The Wolf Princess Page 13

  Sophie wanted to laugh. Dmitri could tell her any number of secrets if he was going to use Russian.

  “I don’t understand your language,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You never heard these words?”

  “They’re very beautiful,” Sophie murmured, unsure what the boy was talking about. “But I don’t get to learn Russian at my school for another two years.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “The princess invited us.”

  This answer seemed to puzzle the boy. “But why? Why three girls from England? What does she want with you?”

  Sophie tried to hold the Russian words in her mind. “Volky? Is that something to do with wolf? Ivan told us that Volkonsky means wolf …”

  The boy nodded, smiling for the first time. “I can tell you these words in English,” he said slowly, “but I do not understand their true meaning …”

  “Tell me anyway,” Sophie said. Something in the rhythm of the language had delighted her. It seemed to capture beauty and sadness even though she had no idea what the words meant. And it was so lovely to sit here, in the candlelight, listening to Dmitri’s voice speaking Russian. She realized that when people spoke English, she was never aware of their voices, only what they said. But in not understanding anything, instead she had listened intently to how Dmitri spoke.

  “In the depths of evening,” Dmitri whispered, “snow falls like diamonds. Wolves sing in the moonlight. We part.”

  “That’s beautiful,” she said. “But it’s sad, too. Everything here seems to have so much sadness in it.”

  “Is words from poem, from old song said to calm even wolves,” Dmitri said, smiling for the first time. And then, simply and beautifully, he began to sing. His voice, sweeter than Sophie could have imagined, caught on the end of the first phrase. He breathed in, pushed off again. He could have been skating over the notes.

  She knew this song! Her father had sung it to her, in the dream of the forest. Hadn’t he? She laid her head against the rope of crystals and looked into the petals of light on the floor as Dmitri sang, his voice weaving itself around the chandelier. She saw their faces reflected hundreds of times over. And she realized that she was fooling herself. She must be wrong. How likely was it that her father would know the same song as Dmitri? She sighed, and watched as the reflection of her face in the crystals tipped to one side. She might not know if this was her father’s song or just an echo of some other melody, but what she did know was that she felt more at home in the ropes of crystals and the sad comfort of Dmitri’s voice than she had felt for years.

  “You are so lucky to have a place like this to hide,” Sophie whispered when he had finished. “I don’t think I’ve been in such a beautiful hiding place in my life.”

  “But even in lyustra, you can’t hide from time.” He picked up a dirty rag. “And I have to clean this lyustra.”

  “I was trying to find the gallery,” Sophie said. “Ivan told us about Prince Vladimir. I wanted to see where …”

  “When she arrived, the woman locked up the gallery,” Dmitri said. “She found the keys to many rooms and locked them.” He was silent for a moment. “But at night, I hear her. She walks through the palace. She is looking for something.”

  “But what?”

  “Many things were lost.”

  “Maybe the diamonds,” Sophie said. “She said there was a diamond necklace that she would show us, if she found it.”

  Dmitri looked at her. “She will never find the Volkonsky diamonds. They are hidden.”

  Then before she could ask him what he meant, he pushed the loop of rope toward her, and she put her foot through and took hold of the rope. And then she was dropping down through the crystals, through the dancing flakes of light.

  Before she left the ballroom, she turned back to Dmitri, still suspended in the chandelier. He waved his cloth at her, slowly, and his graveness and the way he watched her made her want him to be her friend. She would make him her friend. She would forget what the princess had said about him.

  She walked slowly along the dim corridors, navigating herself by staircases and statues. She could hear voices: Delphine’s shriek of laughter, Marianne crying, “Geronimo!” What was going on? She ran toward the noise, the happy, carefree voices of her friends.

  Ivan stood by a door. He looked relieved as she ran toward him. “We came to find you,” he said. As she came closer, he pulled her to one side. “Please. While you are in the Winter Palace, the princess wishes you to stay with your friends.”

  “Come on, Sophe!” Delphine called.

  Puzzled by Ivan’s words, Sophie looked into a large room dominated by an enormous mahogany slide. At the top was Delphine, waving enthusiastically. “Have a go at this! It’s so funny!” She lay down, facing backward, and slid, headfirst.

  “It is where the Volkonsky children would take their exercise when the storms were too wild to play in the forest.” Ivan smiled as Marianne shot past.

  “Together! Holding hands!” Marianne laughed, climbing up the stairs after Delphine. “Let’s wait for Sophie!”

  Delphine, beaming, held out her hand.

  And Sophie, suddenly realizing how much she adored these two girls, ran happily to join them.

  Delphine hugged her. “Friends?” she said. “Even though I was a fool? I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Always,” Sophie laughed.

  Supper had already been laid out in their room. Relieved that they were now friends again, the girls took great care with each other, laughed at the slightest hint of a joke, and talked only about things that would not cause offense. Sophie hoped that the princess might visit them again.

  But she did not appear, although Sophie thought she had heard footsteps outside. And just as she drifted off to sleep that night, she thought, too, that she heard the cries of many wolves, as though they were singing her to sleep.

  Something woke her.

  “Hello?”

  There were squares of moonlight on the floor. Someone laughed and Sophie heard muffled footsteps running, but it was all subdued, as if it were coming from another room.

  “Delphine?” she called, sitting up. “Marianne?” Both girls appeared to be fast asleep. “Look, if this is some kind of joke, it’s not that funny.”

  The palace fell silent once more. Only her breathing to be heard.

  Sophie closed her eyes, but she was wide awake, every nerve tingling.

  Scuffling again. Did someone cough? She thought she heard a door open, but it was not the nursery door. More footsteps, and then shallow breathing right next to her pillow.

  “Got you!” she said. Her eyes snapped open as she grabbed the hand that was reaching out to her face.

  A startled cry. “Atpusti menya pajaluista!”

  It was a young girl. Sophie was so surprised she loosened her fingers, and the girl immediately twisted out of her grip and scampered behind a chair. Sophie could see her brown hair over the top. She could see a small foot, too, shod in a felt slipper, sticking out into the room.

  Trying to keep her voice as calm as possible, Sophie said, “You don’t have to hide. I won’t hurt you.”

  The girl stayed where she was.

  “You don’t speak English?”

  “Da, I speak Pangeleesky!” The voice was high, musical. “I learn with my brother from book.” She pronounced the word “boooooork.”

  Sophie thought about turning on the light, but decided it might scare her.

  “I like you,” the voice said. “You pretty face.”

  “Thank you,” Sophie answered, craning her neck to try and see the child behind the chair. The foot in the felt slipper was drawn out of sight with a giggle. “But,” Sophie added, “I can’t tell if I like you, because I can’t see you. Why don’t you come out from behind the chair?”

  There was no movement, no sound.

  “Are you cold?” Sophie asked. “We could share this glass of tea that someone kindly brought me whi
le I was asleep.”

  “But that was me, that was me!”

  The voice was accompanied by a furious clapping of hands. A thin white face with thick dark eyebrows peeped out from behind the chair. Sophie smiled and the face disappeared again.

  “I bring tea … and jam.” She talked as if she was listening to every word she was saying and was fascinated by how those words sounded. “They let me come. I promise go back straight.” A sigh. “Then I see your face!”

  “What about my face?” Sophie could now see a slice of embroidered purple skirt.

  “I like very much!”

  The girl peeped out from behind the chair. Her brown hair hung in two long, straggling braids. She unfolded herself slowly and, as if drawn by threads, walked toward the bed. She came right up to Sophie, as though she couldn’t help herself, and stared hard. She had long black eyelashes and dark blue eyes.

  And then the words of the princess came back to Sophie. What if this girl was … a spirit? What was it she was meant to say?

  Sophie whispered, “For good? For bad?” really quickly under her breath.

  The girl gasped. “You think I domovoi?” she said. She took a step back from the bed, shaking her head.

  “No!” Sophie said too loudly. She dropped her voice again, not wanting to risk waking her friends. “I’m sorry. I’ve never been to Russia before. I get things wrong!” She smiled in apology.

  The girl nodded, as if she accepted the explanation. Sophie decided she had a kind face, curious and intelligent. Certainly not the sort of face that belonged to someone who would suffocate her.

  The girl carried on staring at her. Sophie picked up the glass of tea. “Why don’t you tell me your name?”

  “Masha,” whispered the girl. Her hand crept toward Sophie’s. She was clearly struggling with the temptation of stroking Sophie’s arm.

  “I am real,” Sophie laughed. “Look.” And she pinched herself.

  The girl laughed as well. And then, as if she still didn’t quite believe her eyes, she put a finger out to Sophie’s arm and prodded it.

  “How old are you?” Sophie asked. The girl was staring at her own finger as if it might speak to her.

  “Ten!”

  “Are you Ivan Ivanovich’s daughter?” Sophie smiled.

  “I no from him!” She shook her head vigorously.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophie said quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  The girl snorted. “I serve Volkonskys!” Her eyes flashed.

  “You know the boy? The boy who looks after the horse … the boy who met us with the vozok …”

  “Dmitri!” The girl smiled with delight. “He my brother. He see you, talk to you!” She said this as if it was quite the most amazing thing that anyone could have done. “He tell us you arrive.”

  “And you both work for the princess?” Sophie asked.

  The girl shrugged. “Princess?” She blew air through her lips. “We live too near the woods to be frightened by owls.”

  Sophie, to hide her confusion at the girl’s words, took another sip of tea. A horrible thought. The girl might not be an evil spirit, but was she mad? How did she get into the room? Sophie glanced at her over the top of the glass. The girl was picking at the fur pelt that was Sophie’s blanket.

  “You tell no one you see me? I not allowed in Over Palace.”

  “Over Palace?”

  “I live in Under Palace.” Masha was backing away from the bed. “And I have many busy work to do.”

  “Watch out,” Sophie called, as Masha was about to bump into the wall. The girl’s hand reached and pressed something. A panel slid away to reveal a shadowy passageway. A sour draft stirred from the unseen depths.

  The girl hovered, then, smiling, beckoned to her. “You come?”

  Sophie looked across at the sleeping forms of her friends. Marianne was curled up like a conch shell. Delphine lay on her back, her hair tumbling over her pillow. The thought of being in the room on her own with only two sleeping girls for company suddenly seemed unbearable. Sophie pushed back the heavy quilts and bearskins, swung her legs out of bed, and hopped onto the floor. The silver sarafan lay on the chair beside her. She threw it on, ran across the room through the squares of moonlight, and before she could think whether it was a good idea or not, Masha had grabbed her hand and pulled her through the wall.

  They ran down a narrow staircase, Masha’s felt-clad feet making no sound. Flickering pinpoints of light illuminated the way. But the speed of the girl! Sophie could scarcely keep up, and she had to keep her head down and her elbows in just to get through the cramped space. Her chest hurt.

  “I can’t bear this,” Sophie gasped. “I have to go back.”

  “No time!” Masha yanked on Sophie’s arm. She was surprisingly strong. “If feel scared, close eyes. I can see for two!”

  “But can’t you slow down?” Sophie could hardly catch her breath.

  “Nyet … nyet!” The words came at her out of the cramped darkness. “Never walk in the Under Palace. Always run. Faster! Faster!”

  If the Volkonsky Palace had once been magnificent, gilded, and ornate, here — in the space behind the rooms and along service corridors — everything was the exact opposite. The Under Palace was modest and plain. Even at the speed at which they ran, Sophie could sense the pride taken in the dull shine of the floor and the wrought-iron brackets in which small torches flared. Not a cobweb or speck of dust to be seen.

  Corridors crisscrossed each other, branching off in different directions. There were steps up and down, changing levels just when Sophie didn’t anticipate them. And still Masha ran.

  “Please, Masha, stop!” Sophie gasped. “I feel dizzy …”

  Masha skidded up to a door covered in green felt. She turned around to Sophie, her face suddenly apprehensive. She reached out and pushed a strand of Sophie’s hair out of her face, then spat in her hand and wiped what must have been a smear of jam from Sophie’s chin. Then she nodded her approval, turned, and knocked twice on the door.

  The sound was muffled by the felt, and Sophie wondered if anyone had heard. But a second later, a high, wavery voice answered. Masha opened the door slowly, talking to someone inside. A smell of smoke and vinegar made Sophie’s nostrils itch.

  Just as they were about to step through the doorway, Sophie having to bend her head slightly because it was so low, Masha turned and stared hard at Sophie’s face. She grasped Sophie’s hand tightly.

  “My family waiting …” she whispered. “They wait to see you.”

  A candle burned on a small wooden table, the pale light licking at rough wooden walls. No furniture to speak of; no possessions, either. It was as if Masha’s family lived in a forgotten waiting room. Sophie tried not to sneeze as the smell of vinegar, herbs, and wood smoke clutched tighter at her throat.

  A middle-aged woman with bright, round eyes and high, broad cheekbones put down her sewing and looked up. She put her hand to the headscarf, which was tied tightly under her chin, as if to check that it was in place. She pushed back her stool and stood up to greet her guest.

  “This my mother,” Masha said.

  The woman dipped her head in greeting.

  “How do you do?” Sophie said.

  Masha’s mother picked up an embroidered hand towel. On top of the neatly folded linen was a loaf of dark bread and, balanced precariously on this, a saltcellar. She held it toward Sophie.

  “I’m not very hungry,” Sophie said. And then, not wanting to cause offense, she added, “Although it’s very kind of you to offer.”

  The woman looked taken aback. She turned her face eagerly to Masha, nodding rapidly as if wanting Masha to translate Sophie’s words quickly.

  Masha shook her head as if she, too, was surprised. “Not food,” she said to Sophie. “This bread, this salt … We greet with blessing.”

  “Oh. Sorry! It’s not how we do things in London,” said Sophie. She watched as the woman poured out some salt and indicated that Sophie
should dip the bread into it. Sophie felt that her ignorance had disappointed them somehow, but she did her best to tear off a little piece of bread without knocking over the saltcellar, and dipped it into the mound of tiny crystals. A few of them stuck to the black bread, and when she put it in her mouth, it tasted strange, but delicious, too. “In London we just shake hands,” Sophie explained. She swallowed the dark, salted morsel. “Although this seems a much nicer thing to do.”

  The woman came closer. Because of the way her headscarf was tied, low over her forehead, tight under her chin, her face was a perfect disc. Sophie had the unnerving impression that the woman’s face was floating toward her on a column of embroidered fabric. Two hands came out of sleeves, picked up a lock of Sophie’s hair, and stroked it. She showed it to Masha.

  “My mother say: ‘A maiden’s beauty is in her hair.’”

  Then the woman held up Sophie’s hand and held it toward the candle.

  “My mother say: ‘Trust your own eyes more than others’ words.’”

  The woman turned Sophie’s hand over and traced the lines on her palm. Her fingers were slightly rough but her touch was light. She returned Sophie’s hand to her as if it were a present. Then she placed her outstretched index finger under Sophie’s chin and, calling Masha to bring the candle closer, turned Sophie’s face gently to the right and the left, inspecting every detail.

  Masha nodded as her mother whispered to her. “It is true what my mother says,” she explained gravely. “‘Eyebrows may be pretty, but firewood is more useful.’”

  “Your family is very friendly,” Sophie gasped, trying hard not to pull her face away from the candle. “Is this how you greet all your guests in this part of Russia?”

  “We have been waiting long time to greet person like you. No one ever comes to palace.” She frowned. “Until woman upstairs.” She smiled. “Now you come to palace. And now we so happy!”

  A door on the far side of the kitchen banged open. Dmitri, holding one hand in the other, stumbled in, crying out for something in Russian. He collapsed onto a stool. Sophie gasped as she saw that his hand was bleeding.