The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) by William Dietrich Page A

second salvation was the abiding peace of nature. Winter’s beauty became our antidote to despair, its blacks and whites starkly scenic. Oddly and unexpectedly, I found our plight lightening my spirit as much as it depressed it. Instead of maneuvering for advantage in cutthroat Russian society, we’d escaped to fundamentals. We gave ourselves over to the rhythm of the earth, its pale dawns and pink sunsets, its bitter freezes and cheerful campfires. The outdoors was pure compared to the hives and muck of cities and castles. I liked the company of my family, which required no posing. I liked that choices became simple. Which lane? When to rest? Where to collect firewood? Which cabin to approach?
    It reminded me of my fur trade days. While I didn’t confess to Astiza that I’d begun to secretly wonder how happy I’d really be with noble title and overseer responsibility, I did wonder if Rousseau was right that our natural state is a more primitive one. “He who multiplies riches multiplies cares,” Franklin once warned me.
    Some nights the aurora borealis was on display. Harry was initially uncertain about its eerie shimmer, but I told him it was a promise of better days to come.
    “Is that heaven, Papa?”
    “Maybe heaven’s door.”
    The winter days were slowly lengthening and brightening. Snow sparkled by day and glowed by night. The stillness let us listen to the woods slowly drip to life. The forest streams smoked at dawn, their water sharp as champagne. The first birds of the year called and flitted. Moss had the glisten of fine raiment.
    Sometimes Astiza and I took turns carrying Harry, but most of the time he marched manfully in the snow, fatigued, hungry, curious, and rarely complaining. He had us all to himself, after all, until he could bask in the attention of the fussy farm matrons who spoiled him.
    The peasant huts were low, snug, and colorless, given that paint is one of the boundaries between city and country. On the outside the logs were weathered as gray as the periodic overcast, and inside they were stained almost black by hearth fires and rush lights. Yes, the habitation was rude. But there was a Red Corner for guests beneath an icon of Mary, shelves for precious cups and pots, and pegs for guests’ fur coats and woolen mittens. The wealthiest peasants had a prized ancestral samovar from which they would serve tea in tiny cups, guests taking ten servings each during the long winter evenings. The blackened ceilings were lightened by burning eggshells in the hearth, the heat carrying the white bits aloft to stick overhead and sparkle like little stars.
    The rudest huts had no chimney or windows and an open hearth, which meant the door had to be cracked for ventilation when the owners lit a fire. We learned to wait to enter until heat carried the worst of the smoke to the ceiling, and then not to stand lest we spend our visit coughing.
    Prouder cabins had a real oven, chimney, and even glass windows. Farm animals would be housed in stables either below or above the human quarters, lending heat, and we learned a cow was worth seventy iron nails. Chickens were kept in cages in the living rooms each winter. Dogs sprawled, and cats patrolled against mice. The men fished and hunted while the women weaved, everyone waiting for spring.
    In sum it was rustic but surprisingly comfortable. Above and behind each hearth was a brick and clay platform warmed by the constant fire. Here was the master bed, our hosts always surrendering this prized perch to visitors while they took the cold floor. Richer peasants fed us potatoes, pork, peas, sauerkraut, and once some kielbasa sausage. When I gave them a coin or two, their eyes widened as if it were a fortune.
    My reflexive greed shamed me.
    “Our dreams are so foolish, Ethan,” Astiza murmured one night as we lay under their blankets, our hosts snoring on the other side of the oven. “These people seem more content than all the nobles in Russia. We contend for