The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “I know already.”

  “The authorities have apprehended them? That’s a relief. The people of Paris have enough to trouble themselves over without back-alley ruffians.”

  “No need authorities. This Russian matter. Deal with as such.”

  Chipped with ice and weighted with ominousness, the words sank deep into Wynn’s unsettlement. The plush booths, gold trim, bejeweled women, and titled lords were nothing more than an opulent smokescreen wafted over nefarious means. He could venture a good guess to those means exactly, but he’d rather not dwell on the implications. Best to treat his patient and move on before he became embroiled in this underworld of Russian dealings.

  “Do you understand meaning, Dr. MacCallan?” Despite his eyes being hidden in rolls of fat, Sheremetev watched him closely.

  “My understanding goes to my patients and their medical needs only. All else I leave to others and their expertise.”

  “Wise. Often noses sniffing around business not their own. Some easily pushed back with little tap. Others requiring more knocking.”

  “Good way to earn a broken nose.”

  “I no broken nose. Only bruised knuckles and shoulder.” Leonid loomed in front of the table. His hair was askew, and his black jacket was draped around his wounded shoulder. His infectious grin was in sharp contrast to his father’s menacing one.

  Grateful for the distraction, Wynn turned his full attention to his patient. “It’s that shoulder I’ve come to see you about. Shall we find a quiet corner?”

  “No, here. I wish see our fine physician at work.” Sheremetev poured himself a dram of vodka, then signaled for the thick curtain to conceal them in muffled privacy. “While asking few things from son. Where have been?”

  Leonid shrugged out of his jacket, then sat on the edge of the seat to unbutton his shirt. “Around.”

  “Around gaming tables.”

  “Da, and kitchen, and stage. All smooth running.”

  “No doubt including dancers. One particular with black curls.”

  Leonid reddened. “Da.”

  “If caring one day take over family business, you need present more attention to entirety of operation and not ongoings of backstage. Sheremetev name one of success. First in Moscow and now Paris.” Sheremetev swallowed his vodka whole and plunked the crystal glass on the linen tablecloth, glaring at his son.

  “Fifteen years White Bear serving as relaxation place for Russian nobles touring Europe capitals, comforting taste of home many thousand miles away. Now it sanctuary for nobles finding themselves cut from homeland. A venture no taken lightly.”

  Silence pulsed between father and son. From the vein throbbing in Leonid’s neck, he was anything but silent internally.

  Still standing, Wynn set his bag on the table and took the opportunity for a diversion as he examined the injury.

  “The entry and exit have scabbed over nicely. You don’t require the bandage any longer, but keep the area clean and try not to put pressure on the shoulder. You should regain full use of it soon, as long as you stay away from scrapping.”

  “Wound no matter for family honor,” Leonid said.

  “I’ve seen enough honor injuries to last me a lifetime. Don’t add anymore to my needless count.”

  “Try. No promise.”

  “Taking good care of patients, Dr. MacCallan. Well they taught you at University of Glasgow.” At Wynn’s look of surprise, Sheremetev nodded. “My information gleaned from eyes and ears everywhere. Like knowing you top class four years in row, and submit thesis paper your second year with detailing surgical intervention of heart disease.”

  “Putting Heart Disease Under the Knife,” he’d titled his two-hundred-page thesis. Congenital heart disease and damage to the four inner valves caused by rheumatic fever were difficult to diagnose at best, and most physicians remained skeptical of delving further than need be. A mystery, they said, that risk dictated remain so. Rigid old jossers. The heart was simply another part of anatomy, an unexplored territory of the human landscape. His paper lambasted their fears and stodgy practices that refused to concede evolving knowledge. His professors had been astounded. By the absurdity of such radical thinking and from a second year, no less, who believed himself capable of putting forward said absurdity.

  While Leonid slid his shirt back on Wynn returned the unneeded bits of bandage to his bag and snapped it shut. “Dare I ask if you read my thesis?”

  “Nyet, but had man on it. Consider his self expert with hearts now.”

  “He was probably the only one to read it. I was certain my professors burned it in the courtyard along with the other heretical texts.”

  “Heretics. Groundbreakers. One in the same.”

  “Depends on who you ask.”

  “Duke of Westminster? He believe in your groundbreaking theories for recommending you a position at Hôpital du Sacré-Coeur where he patron. Ties with him and your father go back to Eton College, da?”

  “Mr. Sheremetev, has there ever been a time when your information was not mistaken?”

  “Nyet.” The confident old man poured himself another vodka and downed it. He rolled the bottom of the drained glass around in circles, leaving wet marks on the tablecloth. “I can use man like you. Never know when needing physician, and I resting easier having your talent call on. Medical attention lacking to my countrymen this far from home.”

  A private client list with a powerful patron at the top. Many physicians dreamed of such an opportunity, but Wynn wasn’t one of them. It was too safe, too predictable. Outweighing all other considerations, he had no desire to be pinned under Sheremetev’s thumb. The man was powerful, the epicenter of the Russian world he’d shrewdly created here in Paris. Wynn had seen enough to piece together precisely how this world was held together and he wanted no part of it.

  He also knew better than to offend his host with outright refusal. “It’s my honor to attend any in need, though my duties are prioritized at hospital with the Tommies.”

  The fleshy folds of Sheremetev’s neck twitched as he signaled for the velvet curtains to be drawn open. “Who this Tommy demanding all your time?”

  “Tommy Atkins is a common reference for British soldiers. The military loves its jargon.”

  In a jargon foreign yet becoming increasingly familiar to Wynn’s ear, Russian peeled from an opening door that had been obscured by large potted plants. Two burly men in evening dress escorted a woman in glittering gold who swayed laughing between them. A shimmering vision of silver glided down the stairs behind them. Svetlana.

  Gone were the tattered rags and ill-fitting dresses that were naught to behold in the wake of this gown that skimmed over every curve and elegant line like pouring water. A magnificent armor that made her appear all the more fragile. Pale jewels winked at her throat, ears, and scattered among the fine swirls of hair pinned up to showcase a swan-like neck. A princess in all her glory, leaving Wynn precious little room to be anything other than struck by awe.

  Princess Ana tittered in French as she swatted at her handlers, who were not the least bit perturbed by her antics. Discretion no longer a viable option, having drawn the attention of most of the room, the guards did their best to shield her from curious eyes while steering her toward the exit, but she was having none of it.

  “Sheremetev! Où es-tu?” Ana scanned the crowd until her eyes lighted on Sheremetev’s table. With a cry of joy, she darted in their direction, knocking against no less than three tables while en route. She slipped around Wynn and slid into the booth, then leaned back against the cushion with a dreamy smile across her pinked face. “Such wonderful tables you have, Sheremetev. I’ve never played with such crisp cards. Not even in the Winter Palace. They play with the same decks since before Napoleon invaded Moscow.”

  Svetlana glided to the table. Her cool gaze took in nothing but the soppy woman in front of her. “Mama, please. Let us retire for the evening before the spectacle becomes too much.”

  “There is never to
o much of a good thing. Except for you.” Ana turned to Sheremetev. “My daughter would have me give up all manner of fun for propriety’s sake. There are days when I don’t believe she knows how to smile.”

  Sheremetev ran his thick finger around the rim of his empty glass, considering as he looked at Svetlana. “Perhaps she not given reason to.”

  “Tosh. She has the world in her feet—no, at her feet—and it is still not good enough. When will it measure up, Svetka?”

  If possible, Svetlana straightened even further. “Come, Mama.”

  “The evening is still young with too many exciting things waiting to be discovered. Is that vodka? A tipple if you will, dear friend.” Ana took the empty glass from Sheremetev and nudged it toward the bottle.

  “There has been enough drink for one evening.”

  “There is never enough to suit my mood, especially after that last disastrous hand. I lost a ruby ring and matching choker to a rather oily looking man. You don’t serve Cossacks here, do you, Sheremetev? The beastly lot cannot be trusted.”

  “Enough, Mama. We are leaving.”

  “You leave while I enjoy myself.” Ana took the glass now filled with clear liquid from Sheremetev and tipped it past her lips. “The first time in ages.”

  Family squabble aside, the elder princess was well on her way to a drunken stupor. Wynn stepped forward.

  “Her Highness is right, Princess. More drink will bring nothing good this evening.”

  As if aware of him for the first time, Svetlana’s attention turned to him with a shot of ice. “Dr. MacCallan. How often your presence is found here. Though in this instance it is not required.”

  “A gentleman should never dispute with a lady in public. This rule of engagement, however, does not impede me in a professional capacity as I’ve dealt with a fair share of inebriation and stand to argue that my unrequired presence may be of help. Allow me to escort you home.”

  Svetlana’s expression never wavered, at least not to a casual observer. To one who knew where to look, indecision oscillated behind that glacier façade. An ability perfected by nobility and heightened to its zenith by her exacting standards where proper manners warred with a fuming dismissal. Which victor would he be left to contend with?

  “I’m certain your services are greatly relied upon by our host, otherwise I cannot account for your continued presence when the hospital is better suited.” Ah, a cold dismissal hidden behind concerned manners. Fortunately for Wynn, he was immune to such tactics.

  “As I told you before, when I find something I enjoy, I stick with it. Even when it would be easier to forgo.”

  Leonid cleared his throat. “Sheremetev private carriage. I get.” Sticking his good arm into his jacket sleeve, he tugged the other side to cover his wounded shoulder and leaned close to Wynn’s ear. “Careful. Princess no appreciate hook you dangle.”

  Wynn grinned. “If you want the best, you have to be willing to take a risk.”

  “Risk eaten alive.” Leonid clicked his teeth together to emphasize his point. “Luck to you.”

  As Leonid scuttled off to locate their transport, a waiter appeared at the table holding a bill of receipt.

  “Princess Dalsky,” he said.

  Ana demurred as if embarrassed to handle a concept so inferior as a bill.

  Coming to her rescue, Sheremetev plucked the paper from the waiter’s hand and placed it facedown in front of the princess. “When you ready.”

  To her credit, she made a good show of fumbling through her beaded handbag until at last emerging with just the right amount of disappointment.

  “How embarrassing. I must have left my coin purse behind this evening. Cumbersome little thing when one is not accustomed to traveling with the common burden.”

  “I understand, Lady Princess. Until next time.” Sheremetev took the bill and slipped it into his inner jacket pocket with a gentle pat.

  Smiling with gratitude, Ana raised the little glass of vodka to her lips. And missed. Crystal clear drops dribbled onto the golden beads of her bodice. “Sacré bleu! My new gown. It was my favorite from all the new ones you gave us.”

  Sheremetev whipped a hankie from his pocket and handed it to her. “Shed no precious tear. There many more where came from.”

  “But this was my favorite one. With the matching shoes.”

  “We will repay you at the earliest convenience, sir. For every bit of your magnanimousness shown to us.” The muscles in Svetlana’s throat constricted as if each word were forced from her.

  “No more speak of it. Your lows are mine for shouldering as long as grant me the favor. Women of your rank and beauty no be forced to endure discards of regime that expelling you from splendor of which are accustomed to.” Sheremetev’s eyes cast between the bedecked women, weighing each gilded jewel in turn. “In meantime, have most pleasant evening and look forward next time you are gracing my humble doors. Doctor, you as well.”

  Wynn inclined his head. “Good evening to you, sir. Ladies, shall we adjourn?”

  A sleek black carriage pulled by two white horses waited for them out front. Settled inside on the opposite bench from the ladies, there wasn’t much room to accommodate his legs and their gowns. Every roll of the wheels brushed Svetlana’s skirts against him. Ana fell promptly asleep.

  The interior was dark, shrouding them in the relief of obscurity. As the carriage turned, moonlight faintly caught the beads of Svetlana’s gown. Wynn resisted the urge to reach across the short distance to determine her realness or if she shimmered beyond his reach like the northern lights shifting across the sky during winter.

  “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “There was no choice for it.” From the tone of her voice, he knew she sat straight as a rod. “Choice has become an option ill-afforded. For many things.”

  Including wardrobes, it seemed. Jealousy pricked its tiny fangs into Wynn’s sense of pride. He would have liked to be the one to obtain suitable attire for her, though he’d scarcely call a sequined gown a garment of necessity during wartime. Then again, she was a princess. She might sleep in a tiara. Whatever the case might be, she’d found benevolence in a near stranger. Certainly, Sheremetev was somewhat Russian nobility himself, and there was something to be said for instant kinship upon meeting another citizen of your homeland while traveling afar, a thread of commonality linking memory and custom unique to that place understood by those who dwell there. Wynn had no such thread to her. His only claim was being present when blood was involved. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

  “You’re enchanting tonight,” he said.

  “The hour draws too late for enchanting.”

  “Bewitching then. It’s close to midnight, which I believe is the proper time for such things, so you can’t fault me there.”

  Her gown ruffled against his foot. “If you feel the need to remark on such things, do not sit in expectation of a swoon.”

  “From you? Never. It might force you to slacken the rigidity so ingrained. I’d settle for a smile or even a nod. A twitch to acknowledge the compliment.”

  “I never asked for a compliment.”

  Her reactions were nothing short of a dare. A measure he was happy to supply. “No, but when a man is faced with the truth, he’s forced to confess it, be the recipient willing or not. Truth will out, as they say.”

  “Some truths are better left unsaid.”

  “Not when they rile you so easily.”

  “What do you mean by this rile?” He imagined her fine eyebrows slanting over narrowed eyes.

  “To rile, vex, needle. To provoke into reaction.”

  “A game then for your own amusement. Tell me, what do other women do? Laugh and bat their lashes behind silken fans, begging for one more compliment?”

  “Only the silly ones.”

  “Perhaps they are better suited to your game of vexation.”

  “I don’t want a silly woman.”

  “A challenge for you then, considering all prop
er ladies are required a decorum of vacuous heads balanced precariously upon tittering laughter as they float about on clouds spun of gossip and boredom.”

  “I prefer a challenge.” He leaned forward, eager to make out the delicate lines of her face that masked a temper. “Why else do I find myself so drawn to you?”

  “A consummate need for disappointment would be my diagnosis. But then, you are the doctor.”

  Wynn laughed, loud and clear. She might not enjoy the game, but he certainly did. A better equipped opponent he’d yet to encounter.

  The carriage slowed to a halt and bounced as the driver dropped from his perch to open the door. Ana jerked awake and stared around in confusion.

  “Have we arrived at the palace? Why are the torches not lit for us?”

  “There is no palace, Mama,” Svetlana said. “This is the church.”

  Wynn climbed out before turning to help the ladies.

  Ana squinted at the three pointed towers of the church. The gold onion domes gleamed dully against the ink-blotted sky.

  “The driver has brought us to the wrong place.” She spun around and glared at the man in question. “I shall inform my husband, the prince, of this negligence.”

  “Mama, this is where we are staying now.” Svetlana took her mother’s arm and turned them to go around the back of the church. “Let’s go inside.”

  “Like a serf? As soon as order is restored in Russia, I shall—” Ana pressed her fingers to her forehead. “Do you know, my head feels too light for this reprimand.” Her eyes fluttered closed and she wilted. Wynn caught her before she puddled on the cobblestones and hefted the unconscious princess into his arms before following Svetlana around back.

  Reaching the cellar door, Svetlana eased it open as quietly as she could on its rusty hinges. It creaked like an unoiled trumpet on Judgment Day.

  Ana’s eyes snapped open. Heavily dilated pupils stared up at Wynn. “Unhand me at once. I will have no improprieties taken of me.”

  “Mama, please. You fainted,” Svetlana said.

  “I should think so with the ill-treatment I’ve received. My nerves cannot handle the upset. Now, unhand me.”

  Wynn set Ana on her feet. She flicked him away and started down the stairs on wobbly legs, clutching the walls for balance.