by L.K. Hill
Chapter 5
Nicholas Demidov arrived at his rooms, exhausted. He’d hoped Mary would be asleep by now. He should have known better. She sat beside the fire, reading. Her dark hair gleamed in the firelight, and he smiled in spite of himself. His wife’s presence always soothed him.
“Finally,” she said, though she did not look up from her book. “If I did not know you better, I’d think you were keeping a mistress.” Mirth tinged her voice, but when she closed her book and turned to look at him, the smirk faded quickly. “Nicholas, what is it?”
She rose, but he motioned her back down, coming to sit by her. “I’ve come from arguing with the grand prince.”
Her face changed from concern to alarm. “Arguing? With the grand prince? Nicholas, I thought that meant death.”
“Can be death, my dear,” he corrected. "It isn’t always.” He glanced back toward the darkness of the room, where his son slept. “How is Taras doing?”
Mary glanced toward Taras’s room and then to Nicholas, stammering, “He’s fine, I think. Nicholas, what’s going on?”
Nicholas sighed. He wished there were some way he could keep this from her. It would be disheartening news, to say the least. “Mary, he knows. The grand prince has . . . found out.”
Her face became utterly still. “About me?”
“Yes.”
She stared, her face a mask of calm. She seemed to be trying to control her breathing. Nicholas waited. She knew to what he referred, of course.
“And?” She still did not look away from the fire.
“And . . . Vasily and I are close, Mary. I hoped after all we’ve been through the last few months, this wouldn’t be such . . . an issue with him.”
“It is, though?”
Nicholas studied his wife. He wanted so much to comfort her. He knew she liked Moscow and the Kremlin. Taras was adjusting well, too.
“I think we must leave, Mary. For your sake. And for Taras’s.” Her shoulders slumped. He reached over and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for you . . . and for our son. If you want to be angry with me for a while, I’ll understand.”
Silence hung between them for a time. She lifted her hand to caress his arm before pulling back so she could look at him. Her eyes were not sad, but determined.
“Take comfort, husband,” she said, sounding confident, though Nicholas recognized it as a ruse, purely for his benefit. “Taras doesn’t like it here. He’s lonely much of the time. I think he will be happy to return home.”
Nicholas gazed into his wife’s face. She consoled him, though she must be heartbroken at this news. He couldn’t even leave it at that. The woman was a saint, and yet he had to drive the stake in further. He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Mary, we cannot go home yet. It isn’t safe in England.”
She frowned.
“Then where, Nicholas? Our home is in England, and you are Russian. We have nowhere else to go. How will we live?”
He stroked her shoulder, keeping his voice gentle. “Remember when I told you I had relatives in France?”
“We don’t know anything about them,” she objected. “You said you’d never met them.”
“I said I’d never met my uncle or his wife. I met my cousin and he seemed a decent sort of fellow.”
“But—”
“Mary.” She stared down at his chest, rather than in his eyes. “I know this isn’t ideal. Nothing is these days. They are our relatives, and propriety demands they take us in. So, we will impose on them for a while, out of necessity.”
After a few moments, she nodded. “What will you tell Vasily?”
“Nothing of the truth. There is an expedition heading north. I will tell the grand prince my family wants to see the country. We will slip away at the first chance and head east. I want Taras to see Anechka before we make for France. I think it best if we simply disappear.”
“The grand prince will see that as treason. This is your homeland, and you would never be welcome in it again. Is that what you want?”
“Shh. We do not want to wake Taras.”
She checked herself.
“Nicholas,” she whispered, “I don’t want that for you.”
“Neither do I, but it’s what must be done.” Mary turned away from him. “I know this is difficult, Mary. I know you hate moving around so much and—”
“No, Nicholas, it isn’t that. I will go anywhere you are, and certainly anywhere necessary to protect Taras. It’s. . .”
“What?” he pressed.
“I don’t want you to resent me for this. It’s my fault we have to leave. Again.”
He shook his head. “I could never resent you, my love. This is my home country, but when I married you, my loyalty to country took second place to my marriage vows. I will be true to this loyalty now.” He brought her hand to his chest and placed it over his heart. Her eyes filled with tears, and he embraced her again. Her soft, dark hair glinted in the firelight as he stroked it. “It will all work out.”
He tried to convince himself of that as much as her.
Days later, Taras once again paced in the snow.
Something felt wrong. For the last three days, his parents had acted strangely . . . distant and falsely cheerful. He didn’t know what was going on, and his parents wouldn’t tell him. Taras loved them both, but they still treated him like a child. They’d been downright secretive all week, and now Mother was late coming home.
Taras suspected his father had a falling out with the grand prince or someone else at court, or . . . or something. Taras didn’t know what, but he knew life at the Russian court could be dangerous. His parents were in trouble; he was sure of it.
They’d decided the family would go on an expedition to the north, to see the countryside, his father said. Not that Taras had any choice. He cared no more about going than about staying, but it was an odd thing for his parents to do. Father's presence was required here at court, mother had made friends, and winter's heart was upon them. The previous night, he’d confronted his mother, but she avoided his questions.
“Taras,” she finally said, “stop asking me. It will be explained to you soon enough. For now, we know what’s best, and you must trust us.”
He hadn't pressed her further. She'd gone out today—he didn’t know where—and should have been back hours ago. Normally he wouldn’t have worried, but coupled with his parents’ strange behavior, it troubled him. Mother rarely ran late. She left early, and snow had fallen all morning.
When the snow quit, Taras paced in front of his apartments. Father was in a meeting with the grand prince, so Taras could not even tell him his fears. He tried to alert others. They told him to stop worrying. No doubt she'd been caught in the snow, or distracted by other duties, and would return soon.
They spoke logic, but Taras could not shake the dark feeling, as though someone drew a feather lightly down his spine. He shivered; that sensation always came when something was amiss.
Then he saw it: a tall dark figure moving toward him from across the palace grounds. He could not hear the figure until it got closer due to the fresh powder. By the time he could hear the whisper of the newcomer kicking up snow as he ran, Taras could also see it was a man. He wore a long brown coat and a square fur shapka on his head that covered his ears against the cold. Whatever news this man brought, Taras knew it would not be good.
Taras ran out to meet him. The snow had reached thigh-depth, so he didn’t get far. The man slowed as he approached. Suddenly Taras recognized him. Nikolai. The same man who'd lectured him about the snowball incident. He looked at Taras, then the building behind him.
“Where is your father, boy?”
“In a meeting with the grand prince,” Taras replied.
Nikolai looked perplexed. He glanced back the way he'd come, then at the building behind Taras, as though unsure of what to do. He glowered, undecided between the two horizons for several minutes, until Taras could stand it no longer. “Please,
tell me your news. Is something wrong?”
Nikolai glanced cursorily down at Taras, then once again gazed back the way he'd come.
“Is it my mother?”
Nikolai’s head snapped back to look at Taras, surprise written on his face. Taras stared at him levelly, terrified of the answer. Nikolai leaned forward and put his hands on Taras’s shoulders. They felt solid and strong.
“Why do you ask that?”
“She left early and should have been back already. She’s never late.”
“Do you know where your mother went today?”
“She left before I woke.”
Nikolai sighed, head dropping to study the snow between them for a moment. Then he peered into Taras’s eyes. “Send a courier to your father, Taras, and then come with me. There’s been an accident.”