The Ranger of Marzanna (The Goddess War #1) - Jon Skovron Page 0,42

crowded than the last time. Everywhere he looked, he saw imperial officers or Izmorozian nobles chatting gaily and drinking small, stemmed crystal glasses of vodka. There was even a doorman who announced the arrival of Lieutenant Sebastian Turgenev Portinari and Commander Franko Vittorio. The imperial officers all saluted Vittorio, who nodded graciously in return. The nobles seemed to eye Sebastian with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He couldn’t blame them. Technically, he was one of them, but he did not know or understand their world at all.

Sebastian’s mother emerged at the upper landing, looking radiant in a long, flowing green gown, her pristine white hair artfully piled atop her head. She paused when she saw him, then smiled and continued down the staircase.

“What a pleasure to see two such gallant gentlemen.” She held out her hand to Vittorio. “Good evening, Commander.”

He kissed the top of her hand with the utmost solicitousness. “Delighted to see you as always, Lady Portinari.”

Then she turned to Sebastian.

“And you…” Although she appeared quite cheerful, she embraced him with an unusual intensity. “I hope you haven’t forgotten your dear mother.”

“O-of course not, Mother.” He felt a new pang of guilt. She had seemed to get along well with Lady Prozorova, but perhaps her stay at Roskosh Manor had been more lonely than he’d realized.

She took a step back and smiled as she placed her hand on his cheek. “Dinner will be served soon, but first there is someone I’d like you to meet.” She turned to Vittorio. “I’m sure we’ll see you in the dining hall, Commander.”

Vittorio raised his eyebrow at the pointed dismissal, but then smiled and bowed his head. “I look forward to it, Lady Portinari. If you’ll excuse me, my generals will likely have taken up their usual post at the bar, and I have found that the presence of their superior officer curtails any temptation toward excessive inebriation they might otherwise entertain.”

Sebastian’s mother politely inclined her head as Commander Vittorio made his way unhurriedly down the hall. Once he was out of sight, she turned back to Sebastian and took his hands.

“Are you well, my darling? Eating properly and brushing your teeth?” She pushed his bangs back, then tucked his hair behind his ears.

“Yes, Mother.”

She smoothed the sleeves of his green jacket, though they didn’t need it. “You do look rather dashing in your uniform, Sebastian. So much like your father, it made me catch my breath when I first saw you.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

He wanted to tell her what had happened that day. He wanted to confess the doubts that filled his mind. Had his father been right? Should he have refused to enlist so that he would never be forced to unleash such destructive power? But he had already pledged his allegiance to the empress. To turn away from those vows now would bring nothing but dishonor and shame on them both.

But before he could broach the subject, she hurried him down one of the many hallways of the manor.

“Quickly, my darling. The call to dinner will chime soon, and there is someone you absolutely must meet first.”

“Who is it I am to meet?”

She only gave him a knowing smile and said, “You’ll see.”

He wondered who this important person might be. A distant relative, perhaps? Or the head of an important noble family? It couldn’t be his sister, could it?

That idea filled him with dread when he thought of what Vittorio might do when he saw her at dinner. After all, she was a murderer, and since her victim had been an imperial soldier, potentially a traitor to the empire as well. Punishment would be swift and brutal.

Perhaps Sebastian could convince Sonya to sneak out the back, or hide in a closet until the commander had left. She’d be furious, but if it meant saving her life, he would accept her ire. After all, it wasn’t as though displeasing his big sister would be a new experience for him.

But when his mother guided him into one of the many small sitting rooms in the manor, he saw a young woman he did not recognize. She was about his own age and sat alone in a high-backed chair reading a book, oblivious to the party going on around her.

He noticed she was reading An Air of Last Year’s Spring, a collection of poetry by Valery Lomonosov that he rather liked. The fingers that grasped the book were long and elegant, but faintly stained with ink. Her hands and wrists were thin