flurry of knitting needles, spicy gossip, and a faint odor of peppermint and cologne. An extra person here and there only added to the expansive Russian family hospitality. But Verity Byron was special; the hearts of all the Ivanoffs went out to her in her loneliness and grief, and with no family of her own to go back to, she soon became one of them. And of course, she was hopelessly in love with Misha.
Looking back now, Missie thought the time seemed tohave passed too quickly and she longed with all her heart to be able to turn back the clock. If only they hadn’t gone to Turkey her father would still be here … if only she hadn’t fallen in love with Misha Ivanoff and had gone home to Oxford … if only there had been no revolution and things had stayed as they were … she wouldn’t be running for her life, with the double responsibility of an old woman and a small child to look after.
It was two days before the train finally made its way through the snowdrifts into Dvorsk, and in all that time Alexei had said not a word. His huge frightened eyes had followed Grigori as he paced the bakery, raging at the railway’s inefficiency. Only if Grigori was there would Alexei eat the bowls of thin soup and the bitter black rye bread, still warm from the baker’s oven. And whenever Grigori put on his coat and went to the door he would find Alexei at his side, staring at him silently, a forlorn little figure following at his heels like a dog faithful to his new master.
The ancient steam engine, fueled with small mountains of logs, spat smoke and sparks into the foggy, freezing early-morning air. Suddenly a great crowd converged on the small station, pushing and shouting as they fought their way onto the already-crowded train. Their carriage had at one time been the luxurious private coach of an official of the railway company, but now it was reserved exclusively for Grigori and his entourage. There was no heat or light, but the velvet seats were cushioned, and two young officers carried a milk churn filled with soup, some loaves of bread, and candles. Compared with the other passengers, crammed onto slatted wooden seats or on the bare floors and corridors, and even lying on the overhead luggage racks, they were traveling in comfort.
Every so often the train would stop and Grigori would jump from the carriage and stride along the track, conferring angrily with the engine driver. But the engine wasold and the fuel not enough, so that even when it started again, it merely crawled along.
Soldiers in tattered makeshift uniforms patrolled the length of the train, demanding identification papers and travel permits. Every so often, as the senior officer on board, Grigori would be called upon to arbitrate over some infringement of the rules. Although he was a hard man, he still felt a kinship for those of peasant background. He knew most were only trying to rejoin their scattered families and he dealt leniently with them. The case of the English girl was different.
She was standing in the corridor in the grip of a pair of dirty, unkempt soldiers, and Grigori noticed two things about her: She was very beautiful in a cool, European way, and she was very angry. Her violet eyes flashed sparks of contempt at her captors.
“Tell them to take their hands off me,
at once,”
Missie commanded in excellent Russian. “They have no right to treat an Englishwoman this way.”
She turned to look at him, catching her breath as she recognized him, almost blurting out the question that burned in her brain day and night: “Where is Alexei?” But instead she stared down at Solovsky’s boots, biting her lip. She and Sofia had come to a decision in the long wait at the Yeventlovs’ hut. Everything that was past had to be pushed from their minds, buried with their dead. If they were to survive they could only look forward. And Missie desperately wanted to survive.
At a word from Grigori, the soldiers let go her arms. She rubbed her bruises,
Looking back now, Missie thought the time seemed tohave passed too quickly and she longed with all her heart to be able to turn back the clock. If only they hadn’t gone to Turkey her father would still be here … if only she hadn’t fallen in love with Misha Ivanoff and had gone home to Oxford … if only there had been no revolution and things had stayed as they were … she wouldn’t be running for her life, with the double responsibility of an old woman and a small child to look after.
It was two days before the train finally made its way through the snowdrifts into Dvorsk, and in all that time Alexei had said not a word. His huge frightened eyes had followed Grigori as he paced the bakery, raging at the railway’s inefficiency. Only if Grigori was there would Alexei eat the bowls of thin soup and the bitter black rye bread, still warm from the baker’s oven. And whenever Grigori put on his coat and went to the door he would find Alexei at his side, staring at him silently, a forlorn little figure following at his heels like a dog faithful to his new master.
The ancient steam engine, fueled with small mountains of logs, spat smoke and sparks into the foggy, freezing early-morning air. Suddenly a great crowd converged on the small station, pushing and shouting as they fought their way onto the already-crowded train. Their carriage had at one time been the luxurious private coach of an official of the railway company, but now it was reserved exclusively for Grigori and his entourage. There was no heat or light, but the velvet seats were cushioned, and two young officers carried a milk churn filled with soup, some loaves of bread, and candles. Compared with the other passengers, crammed onto slatted wooden seats or on the bare floors and corridors, and even lying on the overhead luggage racks, they were traveling in comfort.
Every so often the train would stop and Grigori would jump from the carriage and stride along the track, conferring angrily with the engine driver. But the engine wasold and the fuel not enough, so that even when it started again, it merely crawled along.
Soldiers in tattered makeshift uniforms patrolled the length of the train, demanding identification papers and travel permits. Every so often, as the senior officer on board, Grigori would be called upon to arbitrate over some infringement of the rules. Although he was a hard man, he still felt a kinship for those of peasant background. He knew most were only trying to rejoin their scattered families and he dealt leniently with them. The case of the English girl was different.
She was standing in the corridor in the grip of a pair of dirty, unkempt soldiers, and Grigori noticed two things about her: She was very beautiful in a cool, European way, and she was very angry. Her violet eyes flashed sparks of contempt at her captors.
“Tell them to take their hands off me,
at once,”
Missie commanded in excellent Russian. “They have no right to treat an Englishwoman this way.”
She turned to look at him, catching her breath as she recognized him, almost blurting out the question that burned in her brain day and night: “Where is Alexei?” But instead she stared down at Solovsky’s boots, biting her lip. She and Sofia had come to a decision in the long wait at the Yeventlovs’ hut. Everything that was past had to be pushed from their minds, buried with their dead. If they were to survive they could only look forward. And Missie desperately wanted to survive.
At a word from Grigori, the soldiers let go her arms. She rubbed her bruises,
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