The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

The time had come.

Svetlana had waited patiently, putting in social appearances over the past several weeks in order to aid her cause. Delicate matters required precise timing, and the less frantic one seemed the more likely their matter was to be met with favor. She wasn’t accustomed to asking favors, but there was a first time for everything.

“How is it a daughter of Russia refuses partaking in her national drink?” Sheremetev poured fresh vodka into his glass, then set the bottle back in the bucket of ice standing at the ready next to his private table.

“This daughter prefers to find culture in her homeland’s tea.” Svetlana raised her podstakannik and took a tiny sip. It was the first time since leaving her homeland that she’d been served the traditional Russian clear glass for admiring the tea’s color, with an elaborately decorated silver bottom and handle to keep from burning the hand. Despite the glass’s beauty, the warm liquid gurgled past the tightness in her throat. “I find it soothing.”

“Is soothing what you require?”

She’d rehearsed her speech over and over, yet pride proved difficult to overcome. It scolded her to find another way. But there was no other way. She’d tried and failed, with the only recourse now to humble herself and ask for help.

She scanned the White Bear’s crowded floor. Russian nobility swarmed every inch like bees in search of honey, their nectar consisting of cigarettes, drink, dalliances, and sharing sad stories of their former lives. Music set them buzzing as if the tunes could pluck them from misery and cast them into a pretense of joy for one evening. Only, these evenings were never once. They happened every night. The same people. The same drinks, dances, and mindless conversations. What so many sought as the comfort of the familiar, Svetlana found raw as sand against skin. They, too, once had their pride, but eventually found themselves where she was now. If there was any hope to be found, it was to one day find her dear friend Sergey sitting among them, for without his selflessness she never would have escaped.

Beneath the table she slid her feet to third position to steady herself. “I confess I find myself in turmoil. My family, like so many others, lost much when we fled Petrograd. I worry every day how I will keep our heads above water.”

“In leaving Moscow years ago to travel the world and increase the Sheremetev prosperity, I wanted to open a place of familiarity and comfort for my fellow Russians as they traveled abroad. Then two years ago when I brought my boy to join me, it was the first time he’d left the soil of his birth. With him came the first waves of èmigrès. I knew then I could use my connections to help those of our kind who lost everything.” He leaned forward, catching the light on his ruby stickpin. “A lady must never worry about such things. I have promised to help you in any way I can, and for as long as necessary I will continue to do so.”

Svetlana smoothed a hand over her watered-silk dress. One of the many ways he’d helped her family, plus food supplies and silk bedding. Quite the stir it had caused among those in the church basement, not to mention jealousy. Svetlana had protested at the extravagance that would place them in debt to this man they barely knew, but Mama would hear nothing of it. The Sheremetevs are famous for their benevolence, she’d claimed. Benevolence was one thing, but running up a tab was not something Svetlana wished to carry.

“Your generosity can never fully be repaid, though I will do everything in my power to do so. I’m afraid I must ask one more tally in our account.”

“It is yours for the asking, Princess.”

Asking. More like groveling. Oh, how she despised it. “The place we are staying is becoming unbearably crowded. Every day refugees pour into the city and there are too few places that will take in Russians. We are forced to live atop one another. It is agony for my sister and mother.”

“For yourself as well, I imagine. A far cry from the Blue Palace that church basement must be.”

Svetlana refused to give in to the memories of the home she’d last seen by the torching light of the revolutionaries. Did it still stand? “Could you help us find accommodations elsewhere? It need not be grand, merely private.”

Taking a sip of his vodka, Sheremetev settled against his cushion and scrunched his eyes as if in thought. They nearly disappeared into fleshy creases. “With the war on, places to rent are at a premium. Spaces not conscripted by the military or hospital are snapped up by families coming to visit their wounded or fleeing the countryside. It would be difficult.”

“We’re willing to pay.” If Mama hadn’t gambled it all away upstairs at the card tables.

“Let me see what I can do.”

If her corset had allowed it, she would have sagged with relief. “Thank you, Mr. Sheremetev.”

“Think nothing of it. I adore helping beautiful women. Here, you really must try these in your tea.” He lifted the lid of a silver dish and scooped a spoonful of sugared cherries into her glass. “An addition of subtle sweetness.”

She took a brief sip and closed her eyes, savoring the flavor. “I haven’t tasted this in years. Wherever did you find the cherries during rationing?”

“Bavaria. I have a man who runs imports from there.”

Right in the middle of enemy territory. Disreputable, wasn’t that what Wynn had called the Sheremetevs the last night she’d seen him nearly a month ago? Worry niggled. She would tread carefully with Sheremetev and put the apprehension—and Wynn—out of her mind for now.

“My father always said the best cherries came from Bakaldy. He likes them in his tea as well.”

“Has news of your father and brother come?”

Her short-term relief fizzled. “None. We pray for them daily.”

“As you should now that Lenin has seized power. My contacts may have news. Their methods of delivery are secure compared to the post, where your father’s letters may have been intercepted.”

“Have you stopped to take a good look at the men he surrounds himself with?” Once more, Wynn’s voice refused to be silenced. The man took up more space in her thoughts than he had any right to claim.

A man appeared at the table and leaned over to whisper to Sheremetev. Without expression, Sheremetev nodded and heaved himself from the booth, knocking the table with his paunch.

“I beg your forgiveness, Princess. An urgent matter has presented itself that I must see to.”

As soon as he disappeared, Svetlana pushed her glass away and knotted her trembling hands in her lap. What sort of man was she dealing with? She had told herself she would do whatever it took to keep her family safe while they waited for Papa and Nikolai, but was she making a bargain with the devil? Perhaps she should find another way.

She started to rise.

“Angel! You are here.” Leonid dropped into the booth next to her and grinned. “How grand tonight you look.”

“Spasibo.” Her exit now blocked, all she could do was manage a few more polite minutes before making her excuses.

He looked around. “You seen Mac?”

Mac. MacCallan. Wynn. The topic she’d prefer to avoid yet conversation always seemed to veer around to him. “Not in some time.”

“He never comes anymore.”

Because of her. She’d told him to stay away, perhaps a bit harsher than she’d intended, and he’d listened. For once. It was the right thing to do. With wars and revolutions, they did not belong in each other’s worlds. Though she no longer believed him a Bolshevik, the threat of discovery from those enemies hung ever present. She could truly trust no one. It was the only way to survive. Yet, at the end of the wearying days when the candles were snuffed and loneliness crept in to drape her in isolation, she wished she could trust him.

Such wishes belonged to another life. One she’d severed.

“I’m certain he’s busy at the hospital.”

“We play chess on day off. He always ask how you are. This makes me think you are not speaking.” Pushing his father’s empty glass aside, Leonid leaned his elbows on the table. “Why argue with Mac?”

“Argue? Who mentioned an argument?”

“That is what he says. Now I see it is true. You tell Leo. I fix all the problems.”

Her heart thumped with more force than she liked. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

“That is a polite way to say such business does not belong to me, but I am your friend. Your business always is mine.” He settled back and spread his hands in a nonchalant manner. “If you do not tell, I find out ways that are other.”

“You are relentless.”

“Relentless charm.” He smiled in a way that was clearly meant to be debonair but came across as childishly comedic. A far cry from his father’s smooth elegance, but one Svetlana couldn’t help warming to.

She sipped her tea, the cherries rich against the soured memory of her words. “I’ve asked him to keep a distance. Though he seems a kind man and thoughtful doctor, he is not Russian. He has his people to see to as we do ours. It’s best the two do not mix.”

“That is snobbish.”

“I’m sorry if you don’t agree. There are a great many here tonight who would.”

“They are snobbish too.” He waved a dismissing hand to the throngs of people crowding the tables around them. “Know what I think? You are mad he got close and now you push him away. Forgive Mac. Make things right, then we are all friends again.”

“Circumstances do not allow for such easy diplomacy.”

“Papochka partners with russkiye, Serb, Tatar, Mongul, Lats. Born enemies. He works with all. A good man is Mac, unlike men here.”

She couldn’t help smiling at his honesty. A sincere trait too often lacking in the aristocracy circles. “I see one good man before me.”

Leonid puffed up his chest and nodded. “That is right. I am good.”

If she stayed much longer, his amiability would have her convinced to repair the rift with Wynn, or worse, enjoy herself in this place. Exhaustion slivered in at the thought.

“It’s getting rather late. I should say good evening.” Rising from the table, Svetlana made for the stairs leading up to the next floor. The hidden rooms where guests disappeared for hours only to return exalted or defeated. Mama more often than not returned defeated.

As her foot hit the first stair, Leonid took her arm. “Where do you go, Angel? This is no way for a lady.”

“Mama is there.”

“I will fetch her.”

“No. I’ll collect her myself.” It was high time she saw for herself what drew everyone’s attention to the ongoings beyond the thick walnut doors draped in red velvet. What illusions captivated Mama to stuff her purse with unpaid bills as if Svetlana wouldn’t find them along with their dwindling money supply.

He didn’t let go of her arm.

At the sight of Leonid, the doormen swung wide the doors to a world of secrets and expense. Heavy drapes covered the walls, folding the large room into a muffled embrace. Gold chandeliers dripped from the ceilings to cast their golden glow across the tables covered in green felt and shuffling cards. Dice flashed around spinning wheels and tumbled across red and black numbers as chips clanked softly in eager palms. When the chips ran out, money and gems of all cut and color were pushed into betting piles.

Svetlana’s stomach clenched with sickness. She’d known from the start, but to see it before her in bloated depravity was enough to make her want to scream. Had they not lost enough?

“Wait. I will find her,” Leonid whispered.

“No need. I see her.” Dislodging from his grip, Svetlana sailed between the tables, ignoring the appreciative glances from drunken boyars and counts, and stopped at a table near the back surrounded by four gentlemen and two ladies. “Hello, Mama.”

Mama jumped from her chair, unexpected surprise registering on her face. A garish clash with her lilac gown and white hair plumes.

“What are you doing here?” She cast a glance at the jewel- and medal-bedecked people behind her at the table. Her shoulders straightened. “That is, allow me to present my daughter, Her Serenity the Princess Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky.”

“I don’t care if she’s a scullery maid. Titles are worthless. You owe me eight hundred rubles.” One of the men with a pointy black beard and shiny gold buttons glared at her mother. “Tonight.”

“Count, if you’ll only allow me to pay you tomorrow when I have the funds. You see—”

The count smacked his palm against the table, crumbling the pile of chips in front of him. “Excuses. Do not come to the tables if you do not have funds to participate.”

“I did not come empty-handed, as you well know. It sits there before you.”

“That was from the first two games. You owe me for the third.”

Svetlana’s eye moved to the table. There among the pile of chips and coins was a ruby bracelet that once belonged to her great-aunt and an egg-size topaz brooch that once graced the robes of Princess Sophia Dalsky during the coronation of Empress Catherine II. Her family’s precious few heirlooms, smuggled out of Russia to be used for food, clothing, and shelter. How vulgar they looked discarded there next to the playing cards and empty glasses of vodka, as if they were another stale crumb to be tossed to the ravenous vultures.

Vicious fear twisted in Svetlana’s stomach. Without the jewels they did not stand a chance to survive and escape for good. She leaned down to her mother’s ear, her voice ragged. “Mama, what have you done?”

Mama swept her fan up to cover her mouth so only Svetlana might hear her. “Stop fretting. It is not the last of them, merely the only ones I brought this night.”

“You will ruin us.”

The lines around Mama’s mouth tightened, but as a true lady of breeding, she didn’t allow them to further express her inner fright. She covered that with a haughty sweep of her fan while leveling her gaze at the count.

“As you say, I should not be attending so I will take my leave for the evening and send over a bottle of champagne to soothe any ruffled spirits.”

The count curled his hand into a fist on the green felt table. “Not without paying me first.”

“Your rudeness is intolerable and I will not subject myself or my daughter a minute longer. Come, Svetlana.”

Cursing under his breath, the count lurched out of his chair and came around the table with eyes blazing. Two muscled men with bulges beneath their jackets stepped in and blocked his path.

Sheremetev, along with Leonid, appeared behind his guards with a thin smile. “My dear count. Is there a problem?”

“The so-called princess doesn’t see it fitting to pay me what’s owed.”

“Princess Ana is an honored guest of mine and her honor will not be tarnished.” Sheremetev smiled benevolently at Mama and continued. “It is my own honor that requires all debts to be paid in full in a timely manner and as circumstances dictate by the owed.”

Mama stammered and made a show of opening her beaded purse. “W-well, I don’t believe I have the appropriate amount, but if you’ll allow me—”

“I require payment now. As my honor and circumstances dictate,” said the count. “I would hate to alert the authorities.”

Everyone at the table gasped. Threats were never made against nobility. Only low-class mongrels stooped so low as to bring in the laws of commoners.

Svetlana bristled at the insinuation. Had her family not suffered enough humiliation? “Do you know to whom you are speaking? Peter and Paul Fortress would do well to show you manners.”

The count’s eyes narrowed to slits. His pointy beard made him all the more serpent-like. “Is that how you think to threaten me, printsessa? Perhaps you should drag me back to the Reds.”

“Enough. Count,” Sheremetev said. “Gentleladies will not be insulted in my club. Nor do I allow outstanding debt. If you’ll wait for me at the cashier’s booth, your payment I will bring momentarily.”

Scowling, the count grabbed his hat and cane and pushed through the crowd to the indicated booth.

Sheremetev turned to the table and the wide-eyed guests watching every move and word, no doubt savoring for gossip. “Apologies. There are free bottles of champagne for each of you at the bar. Please, enjoy after this upset.” As they all scuttled away whispering to one another, he looked to Mama. “Dear Princess. What a night you have suffered, and to think the tragedy came at my club.”

In an instant Mama’s haughtiness softened to accommodating. “I know that measly count does not represent you or your kindness. Think nothing of it.”

“I’m afraid I must. You see, there is an outstanding debt to be paid.”

“Of course, but I haven’t managed a winning streak these past few nights—I do believe the count was cheating all this time—and my other funds remain back at our lodgings.” Gripping her purse, she lowered her voice to throw off the listening ears around them. “I do so depend on our friendship. Might I ask for an extension of credit?”

The slightest hint of irritation flashed in Sheremetev’s eyes, but he covered it quickly with a nod and pulled a slim cheque book from his inner jacket pocket. “As I told your daughter, I am here to help.”

The strumming strings of a balalaika and gusli vibrated over a small dance space spread across the back wall where two traditionally dressed women stood. As one, they moved and pirouetted, dipped, and floated to a peasant tune often played among the aristocracy for amusement. Excitement buzzed through the crowd as they watched the performance, grabbing flutes of champagne and shots of vodka as waiters slipped by with full trays. An orchestra, not only on the dance floor, but masterfully played among the guests with Sheremetev’s attention to detail as the conductor. If he couldn’t collect their money at the tables, he’d collect it in drink.

For the briefest moment, the world’s cares and her family’s struggles fell away to the haunting dance steps of a life Svetlana knew before. Her feet longed to move; her legs ached to stretch and bend with the rhythm, her body stretching and twisting with elegant control. Though each step was governed, it was the only time she allowed herself to be liberated.

“You enjoy the dance?” Sheremetev’s question shook her from the fantasy.

Svetlana nodded. “It’s beautiful.”

“Many Russian ladies are taught the cultural dances by their nannies in nursery. Do you know the steps?”

“Not these, but others like them.”

Mama sidled closer to Svetlana. “My daughter was training to join the Imperial Russian Ballet.”

“Is that so?” Sheremetev rolled his gold pen between his fingers as he studied her. “I imagine it has been some time since you danced. Would you like to do so again?”

Her heart tugging her, Svetlana glanced at the dancers, then looked away. “Someday perhaps. There are more pressing matters than ballet.”

“So there are.” He wrote Mama’s name in elegant script on the To line of the cheque, then hovered over the Amount line. “You would show us perhaps.”

“No, I’d rather not.”

He pulled his pen away and frowned. “No?”

Leonid stepped to her side. “Papochka, Angel does not wish to entertain. Look at this rabble. For her they are too unrefined.”

“Nothing in my club is unrefined, a point well to remember if you ever hope to succeed me.” Sheremetev kept his voice even, but there was no denying the warning in his eyes.

Leonid dropped his gaze. “Remember, da.”

“Good. Go see to the orders in the basement. Our clients are waiting.”

“But, Papochka—”

Sheremetev jabbed him in the chest with his pen. “Go.”

Leonid cast an apologetic look over his shoulder to Svetlana as he scurried away under his father’s foreboding stare. Her champion gone as quickly as he’d tried to rise to her defense. He was, indeed, her good friend.

Sensing the rebuttal had weakened her cause, Mama’s eyes skittered from the unfulfilled cheque to Svetlana. She clutched her arm. “Silly child. Of course she will.” Her nails dug into Svetlana’s skin. “Please Mr. Sheremetev with a dance.”

Svetlana stiffened against her mother’s restraint. She wasn’t a windup toy perched on a box to perform at whim, and she certainly wouldn’t lower herself to dance in front of card-playing castoffs as they guzzled drinks into oblivion. Ballet was not for casual amusement.

Across the room, the count stared with hatred as his fingers rapped against the cashier booth. If he held true on his promise to alert the authorities, Mama would be arrested with unimaginable horrors awaiting her. Mama would never recover from the humiliation, and her family may never recover from the cost of bail. Money that was to be saved for their survival.

Sheremetev’s gold pen hovered once more over the Amount line. One more payment of debt to their account. He watched her, waiting.

As Mama’s nails dug farther, Svetlana swallowed the knot of pride and nodded. “I will dance for you.”

Smiling, Sheremetev touched his pen to the cheque. “Excellent.”