The Sparrow in Hiding

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  With his cursed eyes, he could see it in Irina, the unmoving nature of a tree. The leaves would sway and rattle with the breeze, but the tree of her spirit wouldn’t break. It was more like a willow or birch, bending and bending. His cursed eyes showed him the nature of all people, the way an animal saw them. What a person truly was. What lay in their souls. He saw Illarion as a tree as well, but more like an oak. Obdurate. Slow to change.

  Shaking his head at that fancy, Evgeny dragged the bag of seed over, made sure it was closed, and then hoisted it onto the tabletop to pour into a bucket. He managed that by pressing the bucket against the table’s leg with one thigh and tipping the bag’s mouth into it; a few months of practice had granted him the ability to do so without spilling seed all over the floor. Once done, he set the bucket aside, closed up the bag, and carried the bucket out to the main room of the aviary. The birds chattered around him, gathering at the first brass bowl he’d set near one of the orange trees. He whistled for them to wait, but they followed him from bowl to bowl, chastising him for his slowness. Handling the bucket one-handed had to be done carefully.

  This wasn’t work his father would find acceptable, if he were to learn of it. It was a living, though, and let Evgeny work with birds, whose motives and actions he trusted. He understood what the birds wanted of him. Illarion had given him this job not so much out of pity, but because he was suited for it—although Evgeny suspected charity did play a part in it.

  And it kept him hidden from the world.

  The Razumov family only came to the dacha in the summer. For the rest of the year, the gardens and forest, the meadows where deer lived unmolested, the farm—it all remained pristine, cared for by an army of peasant farm workers who relied on the family for their pay, yet rarely saw them. And while the folk in the village might speculate about Evgeny, he rarely spoke with any of them, other than old widow Ivanova who supplied his meals and the smith’s son who helped him with tasks his single hand couldn’t manage. It was peaceful here in his aviary.

  A wayward pricking of his thumb told him it wouldn’t stay that way.

  

  That evening before dressing for dinner, Irina passed the office and caught a glimpse of her brother’s secretary, Kolya, organizing papers at the desk. She paused . . . and then went back.

  Nikolay Markovich Morozov was a fine-looking man. His straight brown hair swept across a wide forehead, shadowing vivid green eyes that sometimes held laughter, but more often cynicism. Light streamed in through a west-facing window, casting a glow across his rugged features, yet no shadow on the floor. On the expensive carpet Irina saw the shadow of the table, the shadow of the lamp, but nothing more.

  She’d never asked him why, for fear that the answer might displease her.

  After her husband’s death, they had been lovers for a short time, only a week. It hadn’t been a grand passion on Kolya’s part; she’d always known Kolya had already given away his heart. Not that Kolya didn’t care for her, but he’d suggested the affair primarily to demonstrate that not every man was violent. Her father would be mortally affronted if he ever found out, but Irina had no doubt her brother knew. Illarion might even have suggested it to Kolya.

  And while, for some, that history would create a terrible awkwardness, Irina trusted Kolya. After all, she’d known him most of her life.

  Raised on a neighboring estate, Kolya and Illarion had been fast friends since childhood. Kolya’s grandfather had been a serf alongside their grandfather. But while their master, Lysov, had allowed Irina’s ancestor to purchase his freedom, Lysov’s son refused to let Kolya’s family buy theirs. Kolya still belonged to Lysov—a situation they’d all come to hate.

  When Kolya was only eight, a fever had taken the lives of his parents and siblings. Irina’s parents had taken in Illarion’s orphaned playmate. He’d learned to read alongside Illarion, yet he wasn’t sent to school in Moscow when Illarion went; serfs weren’t permitted there, no matter how clever. So Kolya taught himself to be a gentleman: how to speak, how to behave, and how to observe others discreetly.

  During those long years of Illarion’s absence, she and Kolya had become close friends. He’d shared Irina’s lessons at the piano, and proved to have a natural talent for it that she utterly lacked. He was the most ingenious man she’d ever met and always seemed to have the right answer.

  When she stepped inside the office, he looked up at her. “Yes, Irinka?”

  He always addressed her as Irinka, just as he called her brother Ilari, a sign of his familiarity with both of them. And while she always thought of her brother as Illarion, in her mind she called Nikolay by his diminutive. She simply knew Kolya better than she knew her own twin. “Kolya, has my brother mentioned to you the man who lives in the aviary?”

  A teasing smile spread across his face, as if he held all the secrets of the world. “Evgeny Petrovich? Yes, he’s someone Ilari knew from that school in Moscow.”

  Ah. Evgeny had said he’d mostly been schooled at home, but he might also have been sent to a school at some point. It took money to get into the schools Illarion had attended, so his family must not be poor. “Why is he working in the aviary?”

  Kolya sat down on the edge of the desk, bringing his eyes level with hers. He knew she disliked him looming over her like a tree; he was taller than Illarion by half a hand, and Irina wasn’t even as tall as her twin. “Are you, by any chance, taken with him?” he asked.

  Irina felt a flush warming her cheeks. “Honestly, Kolya, I’ve just met the man.”

  Kolya smiled his secretive smile. “And you’re already prying about him. Unfortunately, I have little to tell you. Ilari wouldn’t tell me who he is. Only that Evgeny has separated himself from his family—some sort of nasty disagreement—so the man has no money. With one arm and no name, he can’t find much work. Last December, Ilari found him half-starved on the street in St. Petersburg and suggested he come here. I don’t know why the aviary, specifically, but Ilari seemed to think that would suit him best. I gave the man the funds to get set up, for new clothes and such, and he’s been here since.”

  There didn’t seem to be any disapproval in Kolya’s tone, so he must not resent the arrival of this Evgeny in the household. “And you don’t know any more than that? What kind of family he comes from or where they lived?”

  “I fear not.” Kolya began idly dunking the pen’s nib into the inkwell, a hint that he wanted to get back to his work. “So are you taken with him?”

  Irina knew better than to believe Kolya’s blasé tone. She’d piqued his curiosity by asking about Evgeny, and his protective nature wouldn’t allow him to let her go her own way. “I haven’t given it a moment’s thought,” she lied. “I’ll let you get back to your work, Kolya.”

  He inclined his head. “Good day, Irinka.”

  She walked slowly to her bedroom to change for dinner, trying to decide whether she was taken with Evgeny Vorobyov. Evgeny was damnably attractive, despite the missing arm and oddly colored eyes. And he seemed kind to the birds under his care. They certainly didn’t fear him.

  Of course, Kolya wasn’t implying anything more than a flirtation with the man. It would be silly to think of pursuing anything more with a laborer for the dacha, although . . .

  Who was Evgeny Vorobyov?

  Irina would love to figure that out.

  

  Dinner proceeded without any mention of the aviary and its inhabitant. Irina didn’t want to broach the topic in front of her father. He seemed fixed on marrying her to a duke or a prince this time, despite the family’s lacking social status . . . and the rumors. Her father liked to pretend that the gossip Sergei had started about her carried no weight in society. Irina hated to disappoint him, the main reason she allowed herself to be dragged to St. Petersburg year after year.

  Father and Illarion were both distracted tonight. Given the tension between them, Irina suspected there had been yet another angry discussion about Illarion finding a wife. Or rather, his ref
usal to do so.

  Kolya joined them at dinner—he often did when they were not in the city—so the conversation was livelier than usual. And afterwards they retreated to the blue salon and listened to Illarion play the violin while Kolya accompanied him on the piano. Father smoked in the corner, still sulking. There was no mention of her mother, who stood out in the darkness waiting.

  Is she waiting for Father to come to her? Surely one day he would.

  It was a quiet night, their normal pattern for the summers coming back to them, as comfortable as an old pair of felt slippers. Having neither a talent for needlework nor music, Irina refined her sketch of the bird and went to her bed early, her mind still pondering the sparrow in the aviary.

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  “IT’S VERY GOOD,” Evgeny Vorobyov said softly.

  How long he’d been standing behind her, Irina didn’t know. She’d slowly become aware of his presence as she finished working on the bird’s eye, the delicate texture of the skin about it, the tiny feathers there.

  The starling lifted its head at the sound of Evgeny’s voice as if waiting for a command.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. For the last few days she’d been aware of Evgeny’s presence in the aviary when she came there to sketch. He’d been as invisible as a footman, though. She was pleased to finally have the chance to speak to him. “I have a cousin who’s a writer,” she added. “He suggested I take them to his publisher to see if they would print them, but I can’t imagine anyone who would want to see an entire book of pictures of birds.”

  “I would,” he said. “But I prefer birds to humans most of the time.”

  She glanced up at him, noting the thin ring of gray about the iris of his dark eyes—just like the eye of the starling she’d drawn. Perhaps his name should be Skvoréc—starling—instead. She blew charcoal dust off the paper. “I agree,” she said. “Birds aren’t mean.”

  He chuckled, a dimple appearing in his cheek, not hidden by his neat beard. “Well, some of us are, but it’s simply the way of things. Not maliciousness.”

  Irina blinked. Did he just refer to himself as a bird? Because his name was Sparrow? No, she must have misunderstood. “Yes. Not malicious, as humans so often are.” Her tone had been acid on those last words, and she sighed. “I’m very fortunate in my family. They are kindness itself.”

  “Yes,” he said, “not all families are kind.”

  There was sadness in his voice now. Kolya had mentioned an estrangement that had sent Evgeny to the streets of St. Petersburg. “Do you have a family?”

  “Not any longer,” he said softly. “No, that’s not true. I have a brother and a sister, although they are not . . . near.”

  Ah yes, that hint of an eastern accent. “But your parents are dead?”

  His fine lips pursed and his dark eyes turned toward the floor’s mosaic swirls. He made the sign of the cross. “My mother is dead.”

  And apparently his father wasn’t worth mentioning. “I am sorry,” she told him. “My mother. . . .”

  She closed her mouth tightly. She couldn’t tell him. He would think her insane.

  “She turned into a tree,” he said. “So I’ve heard.”

  And from his tone, she knew he believed. Irina raised her eyes to Evgeny’s, wondering what secrets those dark, dark eyes hid. Only superstitious old women believed in the old ways: that the leshies still guarded the forests, the rusalki haunted the lakes, and the domovye dwelled in every house. But Irina believed those things. Evgeny must as well.

  “Yes,” she whispered. It is lovely to speak the truth. “Yes, she did, although my brother and father will deny that.”

  “Not everyone wants their true nature exposed, especially when society can be so harsh.” He absently touched the empty sleeve with his hand as he said that.

  “How did you lose your arm?” she asked, and then flushed. It was a terribly rude question, one she shouldn’t ask a man she’d just met.

  His jaw clenched and his eyes lowered. “My father had it amputated.”

  The way he said it, she knew right away—it hadn’t been done to save his life. Not as had so often been done after battle to stave off death. “Why?” she whispered, one hand going to her throat.

  “My appearance offended him,” Evgeny said harshly.

  How could his appearance offend his father so much that the man had his son’s arm removed? “How old were you?”

  “Twenty-two.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

  Then it hadn’t been something he’d had from birth, not a withered arm or misshapen fingers. If he was Illarion’s age—they must be close in age if they’d been at school together—it must have happened right before the Patriotic War, which meant he wouldn’t have been allowed to fight for his country as Illarion and Kolya had done.

  Irina had a distinct feeling that Evgeny rarely talked about his arm though, so as a reward for being honest with her, she told him the truth. “The big bay laurel tree?” she asked. “Do you know it?”

  “Yes.” Evgeny leaned against the giant planter that held an orange tree, easier now that they spoke of something other than his arm. “The one where the path ends.”

  “That’s her. She left us when we were eight, Illarion and I.” She shifted on the seat so that she didn’t have to twist to look up at him. “We don’t know why.”

  A goldfinch hopped along the edge of the planter until it stood next to his hand. Evgeny absently stroked its chest with one knuckle. “That seems cruel.”

  “That’s what Illarion says, but I don’t think so. She was a tree to begin with, why should she not be a tree again? I was angry when I was a child, but there have been times that I wished I could do the same.” If she could have escaped Sergei that way, she would have. She would rather spend the rest of her life trapped in a forest than live with Sergei’s hard fists and his anger.

  “Why?” Evgeny asked.

  Painful memories chased themselves around in her mind before she decided on an answer. “My husband beat me. It happens. When my brother insisted I separate from him, Sergei spread vicious rumors about me, saying I had taken several of his serfs as lovers. They even testified before a priest, every word of it untrue, but they had little choice.” She sighed. Why was she telling him this? He’d likely heard about the scandal that followed her. If he hadn’t yet, someone in the village would surely tell him soon. So she told him the worst, wanting him to hear her side before someone told him Sergei’s version. “Sergei went as far as to claim that Illarion and I were lovers. I’ve been shunned ever since. When Sergei died four years ago in battle, it was a relief. Borodino was a good day for me.”

  Evgeny’s lips tightened. “Four of my brothers died at Borodino, at the Raevsky Redoubt.”

  Irina flinched and hurriedly gathered her charcoal pencils. How could she have said such a thoughtless thing? “I am so sorry,” she whispered, aghast. “I didn’t know.”

  The battle with the invading French had been a pivotal one, but there had been countless losses. Evgeny’s brothers would have been with Raevsky’s infantry in the fortifications near the very heart of the battle.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated dully.

  “Irina Alexeievna.” The Sparrow laid his hand on her shoulder.

  Irina stilled, her stomach nearly as twisted as when sharp-nosed Oksana Godunova had called her a whore to her face back in the Summer Garden in St. Petersburg. She pressed one hand to her belly, willing herself not to cry, and turned to look him in the eye.

  Evgeny gave her a kind smile. “I am glad something good came of that day.”

  The tightness in her stomach eased. “Were you . . . were you close to your brothers?”

  “Yes, we were,” he said, “although things changed after . . .”

  Irina straightened, watching his mobile features as he sought the proper words. “After you lost your arm?”

  “Yes,” he said with a tight nod.

&nbs
p; Most of her friends had abandoned her after Sergei’s accusations. If Illarion hadn’t stood by her, she didn’t know what she would have done. And she’d only had her reputation cut away. What must it have been like to lose an arm? “Did it happen before the war?”

  “Not long before,” he said. “Yes.”

  And his brothers had gone off to war and never returned. “Did your family live in Moscow?”

  “No,” he said. “Outside Nizhny.”

  Ah, her guess about his accent had been right. He leaned back against the planter again. Evidently her gaffe had been forgiven, and Irina felt her tension slip away. She laid down her tin of pencils, but didn’t get to ask another question before the door to the aviary opened.

  A veiled woman stepped lightly inside while Kolya held the door for her. Her petite frame was wrapped in a fine dress of embroidered silk that made Irina regret her choice of plain muslin. The woman raised her veil, revealing eyes of cornflower blue set in a face with the whiteness and perfection of a carved doll. Golden curls cascaded over her slender shoulders. She raised her eyes to survey the room, but never noticed Irina there at all. The woman only had eyes for Irina’s companion. “Evgeny,” she said in a light and musical voice. “I am so glad to see you.”

  Evgeny left Irina’s side and went to take the woman’s kid-gloved hands in his single one. “What is wrong?” he asked her in an urgent tone. “Why have you come here?”

  The woman cast a look back at Kolya standing behind her, clearly reminding Evgeny that they weren’t alone.

  A flush creeping up her cheeks, Irina pushed herself off the bench and crossed to the door. She gave the pair a scant nod as she passed and grabbed Kolya’s hand to drag him away. Once the aviary door closed behind them, she let him go. Her chest felt tight, and the back of her throat ached. “I have the feeling we weren’t wanted.”