The mysterious suspended object spun lazily, struck against the well and bounced to the other side. They gripped the winch to hold it in place, then wound it faster, ignoring their aching hands, the strain on their arms and shoulders, as the weight dragged up.
“There must be a board or a piece of metal attached to the thing. The treasure.” The Baron gasped for breath.
The innkeeper silently wedged himself into the narrow space, ice beaded on his thin mustache. He dropped the blanket, balanced a second lantern over the well, and peered in.
The Baron didn’t need to translate the man’s shout of excitement. The thing was nearly within reach. They were locked in movement together, struggling to get footholds, to brace their boots in the mushy snow as the bulky shape gradually emerged above the well. Under a thick armor of ice, a curved, cloth-wrapped bundle glistened and revolved in the lantern’s sharp light.
Andreev grabbed the blanket, threw one side across the well to the innkeeper. Each held an end as they looped the blanket under the hanging bundle to cradle it, then struggled to haul it closer. Andreev carefully stepped around the well until he stood near the innkeeper.
The two men tugged but the heavy bundle slipped and smashed into the opposite side of the well. Chunks of ice tumbled down. The blanket fell, snagged on a stone in the well. Andreev clambered on top of the well, his balance dangerously unsteady, and reached for the rope around the bundle as it swung precariously back and forth. He grabbed an edge of the bundle and fell to the ground, still gripping it, the rope uncoiling on top of him. He sprawled in the slush, exhausted.
The Baron released the winch handle and helped him sit upright. They stared at a lumpy shape the size of two cushions covered by a thick layer of ice. The surface was deeply cracked where it had scraped against the stones.
Andreev held the lantern close to the thing. “The lantern isn’t hot enough to melt the ice. Let’s carry the treasure back to the inn to thaw.”
The Baron took a moment to reply. “No. It’s safer here, away from prying eyes.”
The innkeeper struck a board against the bundle, throwing off shards of ice fine as confetti.
“No, stop. You might break it.”
Andreev chipped at a cracked area of ice with his Swiss army knife. “I can see cloth wrapped around something.”
“Cut it. Carefully.” The Baron’s teeth chattered.
Hands shaking, clumsy from cold, Andreev hacked at the stiff cloth, tore away a strip. He stuck the knife under the fabric and worked to loosen it. His hand stopped.
“What?”
Under the cloth, a colorless ear. A fringe of black hair. A face with a line of eyelashes.
“Merciful Mother of God.”
Two children dressed in white funeral garments were bound and frozen together. Plague dead, hidden until they could be properly buried.
Andreev dropped the knife as he crossed himself. The innkeeper wailed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The vespers service at St. Nikolas Cathedral ended with the Doxology and the ektenia of prayer, Blessed is the entrance of the saints, O Lord. The priest dismissed the congregation with a benediction. A brief silence as incense curved in the shadowed interior of the church, mingling with the stream of breath from the worshippers.
The Baron made his way to the sanctuary, where he’d noticed two elderly women holding handkerchiefs over their noses. He was curious, as few Russians protected themselves from potential infection, believing the sickness was restricted to those outside their circle.
“Good evening, ladies. The service was well attended this evening.”
The women solemnly nodded. Their spidery, black-gloved fingers pinched at the handkerchiefs veiling their noses and mouths. They stood at a slight distance from the Baron so that he had to speak loudly for them to hear him.
“Too many worshippers before Christmas. We don’t like crowds.” The taller woman’s voice was muffled by the handkerchief. “I am Polixena Nestorovna. This is my sister, Agrafena.”
He introduced himself as a doctor and reached inside his coat for a card, but Polixena’s gesture stopped him.
“Nyet. We don’t need a doctor—”
Agrafena interrupted her. “But others are ill.”
“It’s the weather.” He shook his head sympathetically, drawing out the conversation. The elderly don’t appreciate quickness.
“It isn’t the weather.” Polixena frowned. “My son doesn’t approve of us leaving the house. He doesn’t know we’re here at church. But the great Christmas fast is an important time of worship.” The sisters’ eyes, identical and slightly milky with age, studied him. “There’s an illness. It starts with a cough.”
Agrafena moved a little closer to the Baron, as she was deafer than her sister. “We know an entire family that died. One after the other. Fell quickly as stones.”
“All their servants ran away. The house was empty. They left the front door open.”
“Someone saw wolves inside the house.”
“Sister, that’s just hearsay.” Polixena’s handkerchief slipped down.
Agrafena was stubborn. “My grandchildren said the place was haunted by the leshie, goblins from the wood.”
He kept his voice level, disconnected from the growing tightness in his chest. “Polixena Nestorovna, why did your son tell you to stay in the house?”
“He made us swear to protect ourselves. That’s why we carry handkerchiefs.” Polixena’s voice was a whisper.
His hand reached to grab her arm but he caught himself. “Protect yourself from what?”
The sisters’ gestures coyly mimed keeping a secret. Astonished, the Baron realized they were flirting with him. Flustered, he continued. “Your son is obviously devoted to you. To your health. He must be an honorable and distinguished man.”
“He has a very important position. He travels constantly.” Polixena was gratified by his flattery.
“In August, he went hunting in Manchuria with a Jesuit priest as his guide. They stayed in a hut with savages. Imagine.” A faint giggle behind Agrafena’s handkerchief.
“He told us many savages in the village were sick and died. When he returned from Manchuria, he wouldn’t even sit at the table with us. He stayed in his room for a week. We were forbidden to leave the house. The children were cross.”
The son could have been a plague carrier. He stared at the women, expecting crimson blood to bloom on their handkerchiefs.
“Who was your son’s guide? The Jesuit?”
Both women shook their heads.
“Do you know where he traveled in Manchuria? The names of the places he visited?”
Polixena measured her words. “No. The towns in Manchuria have strange names. Not for the Russian tongue.”
The women were becoming tired and fidgety from conversation. The Baron needed more information and made a decision in the time it took to escort the sisters to the door.
“Please, good mother, will you introduce me to your son? I’m considering a journey to Manchuria. I’d like to hear about his adventure.” They stood at the church door. “Where can I find your son, Polixena Nestorovna?”
“He’s the master of Central Station. Alexeievich Nikolaevich Nestorov.”
He helped the sisters down the church steps. Polixena gave a little cry as wind swept away her handkerchief. He glimpsed the woman’s exposed face before her hand covered her nose and he could have sworn Polixena held her breath as he helped her into a waiting droshky. Lately he’d found himself trying to memorize faces, like landscapes he wouldn’t see again. He recognized that he carried this from the hospital.
He reentered the church and walked its length up to the iconostasis near the altar. The “throne”—a small square table that held a velvet-bound book of the Gospels—was being washed by two priests.