“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.”
Chapter 4
The warm drizzle soaked through the top of Svetlana’s shawl and puddled in her hair before dribbling down her back. Rain should have been a relief to tamp down the summer dust, but the droplets struck the hot ground in sizzles, turning the congested city into a swamp.
Standing on the steps of a tenant building four streets over from the church and a world away in culture, Svetlana batted away an errant drop careening into her eye and met the reluctant Frenchwoman’s stare.
“We will pay whatever you ask. We will not cause you any trouble.”
“As I explained, chere, we only have room for a single occupant to rent.”
“My mother, sister, and I do not mind sharing a small space. Look.” Svetlana stepped onto the small stoop and pulled a bulky handkerchief from the pocket in her skirt. Inside nestled Mama’s favorite citrine diamond earrings. “A gift from Empress Dowager Maria herself.”
The woman’s eyes widened as she ogled the precious gems. Slowly, she shook her head. “They are très belle, but I am sorry. There is no room. You are better to stay where you are.” Stepping back into her darkened hall, she closed the door. A lock quickly echoed.
Another rejection. Ten so far, barely before noon. Each with a different reason, but all equating to no. A distasteful word that grated on the ears. Svetlana had heard it more often since escaping Russia than in the entirety of her life. She didn’t care for the change one bit.
Rewrapping the earrings and returning them to her pocket, Svetlana descended the short flight of stairs to the cracked sidewalk. A grand carriage should have been waiting for her. And a footman dressed in immaculate livery to open the door so she could sweep into the cushioned confines, dry and comfortable with perhaps a small vase filled with lavender to drive away the fusty scents drifting up from the streets. A crack of the whip would urge on the matching bays and off they would go to the palace.
This avenue was a far cry from the grandness of carriages and livery. Perhaps under the rule of the Sun King these imposing buildings had stood in refinement, but the years sagged against the structural lines as the paint chipped wearily away. Though they were not without color. Canon smoke and gunpowder drifted into the city on brisk winds, coating roofs and lampposts with black dust and drawing the war that much closer. Miles separated them from the frontline, but no matter the distance, no one was safe.
Pulling the shawl tight over her head, Svetlana hurried away with toes squishing in her soggy stockings.
“No luck from old bird, Vashe blagorodiye?” The formal address spoken in common Russian stopped Svetlana in her tracks. A woman dressed in pre-war fashion stepped out of the shadows of a neighboring stoop. A cigarette dangled between her fingers.
“I beg your pardon. We have not been introduced for you to address me.”
“Forgive lack in manners. It is war. Takes what gentility we have and tosses to dump heap.”
“In that you are correct.”
The woman clomped down the steps. She appeared close in age to Svetlana, but a harsh survival etched itself into the lines around the woman’s eyes and mouth. Rouge, the call sign of a less than upright woman, smudged her lean cheeks.
“What mean is, French don’t know true value when see it. Not as we do. Not when you offer such lovely bauble.”
“I carry no such thing.” Svetlana moved to walk around her, but the woman wasn’t so easily put off.
She fell in step with Svetlana. “Ladies like us always spot genuine article. Your courtly senses no disappear back in Russia, Vashe blagorodiye. Neither did mine.”
“What court did you find yourself in? Nearer the docks or the soldiers’ barracks?”
The woman laughed and ground her cigarette into the pavement with a heel in desperate need of black polish.
“That what I like about you, Vashe Svyetlost. Sense of humor.”
At least Svetlana was moving up in the ranks. First a mere Well Born and now an Imperial Highness. If she kept the delightfulness going, she might hold the title of Empress before the conversation was over. She rounded a corner in hopes of shaking loose her undesirable companion.
“Please do excuse me. I’ve a rather busy schedule to attend.”
“Looking for place to stay, da?”
An older gentleman holding an umbrella approached, his gaze casting with interest between Svetlana and the woman, who smiled enticingly in return. Svetlana raised one eyebrow in scathing rebuke, and he scuttled across the street to the opposite sidewalk.
“I need learn that trick. Old men not bathe often.” Wrinkling her nose, the woman drew a fresh cigarette and match from her beaded handbag, lit the fag, and puffed. The cherry glowing end hissed as the drizzle splattered onto the paper. “I know few places. French snobs waste of time. Need you ask around Rue de la Néva and Pierre le Grand.”
Those streets were within a stone’s throw from the church, but Svetlana wasn’t about to lead this stranger to where her family lived.
“Those streets are tiny with barely enough room for shops.”
“It heart of Russian neighborhood. Always room for another son and daughter of beloved motherland. You need know who ask.”
“And you do?”
“I know every Russian in Paris. It privilege of living here five years. Before I gave up duchess tiara in Moscow.” The woman laughed and weaved her arm through Svetlana’s as if they shared a secret.
“What is this I hear of Moscow, Tatya?” Moving like an oil-sleeked seal, a man appeared in front of them holding an umbrella. He cut a lean figure with dark hair combed to the side and a tailored blue suit with crisp edges not often seen during the war years.
Tatya’s smile tightened as she tugged the front of her dress. “Pyotr, meet new friend. Russian lady of quality.”
“Is that so?” Assessing and quick, his gaze cut over Svetlana like a jeweler’s would a gem. He bowed before angling the umbrella over her head. Tatya was forced to make do with her drooping wool hat. “Privyet, gentle lady. My name is Pyotr Argunov.”
“Zdrastvuytye,” Svetlana replied in the more formal greeting. A lifetime of unfortunate circumstances could be hidden beneath a well-tailored cuff, but speech was a revelation to one’s true breeding. One had it or one did not. For all his trimmed collars and buttons, Pyotr Argunov did not. All the better for her to remain guarded.