skull and she found herself tipping sideways.
“Valentina, you’ve had enough. Go to bed.” Popkov kicked her, but gently. He slid his boot over the straw and prodded her thigh as though she were a pig. “Get out of here,” he growled.
“What did you give her?”
“Give who?”
“Tell me.”
He paused, staring down at the straw. “A horseshoe. I polished it and”—she could tell he was embarrassed—“and wove ivy and berries through it.”
Valentina thought it the most beautiful gift she could imagine. “Nothing for me?” she asked.
He raised his black eyes to hers. “You’ve got my vodka. What more do you want?”
She laughed then, and felt the world drifting in confusion out of her reach. “Mama and Papa are making me go to a Christmas ball,” she said, and closed her eyes. The darkness started to spin alarmingly, so she forced them open again. The wretched creature was watching her with amusement.
“You’re drunk,” Popkov said.
“Go away,” she muttered, the words slow and slurred.
The next moment she was floating in the air, her hands and feet weightless. When she squeezed her eyes open a crack she saw darkness whirling around her like dust.
“Liev, put me down.”
But he ignored her.
Dimly she was conscious of being carried into the dark house through the servants’ entrance, but her eyes slid shut and opened only when she was plonked on her own bed with no attempt at courtesy.
“Liev,” she murmured, struggling to keep the ceiling from somersaulting on top of her, “I don’t think—”
“Sleep,” he growled.
“Spasibo, Liev,” she said softly. “Thank you.” But he had already left the room.
P LAY FOR ME.”
Katya was in her wheelchair and they were alone in the music room. Valentina’s head still throbbed at the base of her skull but at least she could turn it now without it falling off. Vodka, she vowed, would never touch her lips again in this lifetime. She’d cursed Popkov. Cursed his uncorked bottle. Cursed the way he had led out the horses the next day, whistling a jaunty folk song with no hint of a brain pickled in alcohol.
“Please,” Katya said, “play something for me.”
“I won’t be good today,” Valentina muttered as she lifted the lid of the piano. Just the sight of the keys, lined up and quietly waiting for her, loosened the tension within her.
Katya laughed. “You’re always good, Valentina. Even when you say you’re bad, you’re good.”
Valentina was unaware of what she would play until her fingers found the keys. From under them came the opening bars of Chopin’s Nocturne in E Flat, the piece she had played for the Viking. Instantly she forgot there was a world outside. Aching head or no, her music professor would be proud of her as she balanced the melodic line perfectly against the left-hand chords, producing a pure cantabile legato in the right hand, feeling the music flow with each beat of her heart. Through her lungs. Across her shoulders. Down to her wrists and fingers.
“Valentina.” It was her mother. When had she walked into the room?
“Valentina,” Elizaveta Ivanova said again, “it’s time to start getting dressed for the ball tonight. You agreed to go, remember?”
Valentina’s hands froze above the keys.
Number 5 on her list: Obey Mama.
Her hands sank down onto the keys in a harsh jarring chord. “Yes, Mama, I agreed.”
Carefully she closed the piano lid and walked over to a small silver box on the table beside Katya’s chair. She removed a brass key from the box, returned to the piano, and locked it, then walked over to the window. She opened it a crack and tossed the key out into the snow. Without a word, she walked out of the room.
V IKTOR ARKIN’S FACE WAS DISTORTED. ONE EYE SLID away into his hairline while his mouth stretched to the size of a wrench. For a second he stared at his reflection in the curved surface of the Turicum’s brass headlight and wondered what else in him might be
“Valentina, you’ve had enough. Go to bed.” Popkov kicked her, but gently. He slid his boot over the straw and prodded her thigh as though she were a pig. “Get out of here,” he growled.
“What did you give her?”
“Give who?”
“Tell me.”
He paused, staring down at the straw. “A horseshoe. I polished it and”—she could tell he was embarrassed—“and wove ivy and berries through it.”
Valentina thought it the most beautiful gift she could imagine. “Nothing for me?” she asked.
He raised his black eyes to hers. “You’ve got my vodka. What more do you want?”
She laughed then, and felt the world drifting in confusion out of her reach. “Mama and Papa are making me go to a Christmas ball,” she said, and closed her eyes. The darkness started to spin alarmingly, so she forced them open again. The wretched creature was watching her with amusement.
“You’re drunk,” Popkov said.
“Go away,” she muttered, the words slow and slurred.
The next moment she was floating in the air, her hands and feet weightless. When she squeezed her eyes open a crack she saw darkness whirling around her like dust.
“Liev, put me down.”
But he ignored her.
Dimly she was conscious of being carried into the dark house through the servants’ entrance, but her eyes slid shut and opened only when she was plonked on her own bed with no attempt at courtesy.
“Liev,” she murmured, struggling to keep the ceiling from somersaulting on top of her, “I don’t think—”
“Sleep,” he growled.
“Spasibo, Liev,” she said softly. “Thank you.” But he had already left the room.
P LAY FOR ME.”
Katya was in her wheelchair and they were alone in the music room. Valentina’s head still throbbed at the base of her skull but at least she could turn it now without it falling off. Vodka, she vowed, would never touch her lips again in this lifetime. She’d cursed Popkov. Cursed his uncorked bottle. Cursed the way he had led out the horses the next day, whistling a jaunty folk song with no hint of a brain pickled in alcohol.
“Please,” Katya said, “play something for me.”
“I won’t be good today,” Valentina muttered as she lifted the lid of the piano. Just the sight of the keys, lined up and quietly waiting for her, loosened the tension within her.
Katya laughed. “You’re always good, Valentina. Even when you say you’re bad, you’re good.”
Valentina was unaware of what she would play until her fingers found the keys. From under them came the opening bars of Chopin’s Nocturne in E Flat, the piece she had played for the Viking. Instantly she forgot there was a world outside. Aching head or no, her music professor would be proud of her as she balanced the melodic line perfectly against the left-hand chords, producing a pure cantabile legato in the right hand, feeling the music flow with each beat of her heart. Through her lungs. Across her shoulders. Down to her wrists and fingers.
“Valentina.” It was her mother. When had she walked into the room?
“Valentina,” Elizaveta Ivanova said again, “it’s time to start getting dressed for the ball tonight. You agreed to go, remember?”
Valentina’s hands froze above the keys.
Number 5 on her list: Obey Mama.
Her hands sank down onto the keys in a harsh jarring chord. “Yes, Mama, I agreed.”
Carefully she closed the piano lid and walked over to a small silver box on the table beside Katya’s chair. She removed a brass key from the box, returned to the piano, and locked it, then walked over to the window. She opened it a crack and tossed the key out into the snow. Without a word, she walked out of the room.
V IKTOR ARKIN’S FACE WAS DISTORTED. ONE EYE SLID away into his hairline while his mouth stretched to the size of a wrench. For a second he stared at his reflection in the curved surface of the Turicum’s brass headlight and wondered what else in him might be
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