Zoya died at fifteen.
Alexey takes hold of his teabag’s wilted label, lifts the bag out, then lets it slide back in.
‘She went missing years ago,’ he continues. ‘I like to think she’s ended up somewhere in the countryside. She loved the land. She used to say she could bask in it, bathe in it, drown in it …’ He sits back, as if he wants the line to reverberate. ‘But let’s talk logistics. You may not be so keen when you hear the pay, though I’m prepared to take care of the travel paperwork and housing. You won’t have to lift a finger in that regard.’
That’s what his advert alluded to, and exactly what I’ve been hoping to hear.
‘I’ll have to do a fair bit of moving around when we get there, so you’d need to be capable of working on your own. You should also continue reading as much as you can. You’ll need a …’ He gestures vaguely. ‘An underlying knowledge base. But it’s good for young people to be exposed to history. They just have to take care.’
‘Take care?’ I repeat.
His blue eyes fix on me. ‘There is no enlightenment to be found in the past. No healing. No solace. Whatever we are looking for will not be there.’
It rings out like the chapel bells, the way he says this. Whatever we are looking for will not be there.
Can a historian really believe that?
It makes me think of Zoya, of how she’ll conjure the smell of rust and cheap candles, forcing me to recall my first winter in England, in that seedy short-term apartment. To recall how Mum would stand by the window, looking through the curtains, one foot curled up like she might dance away, lit candles on every surface, like she wanted the whole place to burn down. I’d be seated at the table, working furiously, surrounded by schoolbooks, thinking, If I can just make it to the end of this problem, if I can find this one solution, everything will make sense.
But is Zoya just trying to make me remember?
Or is she sifting my old, hidden-away memories, because she’s looking for something?
‘She’s the one who was mentioned the other night,’ says Alexey, folding his arms over his tweedy jacket.
He’s talking about the woman he hopes to find. I rub at my temples. Zoya’s not here right now, and I don’t want to think too hard about her or she might show up.
‘She was called Kukolka,’ he says.
Little doll.
I take a sip of my own tea. It’s gone cold.
Kukolka. It’s an unwelcome reminder of Mum’s porcelain prisoners back in London. I’d be happy never to lay eyes on them again, but it’s not just because they’re uncanny. It’s because Mum preferred her dolls to human company. She always did. Of all the things we could have brought with us from Russia – and we weren’t able to bring very much – she chose them.
I linger in the cafe after Alexey leaves, finishing the last of my tea, watching the flow of customers. Through the glass I can see rain peppering the pavement, slowly gaining momentum, while the awning flaps in the wind, looking possessed. People burst in holding soggy newspapers, shaking themselves off like dogs.
It rains constantly in Oxford. Nothing ever seems to dry, inside or out. But it doesn’t often storm like this, enough to empty the streets. If only I’d brought along some work, or something to do—
Mum’s notebook of stories.
I ferret it out of my bag. The spine bends with close to a creak.
The more the sky darkens outside, the brighter it feels in here. But that doesn’t make the coil of cursive any less excruciating to read. It doesn’t make anything clear.
A Note for the Reader …
A Note for the Reader
These stories should not be read in order.
After you have read all the others, in whatever order you like, you may return to the first one. This is, after all, a book of stories for those who know that the beginning can only be understood at the very end.
You must now close your eyes to see what I am about to show you.
If you think your eyes are closed hard enough, then let us begin: In a faraway kingdom, in a long-ago land …
CHAPTER TWO
Antonina
Petrograd (St Petersburg), autumn 1915
Tea is served in the Blue Salon at four in the afternoon, every day. Most days there are also cream cakes, custard cakes, and puff pastries, laid out on platters, or buttered bread, freshly sliced, still steaming. Yet Tonya never feels hungry. She tells herself it’s because lunch was too recent, too rich. Or because of the hideous silver-blue wallpaper of this room, for which it was given its name, which makes everything within look sickly. Or because Dmitry hardly ever touches the tea service or the display of goodies himself. Today he is counting banknotes at the escritoire beneath his breath: Twenty, forty, sixty. One. Two. Three. Everything in this house has a number.
Everything has a price.
The caravan tea is black and smoky. Tonya drinks as silently as she can.
Dmitry puts aside his wallet. He turns to fish a cigar from the sweet-smelling cedar box he stores them in. It’s easy to wonder why they bother with teatime at all, except that they might not see one another all day without it.
‘Your nightmares are getting worse,’ he says.
Her tongue feels thick, twisted against her teeth. ‘No worse than normal.’
Dmitry takes a long puff. ‘I could hear you thrashing around yesterday, even from my quarters.’
‘I dream of home,’ she says tightly. ‘Of Otrada. Perhaps it’s a sign I ought to visit.’
‘It’s out of the question for you to travel alone.’
‘But I could accompany you, next time you go south—’
‘I have no such plans for the foreseeable future. There’s a situation here with the union.’ A sigh, softened by another puff. ‘I have several rabble-rousers in my employ.’
Tonya chokes back a reply. Dmitry makes frequent trips out of town, scouring this country in search of pieces to add to his beloved collection of rarities, oddities and other treasures. He sometimes leaves for weeks on end.
She has to be home by teatime.
‘Are you bored, Tonya?’ he asks. ‘Is that the problem?’
‘I—I occupy myself,’ she falters.
‘Perhaps if you cultivated an interest in philanthropy,’ he says. ‘I was thinking the other day that a tour of the factory, even the barracks, is long overdue. And it should be to my benefit for them to see that I am a married man.’ Dmitry works away at the cigar, appearing pleased by the thought. Against the watery hues of the wallpaper, his profile looks sharp, princely. Dashing, perhaps. Tonya has lived in this house long enough to overhear the giggles of the young housemaids, their swoons: how different their master is from the others of his station! He treats his inferiors with such respect, such benevolence! He is no hard-hearted despot, no devious tyrant, no cruel handler! They are right. He is none of those things.
Downstairs, at least.
Tonya is in the middle of reading Alexander Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin when Dmitry announces that it is time to take a drive. Did she accidentally feign interest yesterday in the idea of a factory tour? She isn’t even sure what his factory makes. Magnetos, she has heard people say in passing. Things to do with the ongoing war against Imperial Germany. In the motorcar Tonya closes her eyes and tries to recreate the stunning, romantic world of Pushkin, but her husband’s voice cuts through it.
‘You’ve let your hair down,’ he notes, as if he never instructed Olenka to keep it so. ‘I abhor those matronly updos. You might soon be seventeen, but you’re only a girl.’ Dmitry leans over and touches her ear, pulls on one pearl-drop earring. ‘I like you like this. The way you looked the day we met.’