Finally he looked at her. “It was one of the guard dogs, princess. The puppy made a nuisance of himself. The older dog had no patience, and …” He turned away again. “He snapped the neck. It was over in an instant—the little one had no time to suffer.”
Antonina put out her hand to steady herself, feeling for the edge of the stall. “He’s dead, Borya? Sezja is dead?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Borya nodded. “I’m sorry, princess. I did what I could, but it isn’t my job to be nursemaid to a laika pup.”
Antonina was weeping now. “Where is he? The body—where did you bury him?”
At this, Borya shook his head. “Bury? He was a dog, princess, not a child.”
“But then … where … what did you do with him?”
Borya didn’t answer for a moment. “Princess Olonova. We burn the bodies of dead animals. You know that.”
Antonina pressed her hands over her mouth. She turned from Borya and ran back to the house. Her father was on the front veranda, buttoning his topcoat. The barouche with their family crest waited for him, the driver on the high front seat.
“He’s dead, Papa,” Antonina cried, rushing at him. “You see? You see?” she repeated. “You made me put him in the stable, and now he’s dead.” She beat against his chest with her fists. “I told you. I told you he was too little.”
Her father grabbed her hands. “Stop it!” he shouted. “Stop it this instant. What kind of behaviour is this?” He leaned close to her, his voice low but harsh. “All the servants can see you. Have you no shame?” His hands were iron shackles around her wrists. “Since you cannot behave in a manner fitting your station, go to your room.”
Antonina wept, looking at him.
“Go to your room,” her father repeated, his voice very low. “Stay there until I return. You are forbidden to leave your room while I am away for the day. Do you understand me? Do you?”
Antonina nodded, unable to see for the tears. “I understand,” she gulped. “But you don’t. You don’t understand what you’ve done.”
“I understand one thing,” the prince said. “That I have a wilful and discourteous daughter who shows no sign of becoming a proper young woman. You disappoint me in so many ways, Antonina. Now go inside. I’ll deal with you when I return.” He let go of her wrists and turned away from her. The footman held open the door of the barouche, his face showing nothing.
Without looking back, Prince Olonov stepped into the carriage and the footman shut the door. As the barouche left the yard, a freezing rain started, turning to sleet within a few moments. Antonina stood there watching, weeping still.
Antonina didn’t know how she would tell Lilya. That Sunday after church, she didn’t go to their usual meeting spot in the forest.
But she knew she couldn’t stay away forever. It wasn’t fair to Lilya that she simply disappear. The following Sunday, the first day of November, skiffs of the early first snow melted in unexpected warmth. Antonina slowly rode into the forest, trailed, as always, by Semyon and Kesha.
Lilya was there. Antonina dismounted and walked to her.
The girl smiled, coming towards her. She had a long scabbed cut on her jaw, and a yellowing bruise on her neck. One eyelid was a faded violet.
“Lilya,” Antonina said. “What happened?”
Lilya gave a lopsided smile. “I’m so clumsy. I was helping my mother load the last of the wood and I fell off the cart.”
Antonina studied the girl’s injuries. “Does your face hurt?”
“No. Everything is healing.”
Antonina reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a cloth bag. “I brought you a jar of strawberry jam.”
Lilya took the jam and opened it. She dipped in two fingers and licked them. “Umm. It’s so good. I’ll share it with Lyosha later. Thank you, Tosya.”
All Antonina could think about was Sezja. Lilya hadn’t asked about him yet. “His cough? It’s started again?”
Lilya nodded her head. “It disappeared over the summer, but as soon as the cold weather begins, so does Lyosha’s cough. My mother puts poultices on him daily, but still he coughs all night. I missed you last week. I waited.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come.” Antonina walked to the fallen tree. “Let’s sit down—I have a lot to talk about. About Sezja,” she added, trying to smile. Her face ached as if her own jaw were bruised.
Lilya said nothing, studying Antonina in a cautious way.
“Well. I must tell you that he has outdone himself in his ability to learn tricks,” Antonina said. “Just yesterday he finally mastered turning in circles on his hind legs. He holds up his front paws in such a dainty fashion, and pirouettes quite prettily. Even my maid claps her hands in delight.”
“But Antonina,” Lilya said. “Antonina, I—”
Antonina ignored her. “Did I tell you that he sleeps on a velvet pillow at the foot of my bed? Oh Lilya, you should see him. He is like a small prince, so handsome and proud.”
Lilya hadn’t taken her eyes from Antonina’s face, and now something in her expression made Antonina uncomfortable. “What is it, Lilya?”
“Antonina Leonidovna,” Lilya said, looking at her hands in her lap, still clutching the bag with its jar of jam, as if embarrassed. “Over a week ago, Sezja came back to the village.”
A cry escaped Antonina’s lips. “He’s alive?” she whispered. “Sezja is alive? Is he well? Oh Lilya, is he all right?”
“He must have been in the forest for some days before he found his way home. He was so thin and dirty, his little paws covered in cuts. I heard him crying outside our house as I lay in bed. I brought him in, and fed and cleaned him. He’s well again, Antonina. My father punished me. He thought the dog had displeased you and so you turned it out. I couldn’t believe that you didn’t want Sejza. I thought he must have run away.”
“Your father—he punished you because Sezja came back?” Antonina asked, staring at Lilya’s neck and jaw, her eye. “You didn’t fall from the cart.”
Lilya still hadn’t looked up.
Antonina stared at Lilya’s bent head, and then put her face into her hands. She was hot with both shame and sorrow.
“Antonina Leonidovna,” Lilya said. “Please. Don’t be upset with me.”
Antonina lifted her head. “Upset with you? No. I’m sorry I lied to you about Sezja. I’m so happy—relieved—that he’s alive. I couldn’t bear to tell you … I wasn’t allowed to keep him with me in the house. My father insisted he live in the stables. But I visited him every day, Lilya. I brought him food and brushed him and played with him, every day, for most of that first week. And then one day the stable serf told me he’d been killed by one of the guard dogs. He said he’d been killed, Lilya. I was so sad. Not only for poor Sezja’s suffering, but knowing that I would have to tell you. I couldn’t, Lilya, and that’s why I didn’t come last week.” She knew now that Borya hadn’t wanted to tell her he didn’t know what had happened to the pup; maybe he thought she’d stop bothering him about it if he told her it was dead. Or perhaps her father had told him to get rid of it. She would never know.
“But Lilya, more than anything, I hate that because of me you were beaten. I hate that little Sezja suffered because of me. You know I would never have turned him out. You know I loved him.”
Lilya moved closer to her on the log, glancing behind her at Semyon and Kesha. They were talking, smoking their pipes and paying no attention to the two girls. Lilya put her arm around Antonina’s shoulders. “Don’t cry, Tosya. Don’t. It’s all right. I’m glad he’s home with me. My father’s beatings don’t worry me. I’m used to them.”
But Antonina’s tears kept coming. “And today, when I knew I must see you, I was a coward. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Lilya still had her arm around Antonina’s shoulder. “Sezja has brought us both sorrow.”
Antonina nodded. “But it’s all right now. You have your dog back. He was never mine. I’m glad he’s with you, as he should
be. And you must tell your father that you saw me. Tell him the truth—that the dog simply ran off.”
Lilya shook her head. “I cannot tell my father that I have seen you. Or that I speak to you.”
“But if you tell him what happened, he won’t be angry with you anymore.”
Lilya took her arm from Antonina’s shoulder. She stood and looked down at her. “Antonina Leonidovna,” she said, and something about the way she said the name filled Antonina with dread. She also stood, facing Lilya.
“My father is already over his anger,” Lilya said. “And … I have liked our times together so much. Sometimes I think that it must be a dream. How could it be possible that you wanted …” She stopped.
Antonina waited. She understood what Lilya was trying to say, but had nothing to reply.
“You saw my father,” Lilya finally said. “He could never understand that you chose me as a friend. Even I can’t understand it, Tosya. It’s not the natural order of life as God has decreed it, that you and I would be friends. If I tried to explain, it would only confuse my father, and make him angrier. I can no longer see you,” Lilya continued. “This is the last time. It’s colder now. We can’t meet outside in the winter. And I can’t take the chance …” She reached into the pocket of her apron and held out a little amulet. “Please. I want you to have this, to remember me by.”
Antonina took it. It was a small, poorly rendered metal icon of Saint Nikolai Chudotvoret—Nicholas the Wonderworker, most merciful of saints. Antonina didn’t know how Lilya had come to own it, but knew it must be her only piece of jewellery and how difficult it would be for her to part with it. Tears came to her eyes. “Thank you, Lilya Petrova,” she said. “I will always keep it.” She pulled a small ring, a simple gold band with a tiny garnet in the centre, from her finger. “And you must have this in return, as a keepsake.”
Lilya looked at it, sucking in her breath and then shaking her head. “I can’t, Antonina. If my father ever discovered it … Thank you, but I cannot.”
Antonina understood. She put the ring back on her finger. “Will you kiss Sezja for me?” When Lilya nodded, she said, “I’m so sorry for what has happened to you. I’m sorry that we cannot be friends any longer. But perhaps one day, when some time has passed, we …”
But Lilya shook her head. She stepped close to Antonina and flung her arms around her neck. She hugged her with a quick, hard press of her chest against Antonina’s, her cheek against hers. “Goodbye, Antonina Leonidovna,” she whispered.
Antonina hugged her back. They stood that way for a long moment, and then Lilya moved her head and gently kissed Antonina on each cheek. Antonina pulled back to stare into Lilya’s eyes, and the girl slowly kissed her on the mouth. Lilya’s lips stayed against Antonina’s, warm and soft, for a long moment. And then she turned and ran, her kerchief a bright splash of colour among the leafless birches.
Antonina felt strange—weak, somehow—after Lilya’s unexpected kiss. She stood for a long time, thinking. Eventually she looked down at the icon in her hand. She turned it over. It had a tiny number engraved on the back: 962. She carefully wrapped it in her handkerchief and tucked it into her waistband and rode home.
She went directly to the blacksmith’s hut on the estate and had him make a tiny hole in the icon, and added it to the chain around her neck.
Antonina kissed it, as well as her crucifix, before she went to sleep that night. She thought about the sensation of Lilya’s lips on hers. She couldn’t believe she would never see her again.
Antonina missed Lilya. Lilya had become a part of her life, and she longed to see her every Sunday.
She became restless, filled with a heaviness that made her uninterested in her usual winter pastimes. She didn’t feel like skating or going to the yearly winter fetes at other estates, and none of her books interested her. She found comfort, as always, in the piano, but all the songs she played made her think of Lilya. And of her kiss.
Seven weeks after she had last seen Lilya—at Christmastime—Prince Olonov frowned at Antonina as she sat across from him at the breakfast table. He carefully set his fork and knife on his plate.
“Come here, daughter,” he said, and Antonina rose and went to stand in front of him. His bristly grey moustache was stained in two yellow-orange lines from his nostrils, evidence of the endless cigar smoke he exhaled.
“What’s this you’re wearing?” he asked, his fingers brushing the raised figure on the metal oval beside her crucifix.
“It’s Saint Nikolai, most merciful of saints.”
Her father shook his head. “I know who it is. But where did you get it?”
Something in his voice made Antonina wary. She never imagined her father would notice—or care—what she wore around her neck.
“I asked you a question, Antonina. Where did you get this icon?”
“Someone gave it to me,” she said, thinking that would satisfy him.
His face darkened. “Who gave it to you? One of the house serfs?”
She couldn’t think of an answer with her father staring at her in such a strange way. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Are you such a simpleton?” Antonina was shocked at the threatening tone. “Tell me, Antonina Leonidovna.”
Antonina would not make any more trouble for Lilya.
Her father stood and took hold of her shoulders. “Which serf gave it to you?”
Antonina’s mouth opened. She closed it. “Why do you think it was a serf?”
Her father’s hands were hard on her shoulders as he stared at her intently. “This is what each of the new souls on my estate is given at birth. The steward informs me of the family, and the child’s name is added to the record, with an individual number. If we purchase new serfs, they are also given an icon with their number recorded.” He reached out and pulled on the amulet, forcing Antonina to stretch forward. The chain bit into the skin on the back of her neck. He turned it over, squinting. “I need my eyeglass to see the number properly,” he said, and Antonina’s heart thudded. “What is it? Tell me the number, Antonina.”
Antonina swallowed, putting her hand over her father’s, pushing his fingers off the icon, pretending to study the tiny inscription of 962. “I found it, Papochka, in the fields, a long time ago, before the snow. I thought it was pretty, that’s all. The number is five-one-one.”
At this, her father stepped back, and his face relaxed. “You found it? But you said someone gave it to you.”
Antonina licked her lips. “I … I just pretended someone gave it to me. That I had a friend, Papa.” She tried to look downcast.
It worked. “Well. You should always speak the truth. You can see that you upset me. If you had been honest, there would have been no need for me to be angry with you.”
“I know, Papochka,” Antonina said, picking up her father’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing it against her cheek.
“All right, daughter,” he said, pulling his hand away. “You must give the icon to Kyrill and ask him to return it to the serf who lost it. Five-one-one, you said? Besides, it isn’t pretty at all. You have your own jewels. That icon, a cheap bit of nothing owned by every soul on my estate, is unfit for the daughter of a prince.”
“Yes, Papa,” Antonina said. “I will give it to Kyrill right away, Papa.”
She curtsied and left the room. But she did not go to seek out Kyrill, her father’s steward. She went to her bedroom, removed the icon from her chain and buried it deeply under the velvet lining in the bottom of her jewellery box.
A few days later, her father summoned her to his study. He was staring out the window at the falling snow as he sat in his wide chair behind the mahogany desk.
“You gave the icon to Kyrill, as I asked?” he said as soon as she entered the room, and Antonina’s heart thudded at his words. She looked at her father’s profile—his long, straight nose, the slight bulge over his eyebrows.
When she remained silent, he swung around in
his chair. She couldn’t read anything on his face. He held out his palm. “Is this the icon you gave him?” he asked, and now Antonina swallowed. “Take it,” he said to her.
She came to the desk, picking up the small metal oval from her father’s hand.
“Turn it over and read the number to me,” he said.
Antonina knew what the number would be. “Papa, I—”
“Read the number,” he said again, his voice quiet and hard.
Antonina turned it over. “Five-one-one,” she whispered, staring at the three figures. They swam as though her eyes were watering. She blinked to clear her vision.
“Am I to thank you for being honest, and turning the icon over to Kyrill as I requested?”
She couldn’t look at her father.
“Of course not,” he said. “Again you are lying, Antonina Leonidovna. Kyrill came to see me about another manner. He mentioned something about your horse, nothing of importance. I asked him when you’d last spoken to him. He said over a week ago. So I had him check his records. This icon you hold, five-one-one, is owned by a serf in a tiny hamlet near here. I had Kyrill go and see this serf. It’s an old woman, near to death. He brought me her icon. The one you hold.”
The icon felt like a shard of ice on Antonina’s palm.
“Will you tell me the truth now?”
Antonina closed her hand around it.
“I want the icon you wore, Antonina. Go and fetch it, now.”
“I threw it away.” She spoke boldly to cover the slight tremble she was afraid her father would detect.
“How can I believe you? How will I ever believe anything you say?”
When Antonina had no answer, her father continued. “Do you understand why I’m dealing with this matter in such a way, Antonina?”
Antonina shook her head.
“Speak. Don’t shake your head from side to side like a dumb animal.”
“No, Papa. I don’t understand why the icon matters so much. Or why you’re so angry that I had it.”
“Do you think I know nothing? I have uncovered your deception. First the dog, then the icon … You’re involved with a serf, aren’t you, Antonina?”
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 11