“I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
The fairness of her comment astounded him. Most employers liked to blame servants for everything. He waited, but no more words followed.
“Would you like to speak to Popkov himself about it?” he asked.
She gave the smallest of shudders. “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”
IT WAS THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING. VALENTINA HAD been sitting in the dark for two hours. When she heard Nurse Sonya’s heavy tread finally leaving Katya’s room, she waited a few minutes, then slipped out into the corridor. Her bare feet were soundless and she turned the doorknob to the sickroom with no more than a faint click. A fire crackled in the grate behind a mesh guard and on the bed a bulky quilt had been pushed aside, so that it lay humped like a range of mountains. The slight figure of her sister lay immobile under a sheet, though her head tossed restlessly on the pillows as if it belonged to someone else.
“Katya,” Valentina whispered.
Instantly the blond head lifted off the pillows. “Valentina?”
“How are you?”
“Bored.”
Valentina knelt on the end of the bed. “You know what gave you the fever, don’t you?”
“What?”
“That kiss on the filthy baby’s head.”
“It was worth it,” Katya smiled.
“You didn’t tell Mama or Nurse about it, did you?”
“Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
“Think of it as an adventure. But one we won’t be repeating. I overreacted, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t say you won’t take me on any more adventures.”
“If you really want adventures, Katya, you must get better. I’ll give them to you,” she promised, “only not quite as dangerous as that one.”
“An adventure isn’t an adventure if it isn’t dangerous. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” She pushed her damp hair from her eyes. “Tell me what the woman’s scar felt like when you touched it.”
“Like warm glass. Hard and slippery.”
“I felt sorry for her.”
“I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true, Katya. I hate them. I don’t care whether they call themselves Mensheviks, Bolsheviks, or Social Revolutionaries, they’re all the same to me. I hate them because of what they did to you.” She moved forward and kissed her sister’s hot cheek.
Katya lifted her hand and tenderly stroked her sister’s dark hair. “It’ll go eventually, the hatred,” she said with confidence.
“Did yours?” Your hatred of what they did to you? Of what I did to you?
“Yes.”
Valentina didn’t tell Katya it was too late. That the hatred had already burned its way down into her bones.
SHE KNOCKED ON THE DOOR OF HER FATHER’S STUDY. IT was time to tell him of her decision.
“Come in. Vkhodite.”
She pushed open the door. Her father was seated at his broad leather-topped desk and raised his head from the papers he was studying.
“You asked to see me?” he said. He didn’t look pleased about the interruption.
“Yes.”
He folded his arms. An unlit cigar flicked impatiently between two fingers. He was still a good-looking man, though a little heavy now from too many banquets at the Winter Palace, but she remembered him lean and fit when he served as a general in the Russian army. He wore his hair swept back from his face, with thick eyebrows over shrewd deep-set eyes. Dark as her own. They assessed her now.
“Sit down,” he said.
She sat on the chair in front of the desk and tucked her hands neatly in her lap. “Papa, I wish to apologize for taking Katya down to the Rzhevka district yesterday. I was trying to keep her safe from the strikers who-”
“I accept your apology.” He brushed a hand over his dark whiskers, as though he could brush away his thoughts. “What you did,” he said, “was foolish, but I realize you were trying to protect your sister.”
She had expected worse.
“Is that all?” he asked. “I am busy.”
“No,” she said. “That’s not all.”
He placed his cigar in an ashtray, then lined it up precisely beside a pen and a red pencil in front of him. His eyes lingered on the cigar as if he preferred to smoke it in peace. Her father had an orderly mind, which was why he worked where he did. Valentina didn’t know exactly what he did as a government minister, but she knew it had something to do with finance. She used to imagine him in his office at the Chancellery counting the tsar’s money, tall stacks of roubles right up to the ceiling.
Finally he grew tired of her silence and glanced up.
“What else?” he asked with a touch of impatience. “I have work to do.”
“Papa, I don’t want to return to school when the new term starts.”
He stared at her, surprised. No hint of the anger she had expected.
Then he smiled.
“I hope you approve, Papa,” she added quickly.
“I do indeed. Your mother and I have discussed the situation and we are convinced that schooling can do nothing more for you. It’s time to think about your future.”
It was only tiny, that first prickle of unease. She gave it no thought.
“I agree, Papa. I’m so pleased you think so too. That’s what I’ve been planning. I have an idea.”
He sat back in his chair and picked up the cigar on his desk with pleasure. He dispensed with its band, clipped one end, and smelled its fragrant leaves before taking his time lighting it. She had the feeling he was already celebrating something.
“So, Valentina,” he said, “for once we agree. You are a good daughter now.”
Now. Even so. It was a first step.
She tried to hold the moment, to not let it trickle through her fingers. “This idea of yours, have you discussed it with your mother?”
“Not yet, Papa. I wanted to discuss it with you first.”
“Foolish girl.” He smiled and exhaled a twisting string of smoke in her direction. “What do I care for dresses?”
“Dresses?”
“Yes, the dresses you have an idea about. You must discuss them with your mother. Mothers are the ones who deal with such matters.”
She inhaled quickly. Tasted the smoke. “Papa, I didn’t mention dresses.”
“Well, don’t worry, I’m certain your mother will want to talk about them.” He nodded indulgently. “I know what ladies are like when it comes to gowns.”
He rose from his seat and marched across the room, his body thick-waisted inside his frock coat. He was making a lot of noise, his sleeves rustling, his feet striding over the polished boards, his fingers tapping his shirt front. She knew these signs, recognized them as indications that he was exceedingly pleased. What was happening here? This conversation was not going right.
“I won’t need more than a few dresses,” she pointed out warily.
“No, my dear. If you’re to make a catch you’ll need at least thirty or forty gowns, I imagine. But I leave all that to your mother. The important thing is that the decision is made and we have already compiled a list of names for you to consider.”
“Papa, what do you mean, make a catch?”
He looked at his elder daughter fondly. “Find a husband, of course.”
“A husband?” Her hands fell off her lap.
“Yes, of course. Isn’t that what we’re talking about? Leaving school and finding a husband.” He drew on his cigar with obvious pleasure, paced the room, and flicked away stray strands of tobacco from his shirt front. “You’ll soon be eighteen, Valentina. Time to behave responsibly. Find a suitable husband this season and get married. Plenty of fine strong officers out there from good families.”
“I am not getting married, Papa.”
“Let’s have no foolishness, Valentina. What are you going on about now?”