The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “You must be exhausted from your journey,” she said, her words falling flat against the startling surprise of his arrival. “We’ll speak again tomorrow, but for now I’ll have you shown to your room.” She rose to ring the bell pull for Glasby, but Sergey waved her back down.

  “I’m afraid there’s one last thing I must impart. My heart dreads the telling, but if there is anyone who should tell you, I hope you find comfort that it is from an old friend.” Eyeing them each in turn, he fidgeted with the buttons on his jacket. An unusual tic for one so confident as Sergey.

  “On the night you escaped Petrograd, the White Army made a stand at Palace Square in front of the Winter Palace. The man I was imprisoned with was there when it happened. He told me what he saw. The soldiers fought bravely but were not enough against the Red Army. Those not killed in action were dragged to the river and executed. Colonel Dalsky and Nikolai among them.”

  Mama screamed and wilted into her chair. Marina sobbed. Svetlana sat unable to move as the blinding force of devastation sank through her like a stone. In her heart she’d known. She’d tried desperately to hold on to bits of hope despite reconciling herself to never seeing her beloved father and brother again this side of eternity. Yet to hear her deepest fear spoken aloud was enough to flay open her raw heart.

  A tear slid down her cheek. Then another. She dashed them away and tucked in the lashed strips of her heart to tend at a later time when she could allow the sorrow to drown her. Rising, she crossed to her mother and slipped her arms around her.

  Mama rocked away with a wail. “Dead! I always knew it. Gone forever.”

  “Mama, you must calm down.”

  “I will rage if I wish! Just because you do not have the heart to mourn for love doesn’t mean I don’t.”

  Svetlana bit back an angry retort as tears scalded her eyes. “Marina, help me get her to her chambers.”

  Tears streaming down her young face, Marina took hold of their mother’s left arm while Svetlana took the right and together they hauled the sobbing woman from her chair.

  Sergey hovered like a bird with wings unsure of its flight. “Can I do anything?”

  Svetlana didn’t answer. She didn’t have the soundness of mind to think on what he could do. The edges of her mind blackened down to a single focal point of preservation. Get her mother upstairs, see to her family first, and then and only then could she crumble.

  Turning she found Wynn standing next to her with arms open at his sides. As if he were waiting for her to find him. He took one look at her face and dropped his arms.

  “Get her settled. I’ll bring laudanum.”

  It was like wrestling a boneless cat up the stairs as it screeched and howled on each step. Once in her chamber, Mama flung herself onto the bed with a wail, clutching her cross necklace. Svetlana and Marina sat on either side of her, but their mother curled into a ball like a child and cried with great wracking sobs. They had to hold her down as Wynn administered the laudanum, Marina crying the entire time.

  At last Mama’s sobs quieted to a pitiful sleep as she still clutched her cross. Silvery tracks of tears shone down her face and blotched her silk bodice. Svetlana pulled a coverlet over her mother before turning to gather Marina into her arms. Her sister’s fresh bout of tears soaked through the front of Svetlana’s dress. Helpless, Svetlana held her tight and murmured nonsense words of comfort that fell coldly across her own embattled soul.

  Pressing her cheek to the top of Marina’s head, Svetlana found Wynn standing quietly at the foot of the bed. Solid, sure, unmoving. A tear trickled from her eye. Wynn moved toward her, his arms reaching out.

  “Please don’t,” she whispered.

  He stopped, expression pained, and dropped his arms for the second time that night when she needed him most. She couldn’t allow him to touch her. If he did, she would give in to the overwhelming tumult of sadness and splinter apart. She had no doubt his arms were strong enough to catch all of her dissolving pieces, but not now. For a short time longer, her pieces must remain intact to comfort what remained of her family.

  He left, quietly shutting the door behind him. Svetlana hugged her sister tighter, and as Wynn’s footsteps faded away, a piece of her heart broke away and shattered.

  * * *

  Snow fell heavy from the sky, blotting out the weakened rays of sun creeping over the distant horizon. The white drifts thickened around the castle walls to muffle the early morning floor creaks and crackles of glass frosting over. Wynn stood outside Svetlana’s chamber with every thought centered on the woman within. His hand raised to knock.

  “Please don’t,” she’d said.

  His hand flattened soundlessly against the cold wood. She’d stood there with the fire behind her burning around her edges and her face cold as marble, a juxtaposition of raging pain and cool control as she upheld her loved ones drowning in grief. The pain of losing his own brother had ripped through him afresh. Would their family never be able to enjoy peace?

  He wanted so badly to gather her into his arms and carry her sadness. To run his hand over her smooth hair and whisper that he had her. She’d ordered him to stay put, but he saw the forbidding plea for what it was. A shield on which she carried others to safety before allowing the tending of her own wounds. He saw the cuts on her heart and the sorrow wailing in her soul. When the time came, he would bind her back together.

  He knocked softly on the door. When no answer came, he pushed carefully into her chamber so as not to disturb her if she’d returned and managed to fall asleep while he’d been downstairs in his study. The room was dark and cold, and the bed empty. She most likely remained at her mother’s bedside in the east wing of the castle. The opposite wing of the master and mistress chambers, and a wholly separate floor from the bachelor quarters, where he’d sequestered that Russian ex-lover, or childhood friend, or whoever he was supposed to be.

  Wynn moved to the window and braced his hands on either side of the cold panes. The temperature bit into his palms and drew out bits of heated anger. The fact was Sergey had a past with Svetlana that at one time may have become a future together, but as far as Wynn could tell the man held no sway over her heart aside from what existed as fond memories. It mattered not how many times Ana cooed over the man or how many references to their Russian life were made, Svetlana was Wynn’s wife now. Nothing could change that. Not even when that greasy mustached weasel kissed her standing in the middle of their home in front of all their guests, claiming her as a husband would. Claiming her in a way Wynn had not yet been able to do.

  Then again, could Wynn blame him? There had been an understanding between Sergey and Svetlana for years. The man had escaped death only to discover his good-as-fiancée had wed another man. But to tackle her and force his lips upon hers like that . . . It had taken every ounce of Wynn’s restraint to keep from knocking the ill-wanted Russian’s block off. Wynn was not a man often given to jealousies, as they were the result of flagging confidence and weak minds, but he couldn’t deny the shaking of his own confidence. What if having Sergey returned to her made Svetlana regret her hasty marriage to Wynn? What if the man’s reappearance ignited romantic feelings long repressed?

  Shoving off the window, Wynn crossed through their joined sitting room and into his chamber. A small fire had been lit, its orange glow of heat extending a small radius before chilling at the night’s blue touch pooling through the window. Why had the drapes not been drawn?

  Crossing the floor, he stopped in the center of the room at the sight of the figure on his bed. Curled on her side, Svetlana still wore her gown from the previous evening, but the pins in her hair had been removed and the strands tumbled like ribbons of silver across his pillow. He moved quietly to the side of the bed, careful not to wake her. At his approach her eyes fluttered up to meet his and he saw that she hadn’t been asleep at all. Tears rolled down her cheeks and splotched the pillow. A quiet sob trembled between her lips and fair to broke his heart. He was on the bed in an instant, pulli
ng her into his arms.

  “Lana, my darling. I’m here.”

  She clung to him, face buried into his chest and fingers twisting at his shirtfront as she cried out the pieces of her cloven heart. Wynn gently stroked her hair, murmuring inane comforts as he willed the ability to absorb her pain into himself. But that ability was beyond his limits. All he could offer was holding her tight to catch the falling pieces until her body depleted itself of sorrow and she lay limp and heavy in his arms.

  “There now, my heart. I’m here.”

  Chapter 24

  What comforts Thornhill had offered now stood listless among the grief, like a bright burning lamp that once cast its glow on all who drew near but whose light had shivered into shadow, its purpose extinguished. Svetlana wandered the halls, her black shawl pulled tightly against the cold air knocking on the windows as her heels echoed in lonely staccato against the stone.

  Four days. That was how long it had been since her hope and prayers had died. Papa and Nicky were never coming back. They had died for the Russia they loved, their strong presence no longer felt this side of eternity. She had lived with the possibility for well over a year now, a period in which a hundred lifetimes had passed, time enough for the eventuality to plow a dull rut through her heart with a hurt so wide that only numbness could ease it. Was detachment preferable to the sharp sting that felled Mama? Or the quiet sadness yet brave smile of Marina? Grief struck with oddity. Svetlana’s one consolation was that Papa and Nicky were killed swiftly and not destined to languish in a prison cell, subject to torture and prolonged deaths drawn out by the minute. They had died honorably as soldiers, befitting who they were.

  Feet given no direction, she drifted to the solarium. It glittered like a winter palace under the falling snow with thousands of ice crystals dancing across the glass panes and white drifts crowding the window corners. The heart of winter had always been her favorite time of year. With its cleansing beauty of white blanketing the bareness left in autumn’s wake, its crispness snapping the air, and its ribbon of rainbow of light shining across the northern night sky, winter seeped into her bones with a vitality held dormant in warmer seasons. Others decried the coldness as a plague to be endured, but where they saw brittleness, she saw beauty. Where they turned from the harshness, she fell into the seductive hold. Winter was an exquisite lady, bedecked in her elegant ice and dripping icicles. She was carved with an artist’s hand, fragile yet strong. Delicate yet deadly.

  Or at least that was the memory Svetlana held of winter. Today she felt none of that. She wandered around the solarium, a few dried leaves from the potted plants crunching under her feet. Their crushed earthiness drifted up like a lingering perfume from autumn’s glory. Having taken fully to its new home with delight, her fern’s tendrils cascaded down the sides of its pot like a frothy waterfall. The plant had nearly doubled its size since the night of the charity bazaar.

  A lifetime ago, when the world held promise of safety and she had encouraged the possibility of a marriage in more than name. They would have kissed that night. She knew by the intuition women were born with when it came to a man desiring them. More than that, she desired him as well. Then everything had gone topsy-turvy.

  She poked a finger into her fern’s dirt. Still moist. It had been hesitant to grow for her at first, even drooping in despair once she planted it in the new pot. She’d fallen into a mild panic at the thought of killing it but quickly learned that all living things hurt when they’re uprooted. Only once they are made to feel safe and cared for do they allow themselves to thrive. The double realization had not gone unnoticed with the changes in her own life. In Scotland her seized roots had unfurled into a richness she never could have expected. All because Wynn gave her the freedom to do so.

  She longed for the hours to tick by so she could once again sit with him before the fire in their shared sitting room. It had become their ritual these past few nights since she’d cried in his arms. By day he administered laudanum to Mama, ensured plenty of hot tea was brought up to Marina, and apologized profusely for it not being brewed in a samovar. Svetlana divided her time between the two in an effort to rally their spirits while also trying not to suffocate under Sergey’s hovering. He was trying to be of help, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell him he was smothering her. At night when the house finally settled, she and Wynn would find one another and silently settle into the unspoken need to be together before the comforts of the fire.

  The night before he had broken their silence by asking if she needed anything. What could she say? Yes, I need you to take me away, far from this pain to a place I can no longer think beyond the length of your arms? The words failed to come just as they had the night she’d wept against him, and so she simply laid her head on his shoulder in answer of a silent dance they were making all their own after being off step for so long.

  A tiny splotch of darkness lifted from the corner of her heart. Yes, all their own.

  A masculine tread announced itself in the room. Wynn. Svetlana dashed the tear from her cheek.

  “Oh, Wynn. I’m so glad you’re—” She turned around and stopped. “Sergey.”

  Resplendent in a black jacket and trousers with a gray silk waistcoat, he cut a fine figure for one who had donned a mourning armband. He’d always been handsome in a sleek manner, sleek in every way save his curling black hair, which often drew many female looks of envy. His months on the run had cut away the softness from his aristocratic lifestyle to showcase the immaculate bone structure beneath. Striking to gaze upon, but not the face she longed to see.

  “Here you are, lyubimaya.” Those striking bones softened with compassion. Sergey came to her with arms wide and pulled her against him. “This week has been terrible for you. For all of you. I’m sorry I was the one to bring you such pain, but please allow me to overcome this and bring you comfort.” Speaking in their customary French with the Russian endearment crooned in, he gently pressed her head to his shoulder. He still smelled of expensive spice and cedarwood, the notes stirring up memories of a ballroom waltz and the first time he offered her his arm for a stroll in Alexander Garden.

  Svetlana gently pulled away. Those memories, while sweet to dwell upon, belonged in the past. “Seeing you again, dear friend, is great comfort indeed.”

  Mustache twitching, his dark eyes swam with emotion. “‘Dear friend.’ How I used to delight when you called me that. Now I hear a distance in the phrase I once treasured.”

  “I hope you treasure our friendship still.”

  “I treasure any relationship I may have with you, Svetka.”

  Stepping back to put distance between herself and the sentiments of memory his eyes tried to pull from her, she wriggled her fingers between the fern fronds and plucked out the dead leaves near the stem’s base.

  “My apologies as hostess for not seeing to your needs these past few days. I trust you have been well cared for.”

  “Do not think one minute for me. Your absence has been well justified and your staff more than gracious to my intrusion. Even the master of the house has offered me the hospitality of your stables should I fancy a ride during my stay.”

  “You’ve spoken to Wynn?” Had they discussed Sergey’s embracing kiss in the front hall for all their gathered guests to witness? Or was everyone playing ignorant and forgetful about it? At least Sergey didn’t sport a black eye.

  “Briefly. He was on his way to repair a peasant’s roof that had collapsed. Do you not have estate managers to see to such menial tasks? Most other days the duke has spent in his study, though in truth I do not mind the solitude after my harrowing travels.”

  The images of a burning city and fleeing through dark woods scrolled through Svetlana’s mind. She could feel the heat burning overhead and the scratch of tree branches on her cheek. She sank onto a wooden bench with Celtic knots carved into the back.

  “The horrors you’ve been through. What you did to save our lives. We will forever be in your debt of selflessness.
”

  He slid onto the bench next to her, gliding his arm along the back rest. “My deep affection for you and your family could allow me no less. I would change nothing to ensure your safety. The Bolsheviks are from the very pits of the devil himself, but no amount of their inflicted pain compares to what I would have felt if you had been captured. They have razed our beloved Russia to the ground.”

  Svetlana shivered and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders.

  “Is there no hope of ever returning?”

  He shook his head. A black curl slipped over his forehead. “It is our home no longer. The Reds have turned it against us into something sinister. Something unrecognizable.” He pushed the errant curl back into place with a smooth hand. “Would you ever consider going back? If the country were to be returned to its former sanity, that is.”

  “I should very much like to see Russia again. I miss the comforts of familiarity there and the white summer nights. There is nothing in all the world like her, but life has moved on without my permission. Decisions had to be made, and I cannot allow myself the remorse of looking back. My home is here now with a life I’m looking forward to with Wynn.”

  His black eyebrows spiked. “In this barbaric country? It does not suit the entitlements of a princess.” He gestured sharply to the land beyond the frosted windows as if to point out the error in her assessment before frowning at the dead leaves curled in her palm. “Neither do dirty hands.”

  She tried not to allow his words to bristle her. Things were different now. She was different. No longer did she live in Petrograd with its confining rules.

  “Dirty hands suit me in Scotland. The land is none so harsh after a time. I’ve learned to find a beauty in its wildness.” She looked through the window to the rolling hills beyond. Come summer they would be covered in purple heather. Wynn claimed they could stroll across the tops, so thick was it. “The Revolution taught me much, and I will not take for granted my position again. If I can use it toward good, I will.”