there?”

“A lily. Mrs. Varjensky says the boiled roots can be used in ointments for burns and rashes.” A smile crossed her face. “I used to arrange them in vases once belonging to Empress Ekaterina. They filled our music room in white, pink, and yellow blooms.”

“That sounds calming.”

“Arranging is one of the few activities deemed appropriate for a lady to learn. Not growing them or clipping them, mind you, that was too strenuous. Placing them in decorative vases was the extent of our labor.”

“Would you have liked to grow them yourself?”

Wistfulness whispered across her face, then faded like the petals of a bloom past its day in the sun. “What I would have liked is of no consequence. It was not to be for a princess then, nor for a refugee now.”

A breeze ruffled the nearby elms, filling the air with scents of sweet grass and thick herbs. A pleasant departure from the cloying hospital smell of sterilization. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was home in Scotland enjoying the lazy days of summer and not existing on the brink of trenches and barbed wire. What those frontline lads wouldn’t give for a whiff of a single blade of grass.

“My brother and I got in trouble once for whacking off rose tops with sticks in the Luxembourg Gardens when we were younger. Our parents were asked not to bring us back.”

“The carefree mischief of youth,” she said. “You are close with this brother, Hugh.”

Wynn nodded. “Best of friends growing up, but Hugh’s always had to hold himself apart as the next duke. Me? I’m the second son and can get away with murder. Though I won’t because it would be breaking my Hippocratic oath. Hugh knows all the rules and lives to keep them.”

“My brother, Nikolai, is the same.”

“Is he here in France?”

“He stayed with Papa to defend our homeland.” Her face shuttered, depriving him of her thoughts once more. “I should not be outside.” She stood, favoring her unhurt leg.

Wynn strode through the weeds and captured her hand before she had the chance to take a limping step. “I don’t know what you’re running from in Russia, though I can venture a guess, but you don’t have to be frightened any longer.”

“You do not know. You do not understand what fear is.”

Living the past four years in a war zone gave him every right to understand the meaning of fear, but the look blazing in her eyes spoke of something more, a crippling terror he’d not seen before. Not knowing how to root out the pain, he nodded and looped her arm around his. “I’ll take you inside.”

Her hand was cool against his forearm. Slight callouses rested at the base of her long fingers. Signs of refined hands adjusting to recent hardships. Likely she had never had to pick up an item a day in her life. Until now, when she was clothed in ripped skirts scrounging in a weedy garden. Yet not one ounce of dirt could diminish the regal way with which she held herself.

“Before you say ‘don’t come back,’ know that I will come back. Tomorrow or the next time I’m off shift,” Wynn said.

“You are a difficult man to say no to.”

“Another trait of my profession. We’re hard to refuse when a gangrenous limb hangs in the balance.”

Her brow puckered in confusion, then suddenly smoothed. “Ah. Another joke.”

“Medical humor. If we can’t heal you, we’ll kill you with terrible comedy.”

“Maybe it is better you continue with medicine instead.” A light sparked in her eyes. Was that the verge of a smile?

Wynn’s heart rate bumped up. “Maybe you’re right.”

Across the courtyard, Mrs. Varjensky had pushed aside one of the other women to stir a boiling pot of soup herself. At the sight of them, she bustled over and handed him a jar filled with vegetable broth. “Do svidaniya, golubchik.”

Wynn glanced at her other hand that held the cracked teapot. Familiar green leaves poked out of the spout. Biting back a laugh, he stuffed the newly picked but unneeded comfrey into the teapot.

“Spasibo, babushka.” He grinned at Svetlana. “Getting rather good at this Russian.”

“It is better you continue with medicine.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” He pulled out the lily he had clipped secretly from the garden and handed it to her. “Until next time.”

The corners of her mouth flitted up as she took the flower. It wasn’t quite the smile he’d hoped for, but it wasn’t a frown.

He would take it as a victory.

*  *  *

“He has made you smile.” Mama’s thin eyebrows raised in accusation as soon as Svetlana, holding the lily, stepped into their shared blanket quadrant.

Svetlana pulled the makeshift curtain tight, cutting off the smell of boiled cabbage that permeated the cellar. The elusive emotion of enjoyment and the sweet scent of the lily that had floated around her a moment earlier deflated.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You are engaged to Sergey.”

“I am not. An informal, unspoken understanding at the most.”

“You are as good as engaged. Sergey is one of our kind—the only kind—and a dear friend to our family for years. Do not forget this.”

How could she, when not for one moment did Mama allow it? Man after man had been paraded before her at every ball and concert, the most successful venues for finding acceptable husbands. Men with all the right titles, family wealth, and political ties, but without a bone of enticement to hold them upright. Perhaps one day a man would fit her credentials.

“I have no intention of falling in love right now. If such a thing is even possible.”

Mama scoffed and batted her small hand in the air as if to chase off Svetlana’s ludicrous notion. “Love has nothing to do with a successful marriage. It is a sentiment best reserved for the nishchebrod. This man, this doctor, is no one, otherwise he would not have a menial job as a physician. Bah. Working class.”

It was doubtful the poor had more claim on matters of the heart than the nobility, but speaking of peasants would only fall on Mama’s deaf ear. A mar on the otherwise glittering world she hoped to return to.

“He’s—” Svetlana cut short her defense of Wynn as she reached for an empty milk jar. He’d asked her not to reveal him as Marquis of Tarltan. While she had no intention of surrendering her trust to him, she still respected a promise when given. Pouring a bit of precious water into the jar, she gently slipped the flower into the glass. How beautiful these would be planted in a garden next to roses, freesia, buttercups, and peonies. Trouble could not touch them in such a peaceful place. “He is dedicated to his profession.”

“As if that concerns us. You are a princess. A blood relation to Tsar Nicholas himself.”

“A third cousin twice removed, I believe.”

“Still blood. We are set apart by God Himself.” Mama spit over her left shoulder so as not to tempt Fate.

That inalienable truth had been infused into the very air Svetlana breathed since the first day she drew breath. The nobles and titled of the land had been chosen by God, were touched by His divine hand, and sat upon pedestals to be worshipped by the poorer masses. It had been a life of comfort, ease, and adoration. But the revolution had destroyed it all, leaving bitter ashes of all that once sparkled as diamonds. Princesses could spill blood as easily as peasants when bullets fired without prejudice on the burning streets of Petrograd.

“Privyet.” Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Varjensky waddled in with a steaming bowl and ladle in her good hand. Her ever-present peasant scarf was tied tightly under her baggy chin. “Hungry, printsessas? There plenty of broth left.”

Mama looked away and made her polite offended noise. She’d yet to grow accustomed to dining without caviar.

“Nyet,” Svetlana said. “I will wait until later, but please leave Marina a bowl for when she returns from her errand.” With food scarce, she tried filling up on water throughout the day to carry her into the evening and the waiting bowl of thinned soup or what meager means the priest had managed to scrape together.

“That mal’chik needs eat more.” Mrs. Varjensky waved her ladle toward the door as if Wynn were still within sight. “He waste away and then no good he be to sick.”

“That man,” Svetlana corrected, for there was nothing boyish about him, “can take care of himself.”

The old woman waggled her head back and forth, loosening strands of gray from under her scarf. “Nyet. Impossible for men. Need woman to help.”

Speaking of helping . . . “Where did all the comfrey go from yesterday?”

“It gone. That all I know.” Mrs. Varjensky touched her head and gestured as if she had not a clue, but her avoiding eyes admitted to knowing precisely where the plants had gone. Her version of a woman helping. “You had nice time outside, da?” Her gaze slipped to the lily.

Meddling was the pastime of older generations. Their favorite being affairs of the young and what they hoped to conjure into romance. Svetlana refused to become another sport.

“A nice time picking more herbs since the armload we collected yesterday mysteriously disappeared.”

“Mystery, da.” With a knowing smile, Mrs. Varjensky turned back to her own quarters humming an offbeat tune.

Made of tough Volga stock, the old woman wasn’t giving in without a fight. Svetlana had to respect her sheer determination.

“Speaking of mysterious disappearances . . . Mama, I want to speak with you about earlier.”

Mama’s face pained delicately. “Let it wait. I have a terrible headache and need to lie down.” Her headaches only came on for two reasons. One for stalling and the other for sympathy. If Svetlana’s hunch was correct, it was the former in this instance for the very reason she wished to discuss.

“It cannot wait.”

“Very well.” Mama moved to sit on a chair that had quite recently appeared, then eyed Svetlana’s leg before sinking to the unoccupied pallet, deftly covering the velvet bag with her skirts. “What must you speak to me about that cannot wait until my head is better?”

“Where did the chair come from?”

“That? Oh, I traded for it with one of Marina’s combs.”

“We agreed to only trade or sell out of necessity. For food or clothes.”

“It is a necessity for my back. You don’t wish me continual suffering from sitting on this hard floor all the time, do you?”

Stilling the boil of anger to keep the peace, Svetlana took the chair. Her leg cried with relief, but she didn’t allow it to detract from her intended purpose.

“What jewels did you give him?”

“Give who?” Mama’s voice pitched an entire octave higher.

“Ivan Petro. Right before I left for the garden, you disappeared into that horrible man’s chamber.”

“He is not a man to lay your suspicions on. He was Privy Councillor to the tsar, a highly respectable position.”

Svetlana’s patience rattled. “The jewels?”

“His wife, on the other hand, not so respectable,” her mother continued the detour as she examined her nails. “There were rumors about her and General Miller in the fountains at Peterhof.”

“Mama. I am not interested in court scandals.”

“That’s because fun doesn’t appeal to you. To think, a daughter of mine with a constitution so rigid it would put a Siberian ice block to shame.” Mama clutched her gold cross as if in pain.

Svetlana remained motionless under her mother’s lament of disapproval. Words meant to prick and proddle while making herself out to be the one suffering. She loved nothing more than an audience for her act, but Svetlana had witnessed it time and again over the years. The performance had long since grown stale.

Not receiving the groveling response she desired, Mama stood and fluffed a pair of silk drawers she had drying over a crate.

“It was one tiny ruby. That flawed absurdity your father’s grandmother gave me as a wedding gift. She knew it was flawed when she gifted it to me.” She took a deep breath in preparation for her next act. “Ivan has contacts in Paris.”

“No. No mysterious contacts. If the Reds find out where we are, they’ll come for us and kill us. Or drag us back to Russia and kill us there as an example of what’s to be done with aristocrats. Do you not remember Prince Boris Baranov? Beat to death at a train station while his wife barely escaped disguised as a maid.”

Mama flung her arms wide and stared accusingly. “At least they’re not hiding in a basement. Reduced to sharing quarters and eating from a pot with these people. It’s undignified.”

“So is being shot in the head.”

“Do not say such vulgar things to me. You are a lady of high breeding. These contacts could place us back into the lifestyle we are accustomed to—a divine apartment, food, and clothes—while we wait for this turmoil to blow over. We have lived in the same clothing for months. It is not to be endured.”

Svetlana’s leg cramped. Standing, she gripped the back of the chair and eased into a demi plie before pushing to her toes in relevé. The cramp slowly knotted from her calf. She focused on the precise movements and not the flood of irritation at her mother’s complete lack of understanding their precarious situation. It had always been Mama’s way, and Svetlana learned long ago that it would never change.

“Even if the Reds surrendered tomorrow, there is still another war raging right where we are. Do you not remember how difficult it was to travel here? Sleeping in cattle cars, hiding in the woods, begging for a crust at village doors, and you want to turn around and do it all over again.”

“Our circumstances have yet to improve. Must you do that here?” Mama frowned as Svetlana added a tendu. “We must wait for Sergey to find us as he promised, but he will never look for us in a place like this.” The frown eased from her brow, and a rare glimpse of genuine concern softened her expression. “Perhaps he will bring us triumphant news of your father and Nikolai, for they’ll be too busy securing the country to come themselves.”

God willing. Svetlana could not rest easy until their family was reunited. Strong, valiant Papa had always carried the familial responsibilities with soldierly dignity. A lesson she had taken to heart, drawing upon his absent strength as they carried on without him.

“I will continue to make discreet inquiries for new accommodations and news from Russia. We do not need outside help.”

“Always with the fear and isolation. We are not the only émigrés here. On our journey I met a dozen duchesses and four princes. We do not need to live in this terror you insist on, not here when the country is crawling in confusion.”

The knot in Svetlana’s leg crawled up her spine and rooted itself into a headache. “Even so, we must take precautions, and that includes not pawning off our gems at every vacant promise that comes along. We need those to secure shelter and food. From now on, talk to me first.”

“How do you propose to do a better job than Petro’s contact at locating something for us? You know nothing of Paris.”

Svetlana’s eyes laned on the lily, and she touched one of the flower’s creamy petals. The softness curled to a yellow center dusted with pollen. “Leave it to me.”