Dmitri stared straight ahead. She sensed his disappointment in her, as if she were betraying him for a second time: the first time by giving the diamonds to Anna Feodorovna, and now by leaving him and his family behind.
Marianne and Delphine must have realized how difficult it was for Sophie. They sat under the bearskin, not speaking.
The white train was waiting, steam pouring from the funnel. Ivan helped the girls down and opened the carriage door, checking his watch. Then he turned to Sophie and offered his hand to help her into the train. “Princess,” he murmured.
“Give me a moment,” she whispered. She traced the lines of the wolf’s head painted on the carriage door. The open jaw, the sharp teeth no longer looked frightening to her; instead they gave her a feeling of reassurance. It told her something about herself, the girl who had never known anything about who she was or where she came from: If you were a Volkonsky, you fought like a wolf to protect what was dear to you.
She stood on the tiny platform. The snow was falling lightly. She looked into the woods, those trees she had dreamed about so often. And through them, now, she could see the wolf pack. They loped toward her, each one in its favored position. They seemed so much a part of the forest and the snow that they could not exist in any other place, she thought. Viflyanka whinnied, but Dmitri calmed him. The wolves hung back.
Vladimir and Sofya, she realized in that clear moment, had done so much — given up their lives — to ensure there would one day be a Volkonsky on this estate. And now she felt as if she were letting them down. They had died to save their child, but she, their great-granddaughter, was going back to London. Why? Perhaps she didn’t deserve to be a Volkonsky after all. Perhaps she was a coward.
The forest and the snow and the wolves seemed to spin around her. It was just a moment, a single moment in her life, and yet it was like looking at everything through the drops of the chandelier. Everything was contained in it. She wanted to be brave. She wanted to trust in what she was feeling.
Could she perhaps have another, different sort of life?
She blinked back tears and turned to her friends. This was going to be hard. But not as hard as doing the wrong thing. She realized, as she stood on the edge of the woods of the Volkonsky estate, that she was more than one person. She was Sophie, yes, but she was her father, too. She was Xenia, Sofya, Vladimir, a collection of all these people. As she looked at her hands in their sealskin gloves, moved her feet in her valenki, and breathed a cloud of misty breath into the clear, northern air, she was any number of lost Volkonskys, their portraits all waiting to be discovered in the gallery.
Sophie took a breath of the cold forest air that had enchanted her in her dreams. She looked at the puzzled faces of Marianne and Delphine. She smiled. Yes. Now she felt properly happy in a way she had never felt before. Because she understood something about herself. And she knew, with a certainty that knocked in her chest, what she would do.
“You were right, Marianne,” she said, her voice light. “You and your theories …”
“What do you mean?” Marianne’s glasses had fogged up, which gave her a bemused look.
“That theory you told us about. The day we found out we were coming to Russia. About everything in the universe leading to one place, and that we can only be in that one place because it’s the right place for us.”
“I don’t think that Dicke put it quite like that.” Marianne frowned. “He was talking about weak nuclear forces …”
Delphine nudged Marianne. “Let’s talk about it on the train, shall we?” she said. “For once, I’d be happy to discuss nuclear forces with you … once we’re safely on our journey!”
Sophie didn’t move. Marianne took her glasses off to clean them on her shuba, and Sophie felt her stomach turn with affection for her friend.
She smiled as confidently as she could. “Well,” she said. “I am here. And everything has been leading to this moment. And, when you think about it, Marianne, if I go back to London with you … I’ll be breaking some scientific law, because this is where I am supposed to be.”
Marianne’s eyes were round as she pushed her glasses back on. She gave a low whistle. “That,” she said, “is quite masterful! I mean, I see how you did that … it’s good.” She hugged her friend. “I don’t know how we’re going to explain this to Rosemary, though, Sophie. And I don’t know how we will manage at school without you. But perhaps you should stay here … for a while.”
“You’ve changed, Sophie.” Delphine looked serious. “Dmitri and his family need you.” She leaned closer. “We’ll miss you.”
Sophie’s throat was so tight she didn’t dare risk swallowing.
“Ivan, would you mind?” She looked up at the man, who had become very still as he watched her. “I won’t get in the way …”
He nodded. “We will speak to your guardian,” he said. “Perhaps she will allow you to stay for a while if we promise to look after you …”
Marianne and Delphine both hugged her at once, then scrambled up onto the train. Ivan shut the carriage door, and climbed into the driver’s cabin.
“We will see each other soon,” Sophie called up, but the shush of steam blew her words away. The wheels screeched as they started to move on the icy tracks. Suddenly, Sophie wanted to be with them, in the carriage. She ran along the short platform, but the train picked up speed and the trees swallowed it up until the only thing she could hear was the rhythm of the engine as it pulled the carriage away.
She walked slowly back to the vozok.
Dmitri leaped down. His face was shining with happiness. “You are sure?” he said.
“Yes!” she laughed.
“Woooooooo!” he cried as he took off his hat and threw it up in the air. He ran to pick it up, laughing, then held out his arm to help her. She climbed up and sat beside him in the vozok.
“I am so sure,” Sophie said again. “I know I can’t leave the palace right now, even if I can’t stay here forever.”
She wouldn’t cry. She would be happy. If she wasn’t going to be allowed to stay here for the rest of her life — if, in fact, she might only have a few more days before she was yanked back to her life in London — she wouldn’t waste it being sad. She would devote herself to study … to finding out as much as she could about this family she was part of. She would set herself the task of uncovering the Volkonskys.
The wolves were in the woods, yelping to each other. The afternoon starlight fell down on her. Out of a clearing, the pack came, tongues lolling, running with their loose-shouldered lope. They trotted alongside Viflyanka, who took no notice of them, sensing that the well-fed wolves had no interest in him.
“They’ve been hunting!” Sophie called to Dmitri. She looked for the old, wounded wolf. Where was he?
Dmitri kept Viflyanka trotting smartly on toward the portico. Only days before, Ivan had brought them here, innocent of Anna Feodorovna’s plans. And now Sophie was defying sense, defying everyone, to stay in a place she hardly knew. But Ivan had said that home was the place that was hard to leave. And the place that, having left, you searched for throughout your life. She had never known a home in that way. And she wanted to.
At the door, Dmitri jumped down and walked around to help Sophie out of the vozok. The door shuddered and opened.
Masha stepped out and gave a cry of surprise. She clutched at her chest as if she couldn’t speak, but then, her face lit with a broad smile, she held out her arms. Sophie jumped down. They stared at each other for a while before Sophie hugged her.
And as they entered, Masha’s mother stepped forward with candles and laughter and bread and salt. “Come, children,” she whispered. “We bless … we bless our princess …”
“You knew!” Sophie was laughing and crying at the same time. “You knew I couldn’t leave you!” She took a piece of bread and dipped it in the pyramid of salt. “I bless you.” She bowed her head.
And then, seeing Masha’s concerned gaze, she turned to see the old wol
f padding toward her. He had something in his mouth that hung down and trailed along behind him. Sophie was apprehensive; she didn’t think she would care for the sort of present a white wolf might bring her from the woods.
But Masha was laughing.
The wolf came right up to Sophie; she wasn’t sure what was hanging from his mouth, didn’t want to believe what he had found. He opened his mouth and she heard a soft chink at her feet. The wolf made a satisfied yelp at the back of his throat and licked her hand as if he expected her approval. She looked down at the wolf’s gift.
A rope of fat, gray, candlelight-cut diamonds, long enough to hang a man, winked lazily in the shadows of the Volkonsky Winter Palace.
The End
I am extremely grateful to my agent, Hilary Delamere, who embraced The Wolf Princess wholeheartedly, and understood completely the nature of the book I wanted to write. Her wise yet spirited counsel has made launching this book a joy. Also, thanks are due to Jane Fior, a wise woman and Russian soul, who understands the deep work of dreaming. Being lost in a forest is not a bad place to be with such a wonderful companion. I had a generous reader in the writer Susan Irvine, who commented with such perception on so many, many drafts. I am also grateful to the writers Sarah Jeans, Fatima Martin, Rosie Parker, and Angela Young for their continued encouragement. Snejana Tempest, my wonderful (and extremely patient) Russian teacher, might still be struggling with my inability to fully grasp the subtleties of the genitive case, but I thank her for her comments on the text. Thanks also to the artist Carolyn Quartermaine, who happily discussed the brilliance of The Singing Ringing Tree!
I feel very fortunate to have Barry Cunningham as my publisher. His deep understanding and passion for children’s literature makes writing for the Chicken House a pleasure, a thrill, and a privilege. And his jokes are really funny. His team is remarkable, and I thank Rachel Leyshon, my editor, for her patience and humor and refusal to be spooked editorially when I skated off onto particularly thin narrative ice. Thanks, too, to Rachel Hickman for her calmness and ability to make the world “out there” appear manageable and, on occasion, a place of wonder and surprise; she has been a wonderful champion of the book. Elinor Bagenal did an outstanding job of introducing The Wolf Princess into the wider world, and I am really grateful for her enthusiasm. As for Tina Waller … “We salute you!” Of course, the Chicken House is a team, and there will be people I haven’t mentioned by name, but every one of these lovely people has made the writing of The Wolf Princess an exciting, challenging, and utterly delicious process.
And of course, thanks also to my family. I grew up in a house furnished with books, and I am so grateful to have been given space and time to read by my parents. Thanks to Rhiannon, my sister, for her encouraging texts and e-mails along the way. Your jokes are also really funny!
I must also thank Charles, who has been so supportive, in his own entirely unique but wonderful way! And of course, Milo, Rufus, and Syrie, who have been incredibly patient whilst I stared out of the window. I love how sweet and funny and fierce and kind you are. This is a book about home … and you have made me understand how beautiful, and precious, that is.
CATHRYN CONSTABLE is a journalist whose articles have appeared in Tatler and the London Sunday Times among other publications. The Wolf Princess is her first novel. She is married with three children and lives in London, England.
Text copyright © 2013 by Cathryn Constable
All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. CHICKEN HOUSE, SCHOLASTIC, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
www.scholastic.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2012
by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS.
www.doublecluck.com
Quotations from Old Peter’s Russian Tales by Arthur Ransome reprinted courtesy of the Arthur Ransome Literary Estate.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Constable, Cathryn.
The wolf princess / Cathryn Constable. — 1st American ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Sophie Smith is an orphan stuck in a boarding school in London, but at night she dreams of Russia and wolves — then, on a class trip to Saint Petersburg, she finds herself and her two friends deliberately separated from the group and whisked off into the silver forest of her dreams, where a mystery awaits.
ISBN 978-0-545-52839-9
1. Wolves — Juvenile fiction. 2. Princesses — Juvenile fiction. 3. Orphans — Juvenile fiction. 4. Boarding schools — Juvenile fiction. 5. Russia (Federation) — Juvenile fiction.
[1. Wolves — Fiction. 2. Princesses — Fiction. 3. Orphans — Fiction. 4. Boarding schools — Fiction. 5. Schools — Fiction. 6. Russia (Federation) — Fiction. 7. Mystery and detective stories.]
I. Title. PZ7.C76498Wol 2013 823.92 — dc23
2012040544
First American edition, October 2013
COVER ART BY MÉLANIE DELON
COVER DESIGN BY WHITNEY LYLE
e-ISBN 978-0-545-52840-5
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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