The Jewel of St Petersburg by Kate Furnivall

drifting down like white apple blossoms.
    “Well? What did he say?”
    Valentina tried to laugh. “Papa, would prefer that I marry an officer.”
    “Valentina, you can’t be a nurse.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because you’re too thin-blooded. You’re too fragile. You’d wither and die in the harsh reality of a hospital. They are not pleasant places, I assure you.”
    “You survived it.”
    “I was raised on a farm.”
    There was nothing Valentina could say to that. She inspected her own hands, viewing their palms and their straight fingers. They didn’t look fragile to her or thin-blooded. They looked strong.
    “Nurse,” she said as Sonya was leaving, “will you teach me things? About nursing, I mean.”
    The nurse shook her head, her eyes soft and sad. “Nyet, no, malishka. I cannot teach you about nursing. That way we’d both end up being horsewhipped in the snow.”
    The door shut quietly behind her. Valentina unlocked her drawer and took out her list.

    S PASIBO, BARYSHNYA. THANK YOU, YOUNG MISTRESS.” THE kitchen maid bobbed a curtsy.
    “Merry Christmas, Shastlivogo Rozhdestva, Alisa,” Valentina responded.
    It was the annual Christmas evening ritual of presenting every servant with a gift from the Ivanov family. There were festive swathes of greenery and a brightly decorated Christmas tree from the fir tree market next to Gostiny Dvor. Valentina stood first in the line, passing out sweets and soap, shaking each hand in turn. Next to her, her mother wore gloves and a fixed smile as she handed out a length of good woolen material to each of the women, and a new razor and a pouch of tobacco for the men. Elizaveta Ivanova insisted that her male employees be clean shaven, even the gardeners. Her father stood with his back to the fire, legs apart, as he toasted his coattails and presented each member of his staff with a small velvet bag of coins. Valentina heard the chink of them as they landed in the outstretched hands and was curious as to how much they contained.
    “Shastlivogo Rozhdestva. Merry Christmas, Miss Valentina.”
    “Merry Christmas to you, Arkin.”
    This was the first time she’d seen the chauffeur out of uniform. He was wearing a neat jacket and clean white shirt. He looked lean and athletic. A determined face. The forthright way his gaze met hers made her wonder what went on behind those cool gray eyes of his. She placed the absurd sweets and soap in his spotless hand.
    “Spasibo,” he said, but the smile he gave her wasn’t quite a chauffeur’s.
    “Arkin, you drove well the other day. When we were caught in the car on Morskaya. Thank you.”
    He seemed about to say something but changed his mind and gave her a respectful nod of his head instead.
    “Where is Liev Popkov this evening?” she asked. “I don’t see him here.”
    His polite smile hardened. “Popkov is otherwise engaged, I believe. In the stables.”
    She frowned. “Is a horse sick?”
    “You’ll have to ask him, Miss Valentina.”
    “I’m asking you.”
    His eyes remained on her far too long for politeness. “I don’t believe it’s a horse that is sick.”
    “Liev? Is he unwell?”
    “Valentina, you are slowing the line, my dear,” her mother said firmly. “Come along, Arkin.”
    Immediately he moved onward to accept his next gift. Something about this chauffeur, something carefully hidden under that polite exterior of his, sent a shiver down Valentina’s spine.

    L IEV? LIEV?”
    Where the hell was he?
    “Liev Popkov!” she shouted again in the stables.
    And then she found him. Eyes shut, heavy limbs lifeless. Stretched out on his back on a pile of straw in a vacant stall. Her heart stopped. Not again. First his father, Simeon, and now him. The smell of blood in her nostrils all over again.
    She started to scream.
    “For fuck’s sake, stop that racket, will you? You’re scaring the bloody horses.”
    He had one eye half open, scowling at her while he scratched his armpit.
    “You stupid dumb