“Think it was a thirty-five. Went straight through.”
“Did you see who did it?” Afon asked.
“I went for my gun but he got me from behind.”
Afon and I exchanged glances. Perhaps Father was right about leaving for Paris right away.
CHAPTER
9
Varinka
1916
I woke early the day I was to report to the countess’s home. I lay on my child-sized straw mattress-bed atop the massive, whitewashed Russian oven, in the snug place Papa fashioned for me up there, close enough to Mamka to hear her breathe at night.
The autumn moon crept by the skylight Papa had cut through the roof, the one he made so the man in the moon could visit me at night. The moon was sharp, almost full; the old man up there was protecting me, for that was where Papa was.
Would he see me grow up and marry and fill the house with children? Mamka had seen I would someday have a child. But that would never happen. Certainly not with Taras.
I sat up on my mattress. Such thoughts were childish. I would never leave our izba. I’d be stuck there in the woods forever, if Taras had his say. Though I wore the same linen dress the village girls did, a long, shapeless, high-waisted sarafan, and covered my hair with a kerchief, he still wanted me. He would never put a child in my belly, of course. That was the most important part of the arrangement.
At least Papa had fixed me a perfect world up there, my bed snug as a ship, with a rope ladder down the side. Next to my bed I pinned up pictures of the tsar’s four daughters, the grand duchesses. I never tired of studying their dresses, hair, and jewels. I kissed my fingertips and pressed them to each girl in turn. Olga, the eldest, who loved to read, and then Tatiana, who they called “The Governess.” Maria, the sweet one. Anastasia, the clown. And the dark-haired boy, Alexei, their brother and the heir.
I ran a finger down the row of our books standing on the bookshelf that ran the length of my bed. Cervantes. Dostoyevsky. The Brothers Grimm. A whole book of famous paintings. Who needed the schoolhouse when I had Mamka and all these teachers? Papa alone had taught me the history of the world.
I eased the ladder down the side of the oven and climbed down, quiet, to not disturb Mamka, and slipped my wrapper on over my chemise and bloomers. I started Mamka’s groats cooking. It was an important day, so I was quick about it all. I would walk to the village to sell my oil, then on to my first day working at the countess’s estate.
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I stood with a jump to find Taras standing there. The calm of the morning vanished in a second, causing my temper to flare. He seemed especially large that morning. “Why do you scare me? You should be out—”
He shrugged. “Already shot a doe this morning.” He kept his gaze on mine.
At twenty years old, four years my elder, Taras stood as tall as the doorway with legs like poplar trunks, his chestnut hair parted down the center and tucked behind his ears. How much I’d loved him before he went to prison. Before he’d come back so changed.
“Hunting in the tsar’s woods? You’ll hang for sure. Work at the linen factory.”
“And put more money in that bourgeois pig’s pocket?”
“Mamka needs bread. We have an agreement, Taras.”
“Exactly.”
I tried to step around him to the dustpan. “I’m busy. Maybe tomorrow.”
He caught my wrist, thankfully my left, since my right was still healing after he’d broken it.
“Please, Taras.”
“Did you make more oil?” he asked.
My free hand went to the vial in my wrapper pocket, cold and smooth. “I need to sell it.”
My oil was prized in the village. Some said it was magical and cured the aches, but it was only linseed oil with a touch of peppermint.
He nodded toward the woodshed.
I tried to pull away but he held me fast. “During the day, Taras? But Mamka…”
He brought his face close to mine. “You made a promise and you need to keep it.” I knew the signs that one of his black times was coming. Heavy breathing. A faraway look in his eye.
He released my wrist. “Your Papa himself said it. Men must desire their wives, wives must respect their husbands.”
“We are not husband and wife and never will be.”
He started toward the door to his shed. “I don’t have