Under a Blood Red Sky by Kate Furnivall Page B

whispered.
    To Anna’s horror she felt her cheeks start to burn. She turned away to hide her quiver of excitement and looked out of the other window. Maria, Anna’s governess, was sitting on the jump seat opposite Papa, in her very best dress of green watered silk and wearing her very best smile. Anna loved her governess, especially today because there had been no frowns, no scolding and no schoolwork. Instead Maria had played the piano for them all when Grigori tired of doing so and danced with Papa until even her nose glowed pink.
    Afterwards there had been singing and champagne and wafer-thin squares of soft white bread piled high with glistening heaps of osyotr caviar. Now Papa was accompanying Svetlana and Grigori to the theatre, then the chauffeur would drive Anna and Maria home. Anna was perched between her father and Svetlana on the broad leather seat of the car. She had enjoyed the excitement of the day but was disappointed now that Vasily had vanished. He’d whispered to her that he had to meet a friend, but when she demanded, ‘To do what?’ his face had closed down and he’d given no answer.
    ‘Nikolai,’ Svetlana said, as though aware of Anna’s thoughts, ‘it was very naughty of my Vasily not to escort your daughter home tonight. I hope you’re not offended. He’s a bad boy.’ But she said it with a mother’s indulgent smile.
    ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Papa said. ‘With his snow sleighs and dancing, your Vasily knows exactly how to please my daughter and therefore how to please me.’
    He glanced out of the side window as they crawled nose to tail behind a queue of evening theatre traffic along Bolshaya Morskaya, the lights in the shops twinkling invitingly, reflecting off the black silk of the top hats. After a moment he looked back at Svetlana.
    ‘Where are they tonight?’
    She gave an elegant shrug. ‘I don’t know. There’s an eight o’clock curfew.’
    ‘They’re in Palace Square,’ Maria said quietly. ‘Thousands of them. With placards and banners.’
    ‘Damned Leninists!’ Grigori growled.
    Svetlana sighed. ‘What are they on strike for this time?’
    ‘They’re demanding bread, madam.’
    Svetlana touched the pearls at her throat and made no comment, but the words had caused an abrupt change of mood in the car. Anna had the feeling that her feet were suddenly in ice water.
    She hated to see Papa’s face so worried and to cheer him up she said, ‘Vasily says that everything will get better for the workers soon.’ She stuck out her arm to point to one of the shops they were just passing. ‘Vasily says that jewellery shops like that one will close because they are criminals.’
    ‘Criminals?’ Papa queried.
    ‘Yes, he says they are criminals to make fifty-two eggs of gold for the Tsarina and the Dowager Empress while the working man doesn’t even-’
    ‘Ah, I think Carl Fabergé may not agree with my son there,’ Grigori muttered grimly.
    ‘And Vasily says there are machine guns on rooftops to-’
    ‘Annochka,’ Svetlana said firmly, ‘you must not listen to everything my son tells you.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because… he is like you,’ she wrapped an arm round Anna. ‘He still believes the world can be mended.’
    ‘Papa,’ Anna said seriously, ‘I believe we should do more to help some of these people Vasily says are without food or warm clothes. You and I have more than we need of both, you must admit. So we should share with them.’
    Papa patted her knee in a forgiving sort of way that was extremely annoying. Grigori grunted and Maria smiled. But Svetlana laughed out loud and tightened her arm round Anna’s shoulders, so that the ostrich feathers that trimmed her midnight-blue velvet cloak tickled Anna’s nose, making her sneeze.
    ‘ Bud zdorova! ’ the adults chorused. ‘Bless you.’
    Papa kissed her cheek. ‘Bless you, my dearest child. Bless you today, tomorrow and all the tomorrows to come.’
    Anna stared out of the window at the