seals of winning at every samovar competition Papa entered it in. “Look at all those awards.”
“He was a great artist,” I said.
The old man waved Mr. A. away. “Take it to the wagon.”
I fell to my knees. “Please, no. We need it for my mamka—”
The old man wagged a finger in my face. “It’s better off in a fine home, not here where the roof probably leaks on it.”
Mr. A. wore a weary look as he dumped the steaming water out of the samovar just outside the door and carried it toward the carriage. I covered my face with my hands.
“Get up.” The old one yanked me up by the elbow.
“Please, my mamka sews beautiful things. She can make you a fine sash with silver beads. Or tell your future. She is a seer.”
He pulled me close and I smelled on his breath beets and stale beer. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen. Please don’t take our samovar.”
He smiled and ran one hand down the front of my sarafan, hurting my burned skin. “Why do you girls wear so many layers?”
I tried to move toward Mamka but he pushed me against the hard clay of the tall oven.
He kissed my neck, his greasy hair cold against my throat. “I can bring that samovar back if you cooperate.”
I froze. I’d never kissed anyone, even Taras. I glanced at Mamka, lying there on her bench along the wall, deep in a fever-sleep. Who would know?
“Bring it back, first,” I said.
He laughed. “You’re a smart one. No. But I promise if you give me what I want, then the samovar comes back.”
“On God’s honor?”
He raised his hand to cover his heart. “On God’s honor.” He then dug that hand between my legs, through the folds of my long skirt.
Taras had never done that before, either.
“I can show you a few things,” the old man said in my ear, the point of his waxed mustache pricking my cheek.
He moved his hands to my breasts and squeezed them like a person kneads bread dough. “Do you like that?” he said, sending his sour breath around me like a cloud.
I nodded, though it felt terrible being squeezed that way, my burned skin raw under his hands. Up close, his spectacles were covered with white flecks from his hair. The thought of kissing him made my stomach queasy. “Bring back the samovar and I will do what you want.”
All at once the light coming from the doorway dimmed as a figure stood there. Taller and broader through the shoulders than Mr. A. I recognized the shape of his hunting jacket, his brodni boots that left no sound as he stalked his prey. The leather bag he wore was slung across his chest. The outline of one of his many knives, sheathed at his side. He made those knives himself, sharp enough to slice leather like butter. Taras.
The old taxman took his hands from my chest and turned. He blinked in the light and swallowed hard. Out the door I saw Mr. A. whip his horse as the carriage left with a clatter. Mr. A. knew better than to stay around an angry Taras.
“I think we are certainly done here,” the old man brushed off his pants as he stepped toward Taras. “Your tax bill has been satisfied for now.”
Taras stepped aside and watched the old man scurry by, down the path, and off through the woods toward town without a look back.
I rushed to Mamka and found her still asleep, felt her forehead, cooler, and relief washed over me.
I turned to Taras. “I’m sorry. I know I violated the arrangement.” No contact with other men was one of the first rules.
Taras stepped toward me.
“You are disgusting, letting him paw you that way.” He dropped his leather bag on the floor with a thud. “I can’t trust you.”
“But he took the samovar.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the tears away.
“Who cares? It’s just a stupid boiler. We have no tea anyway.”
Taras snatched the washbasin from the bench and pushed it toward me.
I held it to my chest.
“I won’t be long,” he said. “Don’t finish until I’m back.”
I knew what to do with it, of course, as much as I hated it. And I knew where Taras was going. He’d given the old man a head start, for the thrill of the chase. Taras made his way out the door and I poured water in the basin. I unbuttoned my skirt, removed my clothes and prepared to