The Sparrow in Hiding

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  Irina laid her hands gently against his cheeks. She wasn’t certain if he meant to France . . . or to his bed. Either way, she knew it for what it was. Kolya was simply upset right now. He couldn’t watch over Illarion, so he wanted her. “If you were a free man, Kolya, would you choose me?”

  He touched his forehead to hers. “You know the answer.”

  She’d always been second in Kolya’s heart. “Go on, dearest. Your head will be better in the morning.”

  He turned and walked away, leaving her alone in his office.

  She turned about in the office, trying to sort her troubled thoughts. Her eyes fell then on Kolya’s desk, on that locked drawer. The evening light slanted in through the window, a beam falling on the brass keyhole. Would the letter that Kolya had locked inside tell her why Illarion had taken Evgeny to St. Petersburg with him?

  Were there spare keys? Would the butler have a copy?

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. She might as well just force the drawer open. Even if she managed to find a key, Kolya would know. He always knew.

  If she broke into that drawer, though, Kolya would believe she didn’t trust his judgment.

  She was simply itching with curiosity and worry.

  She stepped away from the desk. It did matter who Evgeny was, but mostly because Evgeny’s past, including his family, shaped who and what he was now. Even so, she would be better served in hearing it from his own lips, should Evgeny ever wish to tell her.

  Irina left the office, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  She walked the hallways to her own room, troubled by the silence in the house, everything stilled as if waiting for their little world to come apart. When she reached her dressing room, Varvara helped her out of her dinner gown, and Irina sat down at the vanity table so the old woman could brush out her hair.

  The white feather was where she’d left it. Irina picked it up and gazed at it, wondering how it fit into the puzzle. The white feather seemed pure, simple. She still didn’t know why it had been on Evgeny’s bed.

  The black of the onyx ring on her finger seemed stark juxtaposed against the downy feather. Her father had given it to her on her twelfth birthday, and called her his budding princess. Sergei hadn’t wanted her to wear it, saying it was common, yet the many jewels Sergei had bestowed on her had no such tenderness attached to them.

  She looked into the mirror, catching Varvara’s eye. “Can you bring me my jewel chest from the safe?”

  “Now?” Varvara asked peevishly.

  Irina understood that. The safe was in the basement, and that meant a lot of stairs for an elderly woman to climb. “Ask one of the footmen to carry it up here. I’d like to look at them.”

  Varvara set down the brush and twisted Irina’s dark hair once before laying it over her shoulder. Then she bustled out to fetch the chest of jewels. Irina braided her hair and donned a robe while she waited, and stayed in the dressing room while the footman brought in the chest. Once he’d set it on its feet and left, Varvara unlocked the tall chest, and Irina knelt before it.

  The first tray held the yellow diamond parure—necklace, brooch, earrings, and a bracelet—many carats of matched stones set in gold. Other trays held bracelets and tiaras, necklaces and earbobs, gems and pearls.

  She hadn’t worn a single one since leaving Sergei. Each one had come after a beating, each bought with pain and humiliation. She picked up the yellow diamond necklace, feeling the hard, cold stones slip between her fingers. Sergei hadn’t put much thought into his choices, just money. It didn’t even suit her. It would look better on a blonde. They were expensive, but worth nothing to her.

  This was the sort of bauble for which Evgeny’s future had been traded. For which he’d lost an arm. For which his elder brother had died.

  Irina pulled out the velvet-lined trays to view one parure after another, a plan forming in her mind.

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  THE VALET PRIMPED a moment longer over Evgeny’s neckcloth, tweaking the pristine white folds so that they lay in some arcane pattern. Evgeny gazed at himself in the mirror over the man’s head. Dressed in a robin’s-egg blue tailcoat with buff breeches, he looked like a version of himself from a distant and forgotten past. He was clean-shaven for the first time in almost two years, which left his chin paler than his cheekbones, but powder covered that well enough. The calluses on his hand were hidden by a kid glove. His left sleeve was neatly folded up and pinned with a gold pin.

  “You could pass for a prince.” Illarion sat on a low couch near the window, only the tight line of his lips betraying his anxiety.

  Evgeny gazed at his dark eyes in the mirror, those eyes that didn’t belong in his face. “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

  Illarion had always had this in mind, Evgeny suspected. He would approach Lysov as a man wanting to purchase Nikolay Morozov merely to spite Illarion.

  “Do you understand what to say to him?”

  If he were to carry this off, he had to carry himself like a prince—a wealthy one who considered purchasing a serf little different than purchasing a new coat or a team of mules. He cast a glance at Illarion over his shoulder in a manner meant to convey disdain. “Of course I understand.”

  Illarion returned the look with raised brows. “He’s very superstitious. He’s likely to ask rude questions about your curse.”

  Evgeny could use that to his advantage. He’d had four years of observing people as they flinched away from him. And he’d seen enough high-handed behavior from the young nobles at their school that he could easily imitate that. “I can do this, Illarion.”

  “I’m counting on that,” Illarion said.

  

  The driver returned to the dacha that morning without Illarion or Evgeny. When asked, he claimed that Illarion had hired a carriage for their stay in the city. Irina found that odd, but it must be a part of her twin’s secret plan. After a bit of haggling, she convinced the driver to allow her to carry the mail from the city on into the house for the butler to sort out. Illarion hadn’t included a note for her, but there was a letter for Kolya. Hoping that might cheer him, she carried it up to his office.

  He looked exhausted, his eyes still stained red. He probably hadn’t slept at all. He sat behind his desk listlessly, not even bothering to rise when she slipped into the room.

  “How are you faring?” she asked.

  “Sick with worry,” he admitted.

  She sat on the sofa they’d shared the night before, determined to ask her questions, no matter how fearsome the answer. “Is the other Nikolay dead? The one I knew first?”

  Kolya’s bright green eyes—the eyes of a leshy—lifted to meet hers. “He was dying when I found him in the woods. I breathed myself into him, and he is in me.”

  Irina swallowed, unsure what that meant. “Because you needed to be human to protect us. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” Kolya said softly.

  “Did you understand he was a serf when you chose his form?”

  Kolya shook his head. “I did not understand what property was. I did not understand what it meant to be human. Too many things for me to grasp.”

  “But you’re human now,” she whispered.

  “Until I die,” Kolya said.

  Die? Are leshies not immortal? “Can you not go back?”

  “No.”

  She sat in silence with him a moment longer, contemplating what he’d given up to keep them safe, to keep his promise to their mother. “Did you understand what love was?”

  He chuckled and then pinched the bridge of his nose as if his head ached from the previous night’s drinking. “I loved the trees. I loved the animals. I loved the whispering winds of spring and the calm silence of winter. None of that is the same as human love.”

  Poor Kolya. She rose, crossed the room, and kissed his cheeks. “Have faith. Between them they will surely find a way. Illarion has a plan or he would not have needed Evgeny.”

  “You have such
faith in your Evgeny?” he asked. “I wondered last night if you would have come with me if you weren’t interested in him.”

  Had Kolya been testing her? Irina moistened her lips with her tongue. “I want a man who puts me first,” she said. “No matter how much you love me and want to protect me, I will never rule your heart.”

  “You understand that if he does anything to hurt you, Irinka, I will kill him.”

  It was an exaggeration, but only a slight one. Or, given what he was, perhaps it wasn’t. “I know, Kolya.”

  

  Lysov’s home lay outside St. Petersburg. When Evgeny descended from the carriage he stopped to admire the elegant mansion constructed in a neoclassical style. That told him it was newer, certainly not the family’s home in the days when Illarion’s grandfather had been their serf. Promptly at noon, Evgeny strode up the stone walk to the door of the house and rapped on it with his silver-headed cane.

  The butler eyed Evgeny’s fine clothes and allowed him in, relieving him of his hat and cane before directing him into a sitting room, finely decorated in greens and golds. He surveyed the room with its delicate upholstered chairs—surely French—and Aubusson carpet.

  A gilded birdcage hung from a stand in the corner, two nightingales within. Drawn to that corner of the room, Evgeny whistled softly to warn them as he approached. They hopped along their perch to get closer to him as he peered down at them. Their feathers lacked luster and their food was wrong, a bowl of seeds. Nor was their space adequate for the duo to spread their wings. Evgeny whistled at them to see if they would respond. One gave off a series of trills, but fell silent when the other croaked out a warning.

  Evgeny turned to see a man standing at the threshold of the room. Lysov was younger than he expected. The man was probably Irina’s height and dressed like he was preparing for a court visit. His cuffs dripped with lace. Under a bottle-green tailcoat, he wore an ivory waistcoat heavily embroidered with gold thread, an ensemble far too fine for day wear. Well, unless one is a prince. Evgeny gave the man a half bow. “You received my card?”

  Lysov bowed low, his flourishing hand nearly scraping the ground. “Yes, Your Illustrious Highness. How may the house of Lysov serve you today?”

  “You may address me as Prince, to begin,” Evgeny said.

  “Yes, Prince Dragomirov.” Lysov flourished his hand again.

  “I wish to discuss with you a matter of property. There is something you own that I can use to my advantage.”

  Lysov stepped into the room. “Whatever can you mean, Prince? Are you seeking a new home? If so, I would be happy to discuss the value of this house and its lands and souls.”

  Souls. He meant his serfs.

  If the man was willing to sell his home and all properties, serfs included, that meant he was in financial distress. Perhaps the man had a jewel-loving wife somewhere in this mansion. But surely that changed the complexion of the problem. The man probably needed money more than he needed the favor of a prince. It was possible that Lysov had requested Morozov’s return solely to provoke Illarion to purchase him. “Unfortunately, I am not yet in control of my family’s funds. If only I were, I might be interested. But my father still holds my reins . . . to some extent.”

  Lysov looked crestfallen. That confirmed Evgeny’s suspicions about the man’s finances.

  “I am, however,” Evgeny tried, “interested in acquiring one soul. And those birds,” he added, with a nod of his head toward the golden cage. He whistled at the birds, and they both trilled in return.

  Lysov paled. His eyes flicked from the cage to Evgeny’s black eyes.

  “In fact, I insist on having the birds,” Evgeny added.

  Lysov’s eyes nervously dropped to the floor.

  And while the man was studying his French carpet, Evgeny allowed himself a small smile. Yes, he knew exactly how to play this hand now. “I believe you have heard that I am cursed.”

  

  Irina unlocked the jewel chest and took out the first tray. She left the yellow diamond necklace there, but took the other pieces and slid them into a canvas bag she’d borrowed from the cook. Then she lifted out each tray in succession, letting the earrings and bracelets, necklaces and brooches all fall into the bag.

  They were hers to do with as she pleased. If Illarion could come up with a plan to save Kolya, she could find a way to keep Evgeny safe.

  

  That very afternoon Illarion filed a letter of emancipation with the Provincial Chamber of Justice and Punishment, almost before the ink on the bill of sale from Lysov was dry. Nikolay Morozov was now a free man, although he didn’t know it yet. Once that was done, Illarion insisted on starting back to the dacha, even knowing they would travel past nightfall. Evgeny didn’t argue, wanting to return there for reasons of his own. The driver of the rented carriage wasn’t pleased, but kopecks worked their usual magic.

  “What are you planning on doing with them?” Illarion asked as they left St. Petersburg behind.

  Evgeny smiled ruefully at the nightingale perched on his hand. The poor creature had been in a cage so long that she could barely flap her wings. “I’d like to keep them in the aviary, if you don’t mind. They’re not fit enough to fly free, but they’d be safe there. Rather like me.”

  Illarion snorted. “You’re hardly a caged bird, Evgeny.”

  “Am I not?” He lifted his hand to let the bird join her companion on his shoulder. The two birds perched there, their trust in him reassuring. “I am safer in a cage, and it is all that stands between me and my father’s wife.”

  “I am aware that word of your appearance in St. Petersburg might get back to your father,” Illarion said. “I’ve planned for that eventuality. I can smuggle you to Finland, and quickly if needed.”

  “No.” He’d made a promise not to flee. “I believe I made Lysov afraid enough of me that he won’t dare speak my name.”

  Illarion’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say to him? I expected you would have to pay far more than that.”

  Illarion had been in such a rush to file the emancipation letter for Nikolay Morozov that he hadn’t stopped to ask questions before leaving.

  Evgeny inclined his head. “After only a few minutes of talking with Lysov, I realized you were right. He is terribly superstitious. I made certain he got a good look at my eyes, and hinted that my curse could be passed on to others if I didn’t get my way.”

  Illarion’s brows drew together. “Does he even know what your curse was?”

  “I suspect he has a vague memory of reading my name in the newspapers long ago. The black eyes do turn out to be useful at times, even if they aren’t mine.”

  Illarion regarded him thoughtfully. “Then I will hope Lysov is cowed enough not to gossip. It wouldn’t take too much work for your family to figure out where you are.”

  “Lizaveta came to the dacha. Someone could have trailed her, so there’s no guarantee of safety.”

  “There never is where witches are concerned. But with your brother dead and your sister gone, there is no other to stand between her and your father.”

  He’d told Illarion about Grigori’s death—and Lizaveta’s flight with her family to the west—the evening before over a late supper. Illarion had apologized for dragging him to the city when he should be mourning, but Evgeny had welcomed the diversion from his own thoughts. He hadn’t thought of that new wrinkle, though—that now he would be the witch’s sole target. One of the birds shifted on Evgeny’s shoulder, tiny talons digging through his work tunic. “True.”

  “We will pray that she doesn’t learn where you are,” Illarion said, “but we will protect you if she does. Today’s work has filled me with hope. You have my thanks.”

  “It was no more than I promised to you last winter,” Evgeny pointed out.

  “The situation has changed, making it a greater risk for you. So what would you ask as a reward?”

  Illarion had fed and housed him for months, given him work when no one would hire
him. And he had paid for the freedom of the two nightingales on Evgeny’s shoulder. He didn’t have any business asking for more. But he had one thing to ask which was not about money. “I wondered, Illarion, how you would feel about my courting your sister. I admire her a great deal. I don’t know if she intends to remarry, though, as I’ve heard her first husband was . . . unkind.”

  Illarion gazed at him gravely. “Are you asking my permission?”

  There was no guarantee he would ever inherit anything from his family, even with all his brothers gone. And what manner of life could he provide for her? He might be living off her brother’s largesse for the rest of his life, a situation that didn’t please him. He was willing to work, but there simply wasn’t much he was qualified to do. “I have nothing to offer a wife save my assumed name.”

  “Money is not an issue,” Illarion said. “Her dowry includes the Summer Cottage and the aviary, and there’s a bit of money, but she also has a fortune in jewels that came from her husband. The true problem would be getting past Kolya Morozov. I’m not convinced he won’t ask her to marry him as soon as he’s freed.”

  Evgeny chewed at the inside of his cheek. Yes, he’d noted the easy companionship between Irina and Morozov. Had they been lovers? Were they still? He’d thought he understood Morozov’s place with the Razumov family, but he wasn’t as sure now. What surprised him most, though, was that Illarion was unsure. “Does Morozov love her?”

  “Yes,” Illarion said without hesitation.

  “Then if she chooses him,” Evgeny said, “I can only wish them happiness.”

  Illarion sighed, his gaze turning toward the darkness outside the coach’s windows.

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  WHEN IRINA ROSE in the morning, Varvara nattered on about Illarion arriving home in the middle of the night. The old woman had been woken by his late arrival and was consequentially irritable. “But did he bring Evgeny Vorobyov back with him?” Irina finally managed to ask.

  “The laborer?” Varvara yanked at the hairbrush, making Irina cringe. “How should I know?”