A knock on the door interrupted my epistolary exercises. I rushed to the door before Jack, and found myself face to face with Rotmistr Ivankov.
“Looking good, lad,” he said and slapped my shoulder with enough force to make my teeth chatter. “Wild night last night, yeah?”
“I’ve seen wilder,” I lied. “What can I do for you, rotmistr?”
“There are some Englishmen downstairs, interviewing the staff,” he said. “They are looking for a very tall Englishman and someone who’s traveling with him. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about it, but I figured better safe than sorry and that I should drop you a word. In case it’s someone you know, even though I’ve never seen those folks they’re looking for, and neither have my cornets.” He gave me an exaggerated wink and was gone before I could muster a thank you.
Chapter 10
Jack and I tried not to panic as we threw everything we had unpacked the day before back into our satchels — at least, I tried not to panic. Jack seemed composed, but I felt certain it was playacting. Who could stay calm considering the terror of facing Dame Nightingale? I was afraid of her even before her letters had shown me a true depth of her passion — and I now knew of how much love and, conversely, hatred she was capable. Now I was mad with fear.
“Sasha,” Jack called me. “You must control your emotion. You are as pale as a ghost and look guiltier than sin. Appear casual, walk easy. They are looking for a girl, not a hussar.”
It felt like a bad dream, listening for footsteps and voices. Finally, the sense of fear and helplessness solidified into a piercing realization the people who were looking for us would not stop, and they would unlikely have any reservations about killing us. I forced these thoughts out of my mind and pulled the straps on the satchel closed. Jack stood by the window, eyeing the snow outside.
“We could jump out of the window,” he said. “I mean, I could jump. You won’t be recognized.”
“You think so?” I said, uncomfortable with the idea of going near the spies all by myself.
“Unless you want me to carry you as I jump,” he said. “I have never tried it before, with a person.”
I did a quick calculation in my mind. “If you jump out of this window carrying me, the impact will either kill me or break some bones at the least.”
“There’s the answer then.” He smiled, encouraging. “You can do it. Besides, someone has to pay the bill.”
I picked up my satchel and sighed. “I’ll meet you at the bridge. Then we can go to the station, meet the train from St. Petersburg, and see if Eugenia sent any messages.”
Jack nodded and opened the window. Cold wind lifted the thin white curtains and a few snowflakes danced into the room, melting the instant warm air touched them. Jack stood a moment with his foot on the windowsill, looking at the street below. The next second, he leaned out of the window as if estimating the distance, and then he was gone in a swirl and a flap of his long coat.
I fought the temptation to rush to the window and see but there were voices outside. I shut the window with nary a look and swiftly exited our room. In the hallway I saw three men in tweed jackets that were much too light for the weather, and it took great effort to not speed my steps or otherwise betray my distress. I nodded to them as I passed with my newly developed swagger, and they nodded back, showing no signs of recognition.
I thundered down the stairs, forgetting decorum, and felt like I drew a breath for the first time in years when I entered the downstairs dining room. Warm smells of cabbage and fish washed over me. I found the owner, let him know we were leaving earlier than anticipated, and paid for our lodging.
The rotmistr and his two cornets sat at the same table as before — in fact, in my panic and confusion I thought for a moment that they were always there, not real people but mere decorations. The rotmistr raised his gigantic hand and waved at me; I had the presence of mind to wave back. The cornets saluted without getting up, and I returned the salute. Just as I turned to leave the tavern, there was a commotion outside, a ringing of hooves and terrified whinnying of horses, and a woman’s scream.
The usual din in the tavern died down; but only my friends the hussars and myself were foolish enough to bolt outside. The picture we discovered made my heart feel like it was frozen to my ribs by a sudden gust of especially cold wind.
Dame Nightingale herself, dressed in furs, screamed and pointed, as several men in civilian clothes — but with military bearing — circumvented an upset carriage, under the wreckage of which two heavily dressed figures struggled weakly. I assumed Jack had spooked the horses with his leaping, and it was he Dame Nightingale directed her pursuit after.
Passersby gathered around the wreckage and helped the passengers out; one of the horses thrashed on the ground with a broken leg. Discussion started among a merchant and two bureaucrats about whether it should be put down and by who. Freedmen, factory workers, waiters from the tavern as well as a few diners with their napkins still around their necks appeared, and a sizeable knot of people assembled, clogging Balchug Street. The English had to wrestle through the crowd, and their progress was slow and reluctant.
Dame Nightingale turned and saw me; her eyes tore through my disguise as if it were mere smoke, flimsy enough to be dispelled with a single breath, and gave a slow smile. “Sasha,” she said. “How good to see you.” With a flick of her wrist she directed the attention of the men in civilian clothing to me. The immediately moved toward me.
“Now now,” the rotmistr said. (I was so terrified of Nightingale I’d forgotten he was there.) “Leave the young man alone.”
The cornets drew closer to me, their hands on the hilts of their sabers, and I remembered that I wore one as well.
My dead Uncle Pavel had a larger, broader hand than I — the hilt of his saber felt too wide and too heavy, but its curve fitted into my palm snugly enough.
The English, all moving at once, as if their movements were mutually articulated by invisible strings, put their hands in the pockets of their coats. I assumed their attire concealed weapons, pistols or knives.
The rotmistr moved to my left, his shoulder almost brushing mine, and advanced half a step in front of me, as if to shield me from the English. Thankfully, his broad back obscured the sight of Dame Nightingale’s snakelike stare, freeing me from her hypnotic influence.
“Stand down, rotmistr,” I whispered in Russian. “They won’t dare do anything here, in the middle of the street, with all these people around them.”
“Right you are, little hussar,” the rotmistr said. He turned to glance at me, his grin flashing a full foot over my head. “They’ll wait till you’re all by your lonesome somewhere secluded. You better run along and find your friend. We’ll keep them entertained here, if that is acceptable?”
“Thank you,” I whispered, and stepped back until his large frame concealed me from the English view entirely. I had left the sidewalk, and struggled through the bushes fringing the side of the tavern. I turned and ran, Nightingale’s voice echoing faintly behind me, my boots sloshing through the snow.
I dashed across the street and ducked between two buildings. The yards behind them connected and I ran through them until I was well clear of the crowded scene on Balchug Street. The yards, surrounded by tall townhouses with dark windows, had accumulated veritable mountains of snow. The din of the street was extinguished by its softness, and — stumbling through knee-deep drifts — it felt as if I were miles away.