Dr. Abushkin said I would not have another child, but why not prove him wrong?
I left the bed and, eager to see my horse, pinned up my hair, proud to do it with only five pins, as Mother taught me. I stepped to my wedding chest to consider my trousseau.
I ran my fingers down the silk of a powder blue camisole. According to Agnessa, men abhor blue on women, and like black underthings or nothing at all. I drew a lacey, beige corset cover from the drawer and slipped it on over bare skin. Once I pulled it tight across my chest and hooked it down the front, scandalous glimpses of skin showed through the glorious spiderwebs of open lacework. I slipped a blouse over it, pulled on my riding pants, and left Afon a note to follow me.
I made sure Raisa was stirring in case Max woke, and then stepped to Luba’s room. She sat on the floor, legs crossed, scissoring something.
“Come for a ride?” I asked, one hand on her doorjamb.
Light flashed upon the silver scissors as she hid them behind her back. “I’m busy.”
This was the secret project she’d been working on. Luba kept the details private, but I knew it involved silver paper, for the floor of her bedroom was littered with flecks of it.
“Don’t go outside the gates, Sofya. It isn’t safe.”
“I can outride anyone.”
“You’ll be dead for sure if Agnessa catches you in those riding pants again.”
“And what if she catches you with scissors? Where did you even find them?”
Luba was magpie-like with her ability to acquire things. “I did not steal them from Agnessa’s sewing basket. I swear by God’s stars.”
“You only say that when you lie. Swear on Father’s life.”
Luba smiled. “Have a good ride, sister.”
As I walked toward the barn my horse, Jarushka, snorted gently, expecting her petting and carrot. Of course, she knew I was coming, for she had a sixth sense. The product of an unplanned, midnight liaison between a hefty Cossack cavalry horse and one of the tsar’s prize Arab mares, she was a sight to behold with her shaggy fetlocks, coarse mane and tail, and lop ears that hung down like a dog’s. Though not handsome enough for Agnessa, Jarushka had superior wind, an angelic disposition, and an undying loyalty to her owner, for which cavalry horses are known. With her light chestnut coloring and silky-smooth canter, she was the perfect horse for me.
We rode out through the gates onto a path through the woods, the trees a glorious blaze of autumn color. I gave Jarushka her head and soon we jumped downed trees and crashed through the undergrowth, making new paths as we went, cool wind in my hair.
I lost track of time, grew terribly thirsty, and stopped near a thicket of raspberries to turn back.
That is when I spied the crude little cabin. I had almost missed it, for it was built into the side of a rock outcropping, the weathered wood walls the same color as the stone. I rode closer. It was a snug little place with one bare window, a front door fixed with a coarse rope pull.
“Anyone there?” I called out in Russian, my voice sounding harsh yet strangely muted there in the forest. Only larks answered.
I slid down off the warm leather saddle, tied Jarushka to a tree branch, and then, heart pounding, stood tall to peek through the window. I could see only part of the room, a rough-hewn table covered with tools.
I pushed the door open, walked in with the step of a trespasser, and, to my great relief, no person slept there. It was a homey little place, furnished with the table and an army cot, topped with a bearskin.
A wall of moist, blue stone served as the cabin’s back wall and it shone in the dim light. There was no musty smell, only a pleasant peppermint scent. A small ax and several wood-handled tools lay on the table surrounded by tiny gold and silver shards. A knife lay there, half-finished, the blade still rough. I grasped it by the handle and ran my fingers down the smooth wood inlaid with sterling silver, the black letter “T” no bigger than my pinkie fingernail burned into the knife’s flank.
I stepped to the window and scanned a collection of postcards impaled next to it by the nails of the unfinished wall. They were captioned in French and depicted young women in various stages of undress. I ran the tip