Olga took a long sip of her piping hot tea. “You’ll change your mind,” she said. “You just wait.”
I did not argue, but thought bitterly to myself that everyone seemed to think they knew more about me than I did, from Dame Nightingale to my best friend. Oh, how I hoped they were wrong.
Chapter 6
I spent more time with Jack, since every conversation I attempted to have with Olga ended up with her asking about him anyway. Jack was a pleasant companion in his own right, even if one were to ignore the fact I attempted to use our new closeness to find answers to the questions that plagued me. He, however, was very good at avoiding sly hints and the subtle verbal traps I set for him. When the break came to an end, I knew no more about his purpose, Dame Nightingale, or the burglary at the Crane Club than I did when it started.
The last Sunday before the classes were set to resume, Jack and I went for a walk along the Nevsky Prospect. It was late October, and the snowfall and the cutting winter winds were not far away. I was eager to enjoy the last of the tolerable weather, even if it meant contending with light rain and occasional wind gusts forceful enough to almost rip the hat off my head despite many pins specifically embedded to keep it in place.
Jack too had to keep vigilant hold of his hat. He did not look particularly pleased about the walk, but I described the horses at the Anichkov Bridge and the impression they made on me last year, and he agreed to pay them a visit. As we both stood transfixed — I was caught up anew in the violent yet still life of the sculpture — my thoughts churned. It was as if the horses gave me the presence of mind and courage to enunciate the question to which I so desired — and perhaps dreaded — an answer.
“Mr. Bartram,” I said then, “Do you know what happened with the Crane Club? Did you have anything to do with it?”
He kept looking at the horses, his head tilted back, one gloved hand holding the brim of his hat. His eyes, squinting against the wind, did not change their expression and the Adam’s apple on his long pale throat did not bob. Yet, like the sculpture he was studying, his still frame filled with silent tension, and just like that, without him uttering a word or making a gesture, I knew.
“No,” he said after a very long pause. “Why would you think that?”
“That night, you were at the club.”
“I was just passing by.”
“And at the Northern Star… that awful lady told you to remember your loyalties. The Crane Club was vandalized, soon after.”
He finally looked away from the bridge, his eyes meeting mine. His coat flapped, and something twinged in the depths of my memory. “And why would one thing have anything to do with another?”
“Your country was at war with China.”
He smiled, as if I were a child he had decided to indulge a bit longer. “We have signed a peace treaty. But even if we had not… do you think ransacking a Chinese club is the same as declaring military hostilities? It was more likely some drunks or thieves who were hoping to find alcohol in that place — it was all but abandoned recently. So they took some trinkets to sell. Really, Sasha, you’re too smart for your own good — you’re making things so complicated.”
I did feel very young and very foolish then. “We can go,” I whispered.
He offered me his elbow and I hooked my hand over the crook of his arm. “Don’t feel bad,” he said. “I know you are upset about your friends. Only I wish you wouldn’t cast me as an enemy.”
Those words made me blush. “I remember that you saved us,” I said. “You saved me twice, and I told you I was grateful. But there are things happening now that I do not understand, all I know is that I do not trust Prince Nicholas and his secret police, and I do not trust your Dame Nightingale.”
He seemed amused by my words, as we turned toward the Palace Square. “She may be a bit brash,” he said.
“And a bit rude,” I added. “I really don’t appreciate being insulted, but this is not why I do not trust her. I think she may be a spy.”
His face retained the same smiling expression but mirth left it momentarily, only to return with an exaggerated chuckle. “Nonsense,” he said.
I thought he was an awful liar but did not challenge him, content to see my guess hit near its target. “And you are here to help Nicholas,” I said. “The gendarmes listened to you. What do you want with the Chinese? Is this why Nightingale and Herbert are here?”
He shrugged, uncomfortable. “I cannot tell you much, but be assured that it has little to do with your friends. However, I can say Prince Nicholas once sought an alliance with Britain to help protect Russia from the Chinese threat.”
I snorted. “This is nonsense. There is no threat.”
Jack only shrugged. “If you say so. If there’s no threat then the Chinese have nothing to fear.”
“This is not true and you know it,” I said. “There has been enough damage done already, and I still don’t know what happened to Wong Jun.”
“I cannot help you.”
“I do not need you to.” I freed my arm from his. “I wrote to my aunt about this injustice, although in vague terms and naming no names.” I had learned from my encounter with the police. “I expect she will set things straight when she arrives in December.”
A gust of wind grabbed my shawl and flapped it in my face while simultaneously tearing off Jack’s hat — he had foolishly forgotten to maintain a grip. He lunged after it, just as the wind picked up force and hurled the hat down the street with the speed of a locomotive.
“You can always get another,” I said, but discovered Jack was no longer in my immediate proximity — somehow, he was a few hundred feet ahead, picking up his hat from the pavement and shaking it free of puddle water. I was still rubbing my eyes when he returned to my side. “How—” I started to ask.
“I was a sprint runner when I was younger,” he said with an apologetic smile.
But that was no sprint. That night at the Crane Club I had been willing to let myself believe panic and darkness had deceived my eyes, but now, in somewhat weak but sufficient light of the afternoon, I had no excuse. He had not run, he had hurled himself… flew… jumped… he moved faster than was possible, faster than my eyes could follow him. I realized he had, indeed, fallen out of the sky that night.
I looked around. Nevsky was not crowded, thanks to rain and chill in the air, but there were a few passersby and couples walking arm in arm, some clerks hurrying along on business, their long gray overcoats heavy with rain. No one seemed to have noticed Jack’s unusual behavior. There was no one I could appeal to for confirmation.
“I see,” I said slowly. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
He smiled wider, but humor was gone from his eyes. “You should,” he said, “if you know what is good for you.”
I glared. “Are you threatening me now, Mr. Bartram?”
He shook his head, rueful now. “Not at all. A warning, perhaps. A worry.” His gloved hand took mine and squeezed it, almost desperately. “Please believe me, Sasha. I would never do anything to let any misfortune befall you, but sometimes you really must look away.”
He walked me to my dormitory in silence, and I spent a sleepless night, angry and elated and generally uncertain how to feel.
Considering my restless night, it came as no surprise to find myself dozing through most of my classes the next morning, revived only by Dasha’s sharp jab to my side at the end of each lesson. I was ready to take my confidences to Dasha instead of Olga, in hopes she was slightly less obsessed with matrimony, but the fates interfered: when I came back to the dormitory that night, I found Anastasia in a nearly hysterical state, precipitated, as I discovered, by my aunt who was currently sitting in the living room, drinking tea, and scolding Anastasia for dust under the lampshade.