Konstantin bowed and made the sign of the cross. Sasha strode down the gallery, feeling as though he had touched a slimy thing and wondering why he should feel afraid of a poor pious priest, who had answered all his questions with that air of sorrowful honesty, in a deep and glorious voice.
VASYA WAS SCRUBBED TO her pores by the efficient Varvara, who was perfectly in her mistress’s confidence and perfectly unflappable. Even Vasya’s sapphire pendant only elicited a scornful snort. There was something naggingly familiar about the woman’s face. Or maybe it was only her briskness that reminded Vasya of Dunya. Varvara washed Vasya’s filthy hair and dried it beside the roaring stove in the bathhouse. “You ought to cut this off—boy,” she said drily, as she braided it up.
Vasya frowned. Her stepmother’s voice would always live in some knotted-up place inside her, shrilling “Skinny, gawky, ugly girl,” but even Anna Ivanovna had never criticized the red-lit black of Vasya’s hair. Yet Varvara’s voice had held a faint note of disdain.
“Midnight, when the fire is dying,” Vasya’s childhood nurse Dunya had said of it, when she had gotten old and inclined to fondness. Vasya also remembered how she had combed her hair by the fire while a frost-demon watched, though he seemed not to.
“No one will see my hair,” Vasya said to Varvara. “I wear hoods all the time, and hats, too. It is winter.”
“Foolishness,” said the slave.
Vasya shrugged, stubborn, and Varvara said no more.
Olga appeared after Vasya’s bath, thin-lipped and pale, to help her sister dress. Dmitrii himself had sent the kaftan: worked in green and gold, fit for a princeling. Olga carried it on one arm. “Do not drink the wine,” the Princess of Serpukhov said, slipping unceremoniously into the hot bathhouse. “Only pretend. Do not speak. Stay with Sasha. Come back as soon as you can.” She laid out the kaftan, and Varvara produced a fresh shirt and leggings and Vasya’s own boots, hastily cleaned.
Vasya nodded, breathless, wishing she might have come to Olga a different way, so that they could laugh together as they used to, and her sister would not be angry.
“Olya—” she said, tentatively.
“Not now, Vasya,” Olga said. She and Varvara were already arranging Vasya’s clothes with brisk and impersonal skill.
Vasya fell silent. She had a child’s memories of her sister feeding chickens, hair straggling out of its plait. But this woman had a queenly beauty, regal and remote, enhanced by fine clothes, a headdress, and the weight of her unborn child.
“I haven’t the time,” Olga went on more gently, with a glance at Vasya’s face. “Forgive me, sister, but I can do no more. Maslenitsa will begin at sundown, and I must see to my own household. You are Sasha’s concern for the week. There is a room waiting for you in the men’s part of this palace. Do not sleep anywhere else. Bolt your door. Hide your hair. Be wary. Do not meet any women’s eyes; I do not want the cleverer ones to recognize you when I eventually take you into the terem as my sister. I will speak to you again when the festival has ended. We will send Vasilii Petrovich home as soon as we may. Now go.”
The last tie was fastened; Vasya was dressed as a Muscovite princeling. A fur-lined hat was pulled low over her brows, over a leather hood that concealed her hair.
Vasya felt the justice of Olga’s planning but also the coldness. Hurt, she opened her mouth, met her sister’s unyielding stare, closed it again, and went.
Behind her Olga and Varvara exchanged a long look.
“Send word to Lesnaya Zemlya,” said Olga. “Secretly. Tell my brothers that our sister is alive and that I have her.”
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when Sasha met Vasya at the prince of Serpukhov’s gate. They turned together and began steadily to climb. The kremlin was built on the crest of a hill, with the cathedral and the Grand Prince’s palace sharing the apex.
The street was rutted and winding, choked with snow. Vasya watched her feet, to keep her boots out of all manner of filth, and had to scramble to keep up with Sasha. Solovey was right, she thought, dodging people, a little frightened of their impersonal hurry. That other town, that was nothing to this.
Then she thought, sadly, I will not live in the terem. I am going to run away before they try to make me a girl again. Have I seen my sister for the first time in years, and the last time forever? And she is angry with me.
The guards saluted them at the gate of Dmitrii’s palace. Brother and sister passed within, crossed the dooryard—bigger, finer, noisier, and filthier than Olya’s—climbed a staircase, and then began a trek through room after room: fair as a fairy tale, though Vasya had not expected the stink or the dust.
They were climbing a second staircase, open to the hum and smoke of the city, when Vasya said, tentatively, “Have I caused great trouble for you and Olya, Sasha?”
“Yes,” said her brother.
Vasya stopped walking. “I can go away now. Solovey and I can disappear tonight, and we will not trouble you again.” She tried to speak proudly, but she knew he heard the hitch in her voice.
“Don’t be a fool,” retorted her brother. He did not slow his stride; he barely turned his head. Secret anger seemed to bite at him. “Where would you go? You will see this through Maslenitsa and then put Vasilii Petrovich behind you. Now, we are nearly there. Speak as little as you can.” They were at the top of the stairs. A gloss of wax brightened the carved panels of a great door, and two guards stood before it. The guards made the sign of the cross and bowed their heads in quick respect. “Brother Aleksandr,” they said.
“God be with you,” said Sasha.
The doors swung open. Vasya found herself in a low, smoky, magnificent chamber packed wall to wall with men.
The heads near the door turned first. Vasya froze in the doorway, like a hart in a dog-pack. She felt naked, sure that at least one among all the throng must guffaw and say to his fellow, “Look! A woman there, dressed as a boy!” But no one spoke. The smell of their sweat, their oils, and their suppers clotted the already close air. She had never imagined a crowd so thick.
Then Kasyan came forward, spruce and calm. “Well met, Brother Aleksandr, Vasilii Petrovich.” Even in that jeweled gathering, Kasyan stood out, with his firebird coloring, and the pearls sewn into his clothes. Vasya was grateful to him. “We meet again. The Grand Prince has honored me with a place in his household for the festival.”
Vasya saw then that the crowd was looking at her famous brother more than at her. She breathed again.
Dmitrii roared from a seat at a small dais, “Cousins! Come here, both of you.”
Kasyan bowed a fraction and indicated the way. The scrum of boyars pressed back against the walls, allowing them to pass.
Following her brother, Vasya crossed the room. A wave of talk rose in her wake. Vasya’s head swam with the shifting colors of jewels and kaftans and bright-painted walls. She made herself stalk stately after Sasha. A mad jumble of carpets and skins covered the floor. Attendants stood blank-faced in corners. Minute windows, mere slits, let in a little breathable air.
Dmitrii sat in the midst of the throng, in a carved and inlaid chair. He was newly bathed, pink and cheerful, at ease in the center of the boyars’ talk. But Vasya thought she saw turmoil in his eyes, something hard and flat in his expression.
Sasha stirred beside her; he’d seen it, too.