‘Of course,’ I cried joyfully. ‘Oh, Luel, thank you! Thank you!’ I reached over and planted a kiss on her cool cheek, making her grumble that I was as noisy and boisterous as an untrained puppy, but looking just a little pleased all the same.
Dinner that night had a festive feel, and it wasn’t only because of the delicious food. By unspoken agreement Luel and I kept the talk bright and light, and Ivan listened peacefully with an expression which told me that for the moment, the darkness had rolled back like a bitter sea from the shores of his troubled mind. Once again he hardly touched his meal. I had begun to suspect, with a wrench of pity, that his clawed hands were too clumsy to allow him to politely wield a knife and fork and so he did not want to eat in front of me. But I pretended not to notice and so did Luel, and the time passed pleasantly, much more pleasantly than I would have dared to imagine even a few hours ago. Not even the blank pictures disturbed me as much as they had before.
I went up to bed in a very different frame of mind from the previous night. Back in my room, I stood at the window, looking out over the quiet moonlit lawns and thinking that even if my predicament was not at an end, at least now I was no longer afraid for my life. Tomorrow I could speak to my mother with a lighter heart.
I was just about to close the curtains when I saw it. A solitary black shape in the night sky, just beyond the hedge. The crow.
No. I refused to give in to fear. This man – this evil sorcerer – had no way of getting through. Luel had said the defences had not been breached. Her magic was much too strong, I told myself stoutly as I undressed and got ready for bed. But though I got into bed and tried to sleep, I couldn’t. I tossed and turned till I finally gave up. I lit the lamp and took the notebook out from the desk. Now, I thought, I’ll be able to write what happened. But first I read back what I had written that morning, about the girl in my dream, and when I took up the pen and started to write, it was something quite different to what I’d originally intended that came rushing onto the page.
In a warm and pleasant country, where bright flowers bloom much of the year, and skies are blue as Our Lady’s robe, lived a young girl called Rosette, I wrote. She was a little dressmaker, from a modest family; pretty as the flower she was named after, bright as a mountain stream, and good as new-baked bread. Despite her modest birth, suitors queued for her hand, but she refused them all till she met Robert. A handsome, gentle young man, he fell as deeply in love with Rosette as she with him, and the pair were eager to get married as soon as they could.
Robert was of rich and noble birth but had not yet reached his majority when he fell in love with Rosette, so under the law he was obliged to ask his guardian for his consent to the marriage. His guardian was his uncle, one of the King’s chief councillors, and a proud and arrogant man known as the Master of Crows because he always dressed in black, as did his closest retainers. He professed to love Robert but, in truth, in the depths of his stony heart he hated his nephew and wished only for his unhappiness. What was more, he had been steadily spending Robert’s fortune over the years, and if his nephew married and set up home with his bride, Robert would be independent and then the true state of affairs would be revealed. So when Robert came to him and asked for his consent, he harshly refused it, saying the girl was not fit to marry into their family and that Robert should forget all about her.
Robert refused and said he hoped his uncle would change his mind, but if that did not happen, he would petition the King and so go over his guardian’s head. He had been a quiet and biddable young man till then but something had changed in him when he met Rosette, and the Master of Crows knew he would not be able to control things for long. He had to do something. So he decided to get rid of Rosette, imagining that once she was gone, his nephew would become biddable once more.
The dreadful day came when Robert received news that Rosette had died on her way to meet him. She had tripped and fallen from a platform into the path of an oncoming train and was killed at once. Robert was beside himself with grief but he did not suspect his uncle had had a hand in her death, for who would think such a monstrous thing? Who would believe that the man who had the King’s ear could employ a vicious backstreet murderer to push an innocent young girl to a terrible death? Indeed, the Master of Crows wept many hypocritical tears over Rosette’s death and then revealed to his nephew that that very morning, he’d changed his mind about the marriage and decided to give his consent. As an apology, he had sent a tiny posy of white roses to Rosette, to pin on her coat, and she had been wearing it when she fell.
I could see and smell those white roses, so pure and fragrant and beautiful and horrifying, as my own imagination drove me onwards through a story that was quite unlike anything I had ever written before.
Robert was very much touched by this and embraced his uncle, and the coldness between them was forgotten. The Master of Crows suggested Robert go on a long trip abroad to try to forget his sorrow. Robert’s home and usual surroundings had become unbearable to him now that Rosette was gone, and so Robert agreed, though he knew he would not forget.
For weeks and months Robert wandered around the world, with no real taste for anywhere or anything. Then one day he came to a grim and grey mountain town where he put up for the night, intending to go on in the morning. He took a meal in a dingy dining-room and it was there that he met an ill-favoured beetle-browed man who was very drunk and who rambled on about his unsavoury life and the people he’d known, people who would ‘make your hair curl, boy’. Robert had no appetite for such tales but he also had no energy to leave, so he sat there, only half-listening. The drunkard began speaking of a man he’d known, now dead, who had worked as a hired killer for the rich and powerful. ‘There was this one job he did,’ said Robert’s chance acquaintance, ‘which turned even his hardened stomach. He had so much remorse about it he hanged himself not long after. He said he saw the girl he’d killed every night in his dreams, a girl with the face of an angel and a posy of snow-white roses on her bloodstained breast, the roses that had marked her out as his victim, and every night he heard her cry as she fell and he –’
‘What did you say?’ said Robert sharply, cutting the man off.
Robert’s face was so pale, his eyes so wild that the strangeness of it struck his new acquaintance even in the midst of his drunkard’s fumes. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he muttered.
‘The roses – you said they marked her out. What do you mean?’
‘What do you think, friend? Whoever ordered the killing knew she would be wearing the posy and had probably sent it to her himself. He most likely thought that . . .’ But the beetle-browed man was talking to empty air, for Robert had gone. He was on his way back to his own country, his heart no longer full of grief for his lost love but filled instead with burning hatred against his uncle, the Master of Crows.
In the first port in his home country, Robert bought a gun, resolving to shoot his uncle straight through his black, wicked heart. But what he did not know was that his return had been noted, for the Master of Crows had many spies. Robert had been seen buying the gun. And his uncle, guessing his nephew’s intention, devised a terrible plan. When Robert appeared at his uncle’s door, they were ready for him; the King’s police arrested him for the murder of his own Rosette and for conspiring to murder his uncle, who tearfully said that he had found incriminating evidence against his nephew. And he had documents to prove it. Robert angrily protested his innocence, but his story was not believed, for the Master of Crows was clever and had arranged everything to support his case.
Robert was tried and sentenced to life in a prison camp in a remote place of dark forest and endless ice and snow, from which there could be no pardon and no reprieve. For years he endured it there, at first still full of rage and hate, but then hopelessly, mutely, numbly, his mind clouding day by day and his memories fading.
One day when Robert and his companions in misfortune were returning from a day of cutting wood in the forest, they came across a spi
ndly rosebush. On that bush was a single delicate flower, white as snow. It released such a beautiful warm scent on the air that it was as though it were summer.
Robert picked it, put it to his nose and closed his eyes. In that moment he remembered Rosette, remembered not her cruel death but her beautiful life and the joy of their love. The tears came at last, gently watering his frozen, broken heart and coaxing forth the first tender shoots of hope.
I was weeping myself. When I’d sat down this evening, I’d intended to write an account of what had happened to me. I hadn’t – and yet I had. For the story had come out of being here, out of all the things I’d seen and heard and felt, transformed into something the likes of which I’d never written before. And as I wept over it, my heart constricted with grief at the cruelties of the world. Still, in writing it down, the fear I’d previously felt had transformed into a determination as hard as it was bright. I had extended the hand of friendship to poor Ivan. And I’d given him a few hours of respite. But a friend is more than someone who helps you forget your troubles in light chatter. I had to coax him to tell me his story if I was to help in banishing the darkness that was trying to swallow him. Tomorrow, I would start doing just that.
In the morning I woke to a lowering sky and a hint of rain. Looking out of the window, I saw no sign of the crow, which lightened my heart considerably. After washing, I dressed in the beautiful red cashmere frock I’d worn the first evening, thinking that the master of the house would be at breakfast this morning and I should dress up a little for the occasion. But when I entered the dining-room, I found Luel alone, looking a little tired and drawn. ‘Ivan’s not had a good night,’ she said, when I inquired after him. ‘He won’t be down this morning, or at all today. We will see.’
‘But I thought . . .’ I said, dismayed. ‘I thought, after yesterday . . .’
‘He is ashamed,’ she said simply.
‘Of what?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘Of the way he was when you first came. He frightened you and he cannot forgive himself for that.’
‘But I’ve forgiven him,’ I said. ‘I will not pretend he did not frighten me, but things have changed. He must know that.’
‘Yes, my dear,’ she said softly. ‘I know. But the return of memory can be a painful thing, and hope can be a hard thing to truly believe in when you have lived without it for so long. He has come such a long way already, more than I could have dared to imagine. You must give it time.’
‘Of course,’ I said. Though to be truthful, patience has never been one of my strong points. And I’d been so full of hopeful determination last night that it had seemed to me that everything must shortly be . . . My eye fell upon the empty frames, and I couldn’t help giving a little cry.
‘What’s the matter?’ Luel said sharply.
‘That one –’ I said, pointing a trembling finger at a picture-frame. I blinked. The sinister crow I’d glimpsed on the white space had vanished, leaving nothing but white blankness, just like before. I stammered, ‘I saw . . . I thought I saw . . .’
‘What did you see, child?’ Luel asked, her eyes fixed on me.
‘Noth . . . nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
‘You must tell me. Was it a crow?’
I swallowed. ‘Yes.’ Why, after all my heartfast resolve of last night, was I still so spooked by the mere imagined sight of a crow on a blank canvas?
‘Don’t worry, Natasha, they cannot get in. You are safe here, body and soul, while I am here. I promise you that.’
‘But what . . . how . . .’ I murmured shakily. ‘What I saw – was that real or unreal?’
‘It was both. For it was part of Ivan’s nightmare you saw,’ she said. ‘Last night it troubled him again and again, till he could no longer sleep for it.’
My breath was ragged in my throat as I said, ‘But why – why would I see it?’
‘You and he are bound by more than a debt now,’ she said steadily, then paused. ‘Tell me, did you dream of a white rose?’
I started so violently that I almost knocked over my glass. ‘Why do you ask?’ I whispered.
‘Because he told me this morning that as he lay awake, an image came to his mind, the only thing that comforted him even slightly. And it was a white rose – pure white as snow.’
A shiver rippled over me from head to foot as the strangest feeling assailed me, a feeling I could find no name for – part awe and part fear and yet neither. ‘I am glad if he was a little comforted, but I did not dream of a white rose.’
Strictly speaking, that was true. I hadn’t dreamed it in my sleep, only in that strange state in which stories are born. I could see she didn’t believe me. But I couldn’t – wouldn’t – explain the truth. It was too private, too disturbing, and I shrank from putting it into words.
‘Very well,’ she said, after a little silence. ‘Now, if you like, I can take you to the mirror and you may speak to your mother.’
‘Oh yes, please,’ I said hastily, glad to change the subject, and I followed Luel to the cellar. As we went down into the darkness of the stairs, I said, ‘Does Ivan ever come down here?’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Do you think he wants anyone he knew to see him in this state? Better they think he’s dead, as they must think now. Besides, even if he wanted to, I wouldn’t let him. It’s not safe. It is like with his true name. Ivan is human. It is his reflection that would go out through my mirror and into one in your world, just as it did with you. And each reflection sends out its own faint pattern of echoes that is carried on the air. That is how the magic works. For me, it is safe for I do not have a reflection, as you may have noticed,’ she added dryly. ‘When I look through the mirror, no human can see me; it is only I who can see them. But Ivan’s reflection would betray him.’
‘You mean the sorcerer could home in on it?’ I said uneasily.
‘Exactly. It is for the same reason I keep the mirror down here, locked away deep in the earth, far away from the rest of the house, and with a neutral background that can tell no-one anything. It is better to be doubly and even triply sure.’
We reached the room where the magic mirror sat shrouded in its blue velvet. Luel did not uncover it at once, but first turned to me and said, ‘Watch carefully, Natasha. You will need to know exactly what to do. First, pass your hand over the glass three times: once to the right, once to the left, once to the centre. Next, you must say the following words: Mirror, show what I want to see. Mirror, give my wish to me. And then you say the name of the person or place you want to see, and they shall appear. It depends then on what you intend to do. If you are just looking, you need do nothing more. If you want to speak to someone, you close your eyes and count to five. On the count of five, open your eyes and you can start speaking. But for speaking, the mirror will never give more than a few minutes, as you have seen.’
‘And that’s all?’ I asked. ‘Is that how you make the dishes come to you too?’
Luel laughed. ‘There’s a bit more to it than that. But you don’t need to know that. What I’ve given you is what you need.’
‘Tell me, Luel. Do you ever use the mirror to look at your own country? Just for news?’
‘Occasionally,’ she said quietly. ‘There – and other places.’
‘Is that how you know Ivan’s enemy still seeks him?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and there was a clipped finality in her voice that made me understand she did not want to discuss the matter further. Uncovering the mirror, she went on, ‘I’ll do it today, but you watch and listen so next time you’ll know how to do it yourself.’
She slowly passed her hand over the mirror three times, once to the right, once to the left, once to the centre. Luel then recited the verse, followed by ‘Madame Kupeda, mother of Nataliya Alexandrovna Kupeda, known as Natasha’. Instantly the mirror fogged over. As before, the fog thickened, then thinned out gradually till suddenly it was clear and I was looking into my own dining-room at home. My mother was sitting at the table, r
eading a letter, while on either side of her my sisters, still in their dressing-gowns and slippers, yawned over their coffee.
Once I counted to five and opened my eyes, I found my tongue quickly enough. ‘Oh, Liza, Anya,’ I called out, ‘wake up, you lazy lie-abeds; it’s nearly lunchtime!’
They almost jumped out of their skins, and I couldn’t help laughing at the sight of their astonished faces. ‘Natasha?’ Liza said weakly, staring straight at me. ‘Mama told us about this.’
‘But we didn’t think it was possible,’ added Anya. ‘Hey,’ she went on, staring harder at me, ‘is that a new dress you’re wearing?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s my . . . uniform. Everyone on staff here has to wear one.’
‘It’s not bad for a uniform,’ said Anya. ‘Simple but elegant.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell them that,’ I said dryly.
My mother, who had been listening to our banter with a smile, broke in at that point. ‘Good morning, my little Natashka. I am so glad to hear your voice.’
‘Oh, and I yours, Mama! Have you recovered from your cold?’
‘Yes, I am much better, thank you. Now, more importantly, how are you?’
‘I’m fine. But I’m sorry I haven’t written you a letter yet. I haven’t had time; I’ve been so busy working for the gentleman kaldir, that is, Professor . . . I improvised wildly, ‘Professor Ivan Feyovin.’
‘Feyovin,’ said my mother, sounding puzzled. ‘I have not heard that name before in these parts.’
‘No, he is only lately come to our region. He is from the – from the east, and has come here for his health, because the climate in the east did not agree with him.’
‘Tell us, Natashka, what’s he like? Is he old and rich?’ asked Liza.
‘Or young and handsome?’ added Anya.
Scarlet in the Snow Page 7