“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.