The Midnight Land: Part Two: The Gift (The Zemnian Trilogy Book 2)

by E. P. Clark

  Serafimiya’s face cleared slightly as she contemplated the wonderfulness of Valery’s frank and open character, and the fact that Slava had recognized and appreciated it.

  “But do you think he really has gone off to pray, then?” she asked, once she had contemplated the wonderfulness of his frank and open character as much as—well, not as much as it deserved, but as much as she could find the time for when there were other, and sadly, even more pressing matters to discuss. “And why? Why would he do something like that?”

  “Perhaps he has serious matters weighing on his conscience,” said Slava, but, seeing Serafimiya’s face screwing up into a pout, realized she had made a mistake and added hastily, “That is, he faces many new and unaccustomed duties, now that he is your husband. They say that sometimes facing these duties can be hard for new husbands. Perhaps he has gone to pray for the strength he needs.”

  “Yes, but…” Serafimiya clearly wanted to object to that, but couldn’t think how.

  “Think, Serafimiya!” said Slava, before Serafimiya could come up with anything to say in reply. “Just last night you were telling me of your unhappiness, all the troubles you have had with him! I know that you want him to be a man worth loving, and that is a great matter. Many husbands stumble and fall under that burden, for being a man worth loving is very hard for them. Valery Annovich is too clever not to notice such things—not to notice how unhappy you are, and how heavily sorrow and care are weighing upon you. And surely he could not help but wish to remove some of that burden from you. Perhaps he has gone to pray for the strength to do that!”

  “Perhaps…” said Serafimiya hesitantly, but then, before that happy thought could take root in her head, another, less happy one crowded it out and she said accusingly, “You spoke with him! You went to him last night and spoke to him! That’s where you went after you spoke with me!”

  “Yes,” Slava acknowledged.

  “And…And…And you think he listened to you?”

  “It seems possible, if he has truly gone off to a sanctuary to pray,” said Slava.

  “But…but…why didn’t he…”—Serafimiya gave Slava a long look of suspicion and jealousy—“why didn’t he speak to me, then? And how did you persuade him so easily? What power do you have over him that I do not?”

  “I am the Tsarinovna,” Slava told her with a smile.

  “And you ordered him to go away? To leave me?”

  “No, not at all. I merely represented to him how…what an unhappy situation you both had fallen into. The going away was entirely his own decision, and a very wise one, too, I think.” Much wiser than I was expecting, Slava added to herself. Perhaps there was more to Valery Annovich than good looks and thoughtlessness. Perhaps there was hope for him—and Serafimiya—yet. Although, to be honest, Slava was not entirely certain how beneficial the atmosphere of a men’s sanctuary would be for him. It was entirely possible that the other brothers would fill Valery Annovich’s head with ridiculous notions and talk him right out of his marital responsibilities…which would at least mean he would be out of Serafimiya’s hair. And it was always possible that, cut off from the life of idle pleasures he had been leading in the kremlin, he might inadvertently stumble into some serious contemplation and prayer while he was there. Stranger things had happened. If nothing else, they were said to work the new brothers very hard at the sanctuaries. The picture of Valery Annovich cleaning stables and scrubbing floors, tears dripping down his cheeks and mixing with the washwater slopping around his sore knees, brought a lot more pleasure to Slava’s inner eye than she felt entirely comfortable with…Probably it was wrong to picture another woman’s husband in such a way…

  “What if they overwork him?” Serafimiya wailed, breaking up Slava’s happy, if indecent, fantasy of Valery Annovich dressed in rags and crawling on his hands and knees in the dirt. “He’s so delicate!”

  “I’m sure they will give him the gentle treatment that befits his station,” Slava told her soothingly. She reached over to pat Serafimiya’s shoulder comfortingly, but Serafimiya cringed away from her touch. No doubt, Slava thought, she was still covered in bruises from Valery Annovich’s delicate hands.

  “It is all for the best,” she said, as encouragingly as possible. “Valery Annovich has made a very wise decision.”

  Serafimiya, however, did not see it that way at all, and it took Slava some time to convince her that it was all to the best, that Valery would most likely come back to her in good time and in much better spirits than he had been in since they had both come to Krasnograd, and that she, Slava, had no dark designs on him for herself. Slava found Serafimiya’s jealous accusations to be the most painful part of the interview, as she couldn’t decide whether to be mortally offended or to burst out laughing, but had to suppress both inclinations as being entirely unsuitable to Serafimiya’s present delicate mental condition.

  Eventually, though, she brought Serafimiya into a calm enough frame of mind that she was at least able to pretend to see sense, and they parted almost amicably, although Slava suspected that it would be a long time before the jealousy that had most unfoundedly been awakened in Serafimiya’s heart would die down enough for them to be the kind of friends that, until this morning, Serafimiya had seemed so anxious for them to be.

  Slava had just shephered Serafimiya out the door and was listening to Masha and Manya discuss what gown she should wear that day, when she received another message that “the singer” had answered her summons and was awaiting her pleasure in the corridor.

  “Send her in,” Slava ordered.

  Masha and Manya protested that she wasn’t dressed yet, but Slava, knowing that once they started dressing her, they would be at it for a very long time, said that her dressing gown was certainly fine enough for Lyudmila Krasnoslavovna, and she didn’t want to keep her waiting in the corridor any longer than she had to.

  “Oh, she won’t mind, Tsarinovna, it will be an honor for her,” Masha assured her.

  “But I will mind,” said Slava. “Send her in.”

  Masha, Manya, and the message-girl all gave her uncertain looks, but, remembering how she had saved them the night before, Masha decided to stop protesting and let Lyudmila Krasnoslavovna into the sitting room.

  Lyudmila Krasnoslavovna came in boldly enough, but lost most of her boldness as soon as she crossed the threshold and saw how fine Slava’s apartment was. Slava wondered how she would have fared in her sister’s chambers, and was glad at the comparative plainness of her own rooms.

  “Please, Lyudmila Krasnoslavovna, have a seat,” Slava said, sitting down herself.

  Lyudmila bowed and sat down hesitantly, watching Slava all the while. She was, Slava thought, the absolute spitting image of Oleg, even more like him than Olga was, and it was strange and wonderful to see those features on a girl who had not yet reached her twentieth summer. This morning she had pulled back her flaming red tangle of hair, and all the hollows around her eyes and nose were blue from last night’s exertions, but even that could not dampen the restless energy that rose from her like heat from a stove. It was less focused than the strength that poured out of Olga and Oleg, but Slava could still feel it, and she understood why Andrey Vladislavovich could have fallen so badly in love with her. She was like a smaller, softer version of Olga, but with the charm of a performer, not the charisma of an adventurer. Slava wondered if Andrey Vladislavovich had realized that. Probably not. And of course, he had not had Slava’s advantage of knowing that they were half-sisters. Slava remembered what Mirik had said of the village women’s distaste for a gift from the gods like Lyudmila, and wondered what kind of scorn her own daughter would receive, should she be gifted with Lyudmila’s beauty. It was not impossible…Oleg was fine-looking…and so was Slava’s sister…her daughter could be a great beauty…but none of that mattered a jot to Lyudmila, who was still gazing fearfully up at Slava.

  “I thank you for answering my invitation so promptly, Lyudmila Krasnoslavovna,” said Slava, shaking off her
thoughts.

  “How did you…” said Lyudmila. “I mean, I hope I am not too early. Tsarinovna,” she gulped.

  “Perhaps you do not know this, but we share many connections,” said Slava. “But I know your name because I became acquainted with your brother in my time in the North.”

  “With Mirik? Then he’s well?!” cried Lyudmila. “Tsarinovna,” she added, bowing in her seat.

  “As well as can be expected,” Slava told her. “You know that it is generally assumed amongst your family that you are dead.”

  “Yes…” Lyudmila’s face twisted up. “I was afraid of that…But I was afraid of being followed if they all knew I wasn’t…I guess…I mean, perhaps you heard my story, Tsarinovna?”

  “Yes,” said Slava. “From both sides. Meaning: I heard your brother’s version, and I heard Andrey Vladislavovich’s version. I have not, of course, heard your version yet, but my greatest concern for the moment is to know that you are well. Well and happy. And to assure you that you have nothing more to fear from Andrey Vladislavovich’s side.”

  “Yes…” said Lyudmila, looking down at her feet in embarrassment. “It was all so…I was sorry I ever went to sing for him, but I never thought he would take such a fancy to me…And it just couldn’t be, it couldn’t be, my Misha is the only man for me, I knew it as soon as I laid eyes on him, and there was never any question of…But then my mother became so set on it, and he was so insistent, and the next thing I knew, I had to run off to Krasnogorod. Tsarinovna.”

  “Sometimes these things happen,” said Slava sympathetically. “But I am glad it seems to have worked out so well for you. And you are doing well? There is enough work for you?”

  “Oh yes, Tsarinovna,” said Lyudmila, now starting to smile. “We play almost every night, sometimes at two different places—we are so lucky! We never go hungry. In fact, my Misha likes to joke, the only thing we’re short on is rest. That and…We miss our families, Tsarinovna. And we wish we could tell them about our situation, and have their blessing, so that we could be married properly. Of course, in our hearts we’re married, but in the eyes of the world I’m just a flighty-headed girl and Misha is just another man I’ve stolen away from his mother, and that’s very uncomfortable for both of us. We get so many strange looks, sometimes, and the innkeepers wink at me and laugh so rudely! Tsarinovna.”

  “That must be very uncomfortable,” Slava agreed. “So you do intend to be married?”

  “Oh yes! Tsarinovna.”

  “I am very glad to hear it,” said Slava. “And it is right that you should wish to be reunited with your families. Do you intend to return to the North anytime soon?”

  “Oh…well…we’d like to, but things are going so well for us here in Krasnogorod…”

  “I understand,” Slava told her. “But perhaps you could write to your families? I assure you, there is no danger now in your being discovered. Vasilisa Vasilisovna and Olga Vasilisovna know all, and so you can rest easy on that score.”

  “Oh…I am glad to hear that. Tsarinovna. Is Olga Vasilisovna…She must be terribly angry with me? Tsarinovna.”

  “Not at all,” Slava assured her.

  “Oh, but…But if you say so, of course it must be true, Tsarinovna.”

  “She may even wish to see you herself,” Slava said.

  “Oh! No, that would be very awkward…but of course, if she wishes it, I would not oppose her, Tsarinovna, I certainly wouldn’t dare.” Lyudmila smiled up at Slava in a manner that was intended to be both beseeching and fetching, and Slava was certain that there were few, especially of the male sex, who could have withstood such a look. She was also certain that such a look had rarely, if ever, crossed either Olga or Oleg’s faces. They were much more likely to laugh heartily at anyone who contradicted them, or possibly vanquish them through force. She supposed that Lyudmila had gotten at least some of her winning ways from her mother, which made her wonder what of her would be preserved in her own daughter. Something good, she hoped. She also couldn’t help but remember how Mirik had said that there was something about her that reminded him of Lyudmila, but now that she was looking at her, she saw that there was very little in common between them. Slava was, when it came right down to it, no charmer as Lyudmila was, of that she was certain. It must have been just another of Mirik’s fancies.

  “Olga Vasilisovna bears you no ill will,” Slava told her. “But my most pressing concern of the moment, as I told you, is to ensure that you wanted for nothing, and reassure you that you had nothing to fear on the score of, of anything that had happened in Severnolesnoye. And as I see that you are fairing most prosperously in your chosen trade, and as proof of it that you appear quite tired, I will let you return to your rest, Lyudmila Krasnoslavovna. But please,” said Slava, rising in order to let Lyudmila know that she could get out of her chair too, “if you need anything, send for me immediately, and you may be assured of my assistance.”

  “Th-thank you, Tsarinovna,” stuttered Lyudmila, bowing deeply again.

  “It is very possible that I will call for you again,” Slava told her. “To know that you are continuing to do well, and to have the pleasure of hearing you sing, if you would be willing to oblige me.”

  “Oh! Of course, Tsarinovna, of course! At any time!”

  “Thank you again for your prompt answer to my summons,” said Slava, and let Manya show Lyudmila out the door.

  Now she was finally able to release Masha and Manya from their impatience, and allow them to dress her, as they had been longing to do for at least an hour. As they fussed over her and consulted each other on what would suit her best—they knew better than to consult with Slava on such a subject—Slava thought over whether or not she would see Lyudmila again, and what she would tell her. She wanted to bring together as many of Oleg’s daughters as she could, and make them sisters to each other and most particularly to her own daughter, so that when Darya Krasnoslavovna arrived in the world, should she have the good fortune to be born, she would have a family ready-made, a family more congenial and reliable than the one she would gain from her mother’s side. Slava was afraid that her sister would not make the kind of aunt, and her niece not the kind of second-sister, that she would wish for her daughter to have. And now that she had seen Lyudmila, she began to suspect that she wished to gather as many of Oleg’s daughters as possible in order to have yet another piece of him around her. Slava feared that this was another manifestation of her excessive soft-heartedness, but as she could see no immediate harm from indulging in it, she decided to hold off on giving up on her plan for the time being.

  Thinking of this, a sudden sharp desire for Oleg to be by her side through all her coming ordeals rose up in her. She wondered if she had let him go too easily, if she should have put her foot down when they parted and insisted that he come back to Krasnograd with her and take his place at her side, as was fitting for the father of her child. The others—Gray Wolf, the leshiye, all of those responsible—would have agreed if she had demanded it, she was certain, and Oleg most likely would have agreed as well. In fact, he had half seemed as if he had wanted her to do just that. His refusal of her invitation had been nothing more than a moment of faint-heartedness, or something of that nature, and had he had more time to think it over, he surely would have agreed, Slava told herself. She imagined him trapped with her in the Krasnograd kremlin. Perhaps not, she thought. She imagined him growing ever more miserable and bad-tempered, as Olga had done during their time in Lesnograd. Certainly not, she said to herself. Perhaps Oleg would come, but he would have to come willingly if she was to accept him by her side. Otherwise there was no point, and she would have to learn to do without him, just as she had her entire life. It wasn’t even as if she were so desperately in love with him…That was most surely not the case…Slava sighed and told herself to stop thinking about it. The worst thing she could do would be to fancy herself in love with some vision of him until she truly was, and then suffer dreadful disappointment when he failed to come, or
did come and failed to be what she had fancied him to be…He had seemed so scared and miserable on their parting…

  “Stop!” said Slava out loud.

  “What, Tsarinovna?” cried Manya, jumping in shock at Slava’s sudden outburst.

  “I was thinking of things that are no use thinking of,” said Slava. “I had to tell myself to stop.”

  “Oh.” Manya paused for a moment, and then, in an outpouring of candor, said, half-shyly, half-eagerly, “I do that too sometimes, Tsarinovna. Think about things I shouldn’t, I mean, like Valya from the night shift…Well, it doesn’t matter.” She broke out in what Slava knew had to be a very painful blush.

  “I understand,” said Slava. “That’s why I had to tell myself to stop.”

  “Oh, Tsarinovna…I mean, oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” said Slava. “It’s not worth worrying about. There’s nothing I can do about it anyway.” She found this thought so cheering that she really was able to stop dwelling on her imagined problems, and prepare herself to face whatever real problems were coming her way.

  Slava expected to be summoned to her sister’s side again, probably for more painful attempts on her sister’s part to humiliate and put her down, but by the time Masha and Manya had finally decided that she was fit to go out in public, there was still no message for her, so she went to visit Vladislava instead.

  Unsurprisingly, she found Vladislava wild with impatience to go explore the kremlin and see the rest of Krasnograd, and so, in the absence of any more official duties, Slava spent most of the day giving Vladislava a private tour of the kremlin. She concluded with a promise to take Vladislava around Krasnograd tomorrow, and then to arrange for her to start her lessons the next day. Slava was not sure what Vladislava was imagining her lessons to be like, but for the moment she was extremely keen to start them. Slava only hoped she wouldn’t be too terribly disappointed when they actually began, and resolved once again to make sure that Vladislava had the very best teachers in Krasnograd, as anything less would certainly draw from her nothing but bored contempt and probably outright rebellion.