The Emerald Atlas by John Stephens

well.” She frowned theatrically. “Alexei will insist on bragging about it at his club, and I’ll have no choice but to slaughter him and his entire family.”
    Kate smiled, and as she did, she saw Emma staring at her in horror. It was like being slapped awake. She yanked her hand away from the Countess, her heart pounding.
    If the Countess had noticed Kate pulling her hand free, she said nothing. She was pointing with her fan to a very old man with white muttonchops who was asleep in a chair. The old man sported such an enormous collection of medals that he was listing to one side. Kate half expected the weight to drag him crashing to the floor.
    “Behold my beloved husband,” the Countess said, speaking over the orchestra. “Isn’t he too revolting for words? And do you know that when I married him at sixteen, I was hailed as the greatest beauty in Russia? Shall we take a turn about the room?” She started away, and Cavendish, still clutching the book to his chest, gave Kate and Emma a shove to follow.
    “I admit,” the Countess said, moving through the crowd, nodding to people on either side, “there were those who insisted on praising Natasha Petrovski and her curdled-milk complexion and watery cow eyes. That was before, of course, she had that awful accident with the pitcher of acid. Poor dear, I heard she died in a Hungarian asylum. Mad as a hatter and raving on and on about a witch.” The Countess giggled, covering her mouth with her fan and giving Kate an aren’t-I-bad look. “But what was I saying? Oh yes, my husband. When I married the Count, everyone said he had no more than six months to live. I don’t need to tell you I didn’t plan on allowing him even that long. But wasn’t it just like the old mule to creak on for nearly a year? Honestly, he must have survived a half dozen of my attempts to poison him. Never marry a finicky eater, my dears. Nothing but trouble.”
    None of the guests appeared to notice the children. As the girls or Michael, or the Secretary for that matter, approached, the immaculately dressed people simply moved out of the way without ever looking at them directly.
    The Countess gave a bright little laugh. “Finally, I went to a hag and bought a potion of bees’ root, amber paste, and willow’s breath. No need for him to swallow a thing. He just breathed it in as he slept and come morning was as dead as a peasant in winter, leaving me sole mistress of the largest estate in the Tsar’s realm.” She turned to them, her face glowing at the memory, and curtsied low. “The Countess Tatiana Serena Alexandra Ruskin, at your service.”
    Kate and Emma stared at the bowed, blond head. Michael leaned forward and whispered, “It’s polite to—” but Emma elbowed him in the ribs. Kate was thinking of the day they’d first seen the Countess at the dam, how she’d seemed almost too radiant, too beautiful, too full of life. Now Kate understood: it wasn’t real. The Countess wasn’t sixteen or seventeen. In fact, if she was who she said she was, if she’d been alive when there were still tsars in Russia, she could be a hundred. Or more. Magic was keeping her young. No wonder she sometimes seemed like she was playing the part of a teenager.
    The Countess rose with a soft rustle of silk and gazed out over the dancers.
    “Yes,” she said with philosophical weariness, “this was my world. I had wealth, position, beauty. Simpleton that I was, I thought I had actually achieved something. But I was still to learn the true meaning of power.” She clapped her lace-gloved hands, and it all disappeared, the men in uniforms and tuxedos, the women in gowns, the orchestra, the green-liveried servants, the light from the chandeliers, all gone. The children were suddenly alone with the Countess and her rat-toothed secretary in the large, silent room. Only a few candles flickered along the walls.
    “Now,” she said with a smile, “shall we go out onto the verandah? I’d like to take