and spare, calling to mind the delicacy of a bird. The sleeves of her gown only came three-quarters of the way down her arm, and seemed more ill-fitting than suggestive of an intentional style. And yet there was something captivating about the fair skin and fine white hairs of her forearms that they revealed. She had a long, lean frame, almost boyish, and thick, honey-blond hair that reached well past her slender shoulders.
A few moments after Sebastian and his mother entered the room, she looked up, and he was immediately struck by the solemn light that shone in her large green eyes. He felt at once that this was no frivolous noble, but someone who thought and felt things deeply. Perhaps even as deeply as him.
“Galina, this is my son, Sebastian Turgenev Portinari,” said Sebastian’s mother. “Sebastian, this is Galina Odoyevtseva Prozorova, daughter to Lord and Lady Prozorova.”
Sebastian and Galina stared at each other. He had never looked at someone quite the way he looked at her now. It was as if he had lost all peripheral vision and could only see her. She was so pale and melancholy, like the ghost of a doomed princess from a fairy tale.
“Well?” Sebastian’s mother nudged him with her elbow. “Say something, my darling.” In a much quieter voice, she murmured, “A compliment wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Oh, uh… Good evening, Galina Odoyevtseva. I like your… book.”
He had no idea why he’d blurted that out. It was the first thing he’d noticed and the first thing he said. His mother was looking at him with undisguised chagrin.
“Wh-what I meant to say…” He struggled with how to recover. “That is, I was—”
Galina interrupted him. “You’re familiar with the works of Lomonosov?”
“Oh, well, of course…” There was now a sharpness in her gaze that made him even more self-conscious than usual. As he spoke, he felt as though he should do something with his hands, but he didn’t know what that should be, so they merely flapped aimlessly at his sides. “H-his writings on the essence of nature have had an enormous impact on my work in elemental magic.”
That sounded like bragging. Would she think him immodest? Or was that the sort of thing gallant and dashing soldiers did? A charming bit of bravado, perhaps?
She gave no indication regarding her preference either way, but only tilted her head to one side and asked, “How so?”
“Ah, well, you see, when exerting your will on the elements it is important to understand them scientifically. But I have found, at least for me, that it’s just as important to understand them on… an emotional level, I suppose you could call it. And it seems to me that there is no better way to do that than through poetry. For example, in Lomonosov’s ‘The Song of River Angels,’ he speaks of the sound that water makes as it moves over stones—”
“‘It tumbles trippingly over rocks worn smooth with Nature’s tireless progression, like children fleeing their schoolhouse on the first day of Spring,’” she quoted.
“Yes, that’s…” He stared into her melancholy eyes. “You know it all by heart?”
“Important things are worth remembering,” she said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said.
There was another moment of silence as they once again stared at each other, but Sebastian thought—or rather hoped—that this time, it was a warmer, more welcoming silence.
“Now then,” Galina Odoyevtseva said. “Regarding Lomonosov’s ‘The Song of River Angels,’ what—”
The bells chimed out in the hallway, a signal to guests that dinner was about to be served. She paused until the bells stopped ringing. Then she placed her book on the small side table beside her chair and stood.
“Perhaps, Sebastian Turgenev, we may continue this conversation at dinner?”
He smiled at her. The first genuine smile he’d mustered since he’d destroyed the plains. “It would be my pleasure, Galina Odoyevtseva.”
She held out her pale, ink-stained hand to him, and he was not quite able to still the quiver in his own as he accepted it. It was soft and quite warm. Together, they made their way toward the dining hall, Sebastian’s mother following silently behind.
17
Galina Odoyevtseva Prozorova was a great admirer of contradictions. If pressed, she might even go so far as to say that she distrusted anything that appeared uncomplicated. In her experience, nothing was ever truly simple, and anyone who presented themselves as such was either foolish or deceitful. Galina was pleased to find that Sebastian Turgenev Portinari was neither.
Galina’s mother had made it abundantly clear over the course of the last few