I was eighteen years old, but in half a second Rhys Adaire made me feel as if I were twelve again. Twelve and alone and feeling like the ugliest thing in the world.
Ms. Melora had found lice in one of the cribs and shaved every child in the place bald.
Liev was the son of our local priest and his wife, Darya. He was two years older and my only friend. But that year he turned sulky and uncommunicative whenever he visited the orphanage with his mother.
He’d hauled in the usual bag of little knitted jackets his mom managed to make for the babies and gave me a curt nod when I’d said hello.
We cleaned cribs in silence for the hour of their visit.
I could feel the heat of my blush in my newly exposed ears and kept my gaze on the task at hand. When he left, there was a lumpy bundle on the floor where he’d been working. I ran after them to return it.
Just before I rounded the corner, I heard him arguing with his mom.
“It smells here and the children are strange.” Liev mumbled.
“But what about your little friend, Faina? You worked so hard making your first pair of reindeer skin valenki for her.”
“She needed boots and I was making valenki. But she’s just a little kid, Mother. Now look, I’m learning my own trade, almost a man. Let me go with Father to visit the trappers. I’m done with this place, with the crying and the lice and Ms. Melora.”
Well, I was done with the place, too. But that didn’t mean I could leave. I slunk back to my bed and opened the lumpy package. A pair of hand-crafted ladies’ valenki. The boots were a little big and had a few awkward lumps. But they were gorgeous to my twelve-year-old eyes. The soft, white reindeer fur was decorated with a circlet of beaded felt. I traced the bright colors and intricate patterns with my finger. These must have taken Liev hours, and now he was done. Done with the orphanage and done with me.
I couldn’t blame him. I’d looked at my reflection in the warped glass of the window and bit my lip until my tears dried. I would wear the boots. They were warm and well made. But I wouldn’t waste another tear on Liev Alkaev. Why should I? He couldn’t even bear for one hour, the place that I must spend my entire childhood.
I had endured the orphanage for six more years and had never said “no” to Ms. Malora in all that time. Oh, I had rocked the babies in secret and danced them across the floor under the stern gaze of a Siberian moon. But that was not the same thing. What would she do, now that I had said “no” to Rhys Adaire?
Ms. Melora didn’t say a word. Not a single sound passed her thin, white lips. Instead, she spun on her heel and left the room while Rhys Adaire sputtered about monetary compensation and fashionably short styles in California.
Then Ms. Melora was back. A tattered bag swung in her left hand and she seized my arm with her right. She yanked me down the hall, whispering into my ear so soft that the American could not imagine the poison that her quiet words contained. “They dragged you here, a frozen little wretch, fallen from the sky. You couldn’t even form the smallest of words you were so stupid. Absolutely useless. But did I throw you in the snow? No, I fed you and taught you to speak right words and put up with your ridiculous delusions. ‘Where is my puppy, Ms. Melora? Isn’t there bubble bath, Ms. Melora? It’s illegal to hit kids, Ms. Melora.’ But did I throw you out in the street?”
“I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I see how annoying that would be.”
She didn’t reply. When we reached the door, she flung it open and the incredible Siberian cold took my breath. “No one says ‘no’ to me.”
“I didn’t. I said no to Rhys Adaire, and the wolves—”
“The man paid me for your time. To say ‘no’ to him is to say ‘no’ to me.” She paused and looked down at me as I shivered in the doorway. “Unless you have changed your mind about your hair and the wolves?”
Something occurred to me. “Will you let me rock the babies, if I will shave my head and film with the wolves?”
“Of course not.” Her glance was colder than the terrible wind that sucked warmth off my skin and sent a bitter ache through my ears and teeth and bones.
“No,” I whispered.
Ms. Melora set the heels of her hands against my shoulders and shoved. I stumbled down the cold gray steps.
I, Faina Smith, had said “no” to Ms. Melora. As the door slammed behind her, I stood in the glow of my accomplishment. I had defied her. I straightened and squared my shoulders. I was wearing a thin, orphanage issue dress, a tattered sweater, and soft felt slippers. It was 40 degrees below zero and the temperature was dropping fast. A storm was rolling in.
This was a grand triumph, one that I would die for.
Ms. Melora had just given me a death sentence, in front of the American, too. I would freeze in ten minutes, fifteen at the very most. But at least the last thing I had said to her was “no.”
It was late afternoon. The village was deserted. Everyone must be at the first Christmas Eve service down at the small chapel. My face was numb and my fingers ached with cold. The muscles in my legs and arms began to cramp, and I hunched my body, trying to conserve as much heat as possible. Violent shivers shook my frame and the wind made my ears ache deep down, as though the very depths of my mind were turning to ice.
The door opened and a pile of moldy furs hit me in the chest. I tried to grab the bundle, but my hands weren’t quite working.
A little boy stood framed in the light of the doorway. “Thank you for dancing with us and playing hide and seek when she was asleep.” He tossed my valenki down the steps and ran.
I didn’t blame him. If Ms. Melora caught him…I tried not to think about it as I scrambled into the furs, shuddering and awkward. The fur coat was so long it bunched around my feet. I reached for my valenki and felt my lips crack with a laugh.
Traditionally, if a girl tossed her valenki in the air and followed the direction that they pointed when they landed, she would find her true love. The boots pointed down the tiny village street toward the church. Every single person in town must be at the church. How romantic.
I slipped into the warm softness of the reindeer skin boots. Even with the furs, I could still freeze. The temperature was dropping and vast gray mounds of cloud hurtled down the river on the wind. The storm would be here by nightfall.
As though they sensed my plight, the wolves renewed their howling. It wasn’t just howling, the pack keened and wailed into the gathering gloom, low and angry and primal.
I needed to find shelter or die. My options were incredibly limited and none of them contained fairy tale material. Even the charming tradition of a tossed valenki couldn’t make my situation any less a nightmare. No, my true love was not destined to appear. And even if he did, I’d prefer a warm cup of soup and a crackling fire.
I hobbled down the street, imagining the dark paints and jagged strokes of the brush that would bring to life the kind of picture book that could tell my tale.
No, my story was not romantic at all.
3
Up From The Snowdrift
The main road through Zamok Drakona was a thin strip of worn pavement, rutted and cracked with cold. The side streets were winding byways of packed dirt. Blowing snow swirled and tumbled down the street, making the ground appear to writhe and twist beneath the biting wind.
The moldy furs tamped the cold down to a dull ache deep in my bones. It was a good thing I had never needed glasses. This was the kind of weather that made metal frames freeze to a person’s face and rip off chunks of skin if the glasses were removed too quickly. My face was numb and my body had pulled the blood to my core in an attempt to warm me. I had to find shelter.
I shuffled down the street in the direction my valenki had pointed. My shivering subsided, but my stomach clenched with hunger.
It was tradition to fast on Christmas Eve. The fasting part was easy. Since my prospects for food were nonexistent. I felt a kinship with my fellow believers. They would be in the service at our small chapel, denying their hunger to con
centrate on the advent of our Lord. It was also tradition to have a twelve-course vegetarian feast when the first star appeared on the horizon.
That part would be harder for me to participate in.
I had intended to watch for the first star from the orphanage window. I’d hoped to break the fast with a roll and a bowl of borscht from the kitchen.
A sudden gust sent flurries of powder-fine snow into my face. It looked as if my fast would be longer than I’d intended. I ducked my head against the cold and shuffled onward.
Rows of square buildings with brown, peaked roofs and dark windows framed in whitewashed wood lined my way. The warped siding had been painted once. Bright blues and yellows and greens, now they were pale, stripped by the cold and ice. Their peeling paint left the houses looking strained, like a grandmother caring for three milk goats, a new litter of kittens, and triplets with colic.
I shambled toward the church. As my body warmed slightly, the furs began to reek. No wonder Ms. Melora hadn’t snatched them back. I had noted a few moth holes and a smattering of mold against the inner lining. Apparently the clothing was in worse shape than I’d imagined. People never treated such an expensive garment badly, but I suspected that this fur coat and mittens had been cured by someone with less than professional qualifications. Perhaps they were a terrible experiment gone awry. Stitched together by a pack of first-year apprentices wielding porcupine quills or something?
As my fragrance increased, my desire to meet the good people of Zamok Drakona in church began to plummet. Nonetheless, I urged my feet forward. Prickles zipped along my legs as I walked and my shivering returned. I pressed on through the market, where wooden stalls displayed luxurious furs, brightly beaded valenki, and metal crates stuffed full of frozen fish packed upright like a giant cluster of silver flowers.
The church was just ahead. It was a squat building made from plain oiled lumber. A tiny bell tower capped its roof, although perhaps it was more of a lookout tower as there was no bell. A single gable with three small windows jutted from the front. They were bright with candlelight. My pace quickened. Perhaps I could hide in the coat closet and warm myself far away from anyone who might detect my fragrance.
I made it to the church and leaned against the rough wood door to catch my breath. Snow had drifted up against one side. I felt just about as lively as that mounded heap of powder and ice. The door had a long handle constructed out of a polished piece of driftwood from the Lena River.
I jammed my enormous mitten through it and gave a tug. The door rattled slightly in its frame but remained closed. I tugged again. It opened about a centimeter. Something was holding it shut. I smacked the door with my mittened fist. Footsteps approached on the other side.
I was torn. My moldy coat was mortifying, but freezing to death was not on my list of things to do today. I pounded harder. The door rattled again. It slowly swung open and a wash of candle light flooded the gloomy street. A tall figure stood in the doorway.
At the creak of the opening door, the snow drift beside me erupted.
Fresh powder blasted into the air and a shaggy gray shape hurtled forward.
I turned around and stumbled into the church. Animal noises and fur assailed my senses. I caught a glimpse of pointy ears and a shaggy coat before the creature struck me hard in the chest and I fell backwards.
Strong arms wrapped around me, but I was still falling. I landed on top of my rescuer, next to the coat racks just past the door. The gentle melody of a hymn filled my ears. Despite the beautiful sound, I gagged and fought for breath.
The creature attacked. A vast tongue slurped my face. Hair flew everywhere. I kicked the animal off, but it made a terrible, mournful wooing.
“Sit!”
The monstrous wolf that had been ravaging my face plopped down on its bottom with a thump. The fluffy tail wagged and a pink tongue lolled out of one side of its grinning mouth.
Oh, no. I recognized this animal. I mean sure, I was happy that she wasn’t a slavering wolf. But really? Could things get any worse in the mortification department? The first time Liev and his mother had visited me at the orphanage, Liev smuggled in his new puppy.
Liev had explained that Chobo just showed up on their doorstep one night and took over the house. She was a gray Siberian husky but didn’t act like any of the other huskies I had met. Scrappy and independent, the sled dogs around Zamok Drakona were lean pulling machines that lived to run and fight and race sleds.
Chobo was none of these things. She was chubby and fluffy and wimpy and loud. Throw a snarling husky her way and she would bull you down trying to hide under the bed. Chobo had loved the orphanage. Ms. Melora did not love Chobo. After that first visit, she was banished to the doorstep. Many times I had walked Liev and his mother to the door, only to find Chobo gone.
The careful observer could always find a mound of snow larger than all of the others. The falling snow never bothered Chobo and when Liev called her name she would explode out of the drift and attack us all with her slurping tongue.
If the ferocious animal that had attacked me was Chobo…then I was lying on top of…
I leapt to my feet, despite the way my limbs trembled with cold. This could not be happening.
“I’m sorry, Miss. The beast is harmless. If she is sitting, you understand. See, all wagging, no biting. Matter of fact, you can pet her now.” He grinned and pointed at Chobo, who had contained her enthusiasm to a few quiet, woo woo woos.
I crammed the fur hat down on my head before stretching out my hand to Chobo. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me. I could warm up a moment and then go find a nice barn or something.
Chobo lunged forward and stole my mitten. Prancing with her fluffy tail curled high, the beast gallumped around us.
I cringed, the singing within the sanctuary faltered. Would the whole town rush in and see me in all my stinky glory? I lunged for my mitten. Chobo pranced to the side. My hat fell off.
Liev scooped it off the floor. As he straightened our gazes met.
“Faina?” He glanced down at my valenki, then back at my face. “Now look, it is you. Your hair grew back. I almost didn’t recognize…are you OK?”
So that was how he remembered me.
I should have stepped inside the church. I was hungry and freezing. It was getting dark. Nothing was left to me, not the babies to rock or the shelter of Ms. Melora’s frigid, gray home. Instead, I looked into Liev’s eyes and felt the warm valenki he had made on my feet. I saw him as he had been six years ago. I watched him slump away from the orphanage. Away from the smells of poop and vomit and the cold, concrete floors that I was trapped inside. I saw his embarrassment over my bald head and my quiet love for him.
Instead of moving into the warm candlelight of the church as I should have, I picked up my mitten, snatched my hat out of his hands, and I fled. I hit the street running. As fast as my furry boots could carry me, I ran away from Liev Alkaev and his snide comments about my hair. I would rather freeze.
I tried to dash the tears from my cheeks with a mitten, but the moisture had frozen to my skin. It was too cold. Was I truly willing to die of embarrassment? I turned back toward the church and its glowing windows.
The church was gone. Instead, I saw a swirl of snowfall and the gloom of twilight. I looked up to find the first star on the horizon. All I could see was the black roiling of storm clouds and a swirling wall of flakes.
I turned in a full circle. Nothing. I could see nothing.
A sound broke through the raging wind. A long, low howl, followed by another and another. The wolves. Kirill Volkov’s wolves. They would be in the castle, sheltered from the worst of the storm.
I wrapped my arms around myself and turned toward the sound of the wolves. One step at a time, I trudged forward through the storm. Keep howling. Lord, please keep them howling.
4
Neither a Reindeer Nor a Dead Rabbit
It was full dark now. I had never been out of the orphanage at night, much less in a sto
rm. But as I struggled forward, everything felt horribly familiar somehow. The icy press of the wind against my numbed cheeks, the ache in my teeth when I opened my mouth to take a breath, and the cold rush of frigid air filling my lungs. My breath came in smoky clouds and made a frosty curtain in my hair and lashes. I rubbed a mitten across my face and realized that the frost clinging to the tiny hairs inside my nose was what made me want to sneeze. Each breath burned through my lungs, an icy fire spreading across my chest. I welcomed each one, though they hurt as though I had been sprinting for my life.
The trees around me thrashed in the darkness and the sound raised gooseflesh on my arms. I had walked through just such a storm, once, somewhere. I had traveled this night before, but when?
The howling grew closer and my addled brain knew enough to be thankful. The castle was here. If I could only follow the wolves, I would find shelter.
Maybe Rasia Volkov needed an assistant to help her prepare the castle for her big Christmas gala. I doubted her brother and uncle were much help. But would a talented young woman from Moscow want the help of an unskilled orphan? Perhaps they needed cleaning done. That, at least, I was qualified to do. I had massive amounts of experience and was comfortable with cleaning anything in the castle, except perhaps the wolf pen.
The thought gave me pause. I stumbled to a stop. Surely, Kirill Volkov would want to clean the pen himself. They were his pets, after all. I pushed into motion again. I would be cleaning nothing at all if I couldn’t make it to the castle. Castle first, worry about the wolf pen later.
I had to think about something else. Had to keep going. I conjured up Chobo erupting from her snowy bed to slurp my face. She never had minded the falling flakes as she slept.
Ms. Melora’s Christmas songs bounced through my brain in a sing-song cacophony. I put words to a few to keep my feet moving. I started with “Up on the Rooftop.”
Out of the snowdrift, bound bound bound
A fat furry doggy, a fuzzy hound
The Volk Advent Page 2