Rosa and the Veil of Gold (40 page)

A breeze shivered across the treetops. “I almost don’t want you to tell me,” Daniel said. “You’re frightening me.”

“I have to.”

“I know.”

Rosa paused. Where to start? Anywhere, she supposed. All roads led to the same awful destination.

“When my mother died she was only fifty-two,” she said. “Her mother died aged fifty-seven. They both died of the same thing.”

Daniel was puzzled. “Is that it? You think you’re going to die young?”

“Wait,” she said, holding a finger to his lips. “Wait. Don’t say a word, not until I’m finished. Let me tell my story. I don’t much like it, but it’s mine to tell.

“Mama died at fifty-two, but she was sick for a long time. In fact, the first symptoms started to show up when she was only in her thirties. At the time, she put it down to the shock of Papa’s death, but things got worse, not better. By the time she was forty-two, she had been diagnosed. The doctor who was treating her was the best we could find. Uncle Vasily funded it all. Dr Howlett was part of a research project at a big Canadian hospital, and because of the family history, because of the early onset of the illness, he asked Mama to be involved in the research. He sequenced one of Mama’s genes.”

Daniel nodded, but she knew he didn’t really follow. He’d always been more interested in art than science.

“They found a mutation.” She realised her words were rushing out, flat and breathless, and tried to regain control. Fate weighed heavy. “A mutation on the PS–1 gene.”

“What does that mean, Rosa?” he prompted.

“It meant that I could be tested too. If I wanted. Dr Howlett was very keen, my friends were less so. I was young and cocky, so I took the test.” Yes, she had once felt invincible. What a horror it had been to find out that she wasn’t. She tried an ironic smile. “I had the same mutation. It’s genetic fate. I’ll die of it too.”

Daniel shook his head. “You’re going to die in your fifties? And for this you won’t be with me now?”

Rosa felt then that Daniel could never understand. He probably thought she had inherited some romantic illness; something fitting for the raven-haired goddess he had always taken her to be, and she’d always encouraged him to imagine. A romantic wasting disease, a scented deathbed, perhaps, all covered in vines and rose petals. And then, an angel weeping on a headstone and two or three liquid-eyed children to console him. She could have laughed, but it would have sounded bitter and hard.

“Don’t you want to know, Daniel? What I’m going to die of?”

Daniel shrugged. “Cancer?” he asked, probably because his own mother had died of cancer. He had been too young to see any of the mess and substance of her suffering.

“No, not cancer,” she said, twisting the hem of her skirt between her fingers. “Nothing nearly so easy on my dignity.”

Daniel shook his head, growing impatient. “Rosa, we might have thirty years together. That’s enough time for love, and children, and holidays at the beach. What could be so bad that…”

The fire cracked and popped expectantly. An owl on a nearby tree ruffled its feathers and swooped away. Rosa felt the pressure of fear, of embarrassment.

“Alzheimer’s,” she said, setting the word free at last. And, damn, here came the stupid tears.

“Alzheimer’s?”

“Yes, yes. Forgetting who I am. Becoming a dead-eyed vessel.” Her voice died off to a whisper.

Daniel was silent. A few moments passed, and she knew already that he was as repulsed by the illness as she was.

But then, “Rosa, Rosa,” he said, reaching for her hand, “it might not be so bad.”

She snatched her fingers away. “I know precisely how bad it will be. I nursed my mother through it. She didn’t know who I was
some days. Some days she threw things at my head. Some days she cried for hours and asked where my father was. Some days she just sat there like a zombie while I mopped up body fluids. I know
exactly
what I’m in for.” Then, quieter: “What you’re in for.”

“I love you, Rosa. I’d look after you, no matter what happened.”

Her mouth contorted and she reined in a sob, angry that she couldn’t get her feelings under control. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want you to look after me. Not under those circumstances. I don’t want you to see me so ruined.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“I’d mind! This isn’t about you.” Her face grew warm. “This isn’t about wanting to spare you the pain. This is about me. I want to stay beautiful and clever. I want to remember everything. I want to remember myself. I don’t want to lose myself.” The yawning chasm of fear opened up within her as she named it, the worst fear she had.

He reached out to touch her, but she shrugged him off, leapt to her feet and paced, swallowing her sobs and feigning composure. “That’s why I’m staying here, Daniel. Here, my own death can’t find me.”

“Rosa, if you stay here you’ll die horribly.”

She shook her head, calming herself with her new exit clause. If Papa Grigory was telling the truth, there was a way out.
If
he was telling the truth. “No, no. You see, I’ve met Papa Grigory now. He keeps himself safe, and his little girl. I can live with them.”

“And never leave his cottage? You? Spend forever in a tiny space like that? You’d go insane.”

She hadn’t yet imagined it, and Daniel’s words deflated her. “Well, then, if I hate it after a hundred years, I can always walk out and be torn to pieces in the forest,” she said flippantly.

“Just as long as you don’t think you can walk out, back to Mir and find me. Because I’ll be dead before the hundred years is up.”

His serious voice annoyed her. She waved him away. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t make me feel guilty. This is my decision, my life, my brain.” She tapped her head. “I’m staying here.”

Daniel shook his head sadly. “Then I’ll let you go,” he replied, “but I will love you every day of my life.”

Rosa returned to the fireside, folded her arms around him. “Daniel, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

He was stiff in her embrace. “You know, all of this is so…” Anger confounded his words. “I can’t bring myself to wish I’d never met you,” he finished, “but if I was sane, I would wish it.”

She drew back to look into his eyes, and saw how tired he was and cursed herself for burdening him with this when he should have been resting. He had slogged for months through hostile countryside. “When was the last time you slept properly?” she asked. “You should lie down.”

“I’m not going to sleep. Not now. How could I, after what you’ve just told me?”

“Then just lie down next to me.” She encouraged him to lie, his head in her lap. “We’re here together now, Daniel. Let’s enjoy it.”

“I’m not enjoying anything. I want to know how—”

“No. I won’t discuss it any further.” She loosened the dreaming girdle from her waist. Without him knowing, she smoothed it across his shoulder. It would help him sleep, deeply enough to dream at least. She stroked his hair and gazed at the fire, muttering a little sleep incantation under her breath.

“Rosa?”

“Let’s not talk any more. There’s nothing more to talk about.”

One minute passed. Two. Then he was asleep.

Rosa watched the fire for a long time, thinking. Stars glimmered coolly above her, Anatoly bumped inside her. From time to time, she glanced at Daniel, his beloved face made childlike by sleep. She ached to be with him, to live out those fantasies which she knew he harboured as she did. But what choice did she have? If Anatoly had left her even a shred of her own magic to grow, she could return to Mir and then come back here in ten or fifteen years, before it was all too late. But she couldn’t leave Anatoly inside her much longer. He would eventually choose his own death to imprisonment in the dark spaces under her ribs, and he’d be clever enough to do it without passing any magic into her.

Daniel was right in one thing. Living forever in Papa Grigory’s little cottage was not ideal either. Eventually she’d be tempted out, longing for adventure, for sights and sounds as yet unwitnessed,
and then she’d meet her death and wander revenant, a miserable confused soul forever.

Thoughts of Papa Grigory led to thoughts of the Golden Bear. Why had Perun and Veles told her a different version of events? What motives did each party have? It wasn’t that she believed them over Grigory—he’d been more than generous to her—it was simply that something Veles had said repeated over and over in her head:
At least go to see the Snow Witch. Once you see her, all will be clear.

Rosa thought that clarity might be precisely what she needed.

A dream at the edge of slumber.

A fair-haired girl. Pale blue eyes that turned to him, then deepened to the dark colour of fathomless oceans. A shock to his heart.

“Rosa?” he muttered, half-waking.

“Shh…I’m here,” she said.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asked, sitting up. A piece of material slipped off his shoulder, and Rosa scooped it up quickly.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“You looked cold.” She tied it around her waist and smiled. “Did you have sweet dreams?”

He frowned, remembering a dream only moments past which had now fled from memory. “I can’t remember.” He met her eyes. What he did remember was the nightmare of last night’s revelations. Her vanity, her stubbornness: two qualities he had always adored about her, but which now stood between them.

“You’ve only been asleep a few hours. Get some more rest if you like.”

He ran his hand through his hair and yawned. “I’m fine. You?”

“I’m eager to get going. The sun’s nearly up.”

“Where are we going, then?” Daniel asked.

Rosa smiled cautiously. “You won’t argue with me about it?”

“Would there be any point?” he asked.

She shook her head. “We’re heading north-east,” she said. “We’re going to see the Snow Witch.”

What in the two worlds is she doing?

Rosa Kovalenka has taken my raven and is heading for precisely the place I don’t want her to go!

I pace and I curse, and Totchka draws back from me, frightened. Why is Rosa doing this? Doesn’t she know she is mine to control? My
bogatyra
, the heroine of my story. I put her on this journey, I dressed her in red, I furnished her with the secret weapons. Foolish, foolish girl.

Or am I a fool? An old fool, a desperate fool, a weak fool?

Totchka is alarmed. I’ve told her to play with her seashells outside, but she prefers to sit on her bed with her dolls, eyes turning up to me repeatedly, checking that I am not going to break the dishes and bite the table. I must collect myself. I must finally tell you why the Snow Witch can’t have the Golden Bear. I have told you the rest of my story, there’s no use in keeping the last from you.

You knew, I suppose, that it was me? That “Secret Ambassador” was one of my many appellations? You live long enough, you gather more names, as though identities proliferate the way memories do. It was I who negotiated with Olga, with Mokosha, with Sofya and Aleksandr. It was I who worked so hard for Skazki, to keep us attached to Mir by blood. The demons and spirits were too stupid, the old gods were too lazy. I alone, deathless wanderer, was suited for the task.

After Aleksandr’s hasty half-promises, I resolved on spending more time in Mir, but away from court. The noble classes, after all,
were a fraction of the population. I had to accept that I had done all I could in keeping Mokosha’s blood on the throne, and now my real work was out among the people, encouraging them to pick up their old ways. I acknowledged, too, that Christ’s religion was never going to leave Russia, but I had noticed how often the pagan and the Christian sat easily side by side in rural practices. A wolf-eyed sorcerer from Skazki offered little in the way of persuasion for Mir people, but a holy fool, who preached salvation along with superstition, did.

I first settled in the Tobolsk region, where I met a woman who needed a father for her three small children. I took her dead husband’s name for convenience. It was Grigory Efamovich Rasputin.

I loved the peasant way of life. I loved its simplicity and its carnal nature. I reconnected with my baseness out there. I plugged as many women as would have me, I ate and drank to excess, I rolled in muddy puddles and worshipped Mother Moist Earth with my prick. When I grew bored with my new family, I began to wander in my high-cut peasant boots, with my loose shirt and long black coat, carrying a crooked staff. I wandered for years, and I met many good Mir folk, and I returned to them their old superstitions. I even spent time with Church hierarchs, learning as much as I could about this earthly religion and finding areas of doctrine which overlapped into mysticism, so I could later exploit them. I used my magic for miracles, for healing and enchantments, and tales of my passing reverberated around the countryside.

Word of my powers travelled far, and finally made it back to St Petersburg, and to the Tsar Nikolai.

I was not unaware of his family, of course. I still had my magic mirror to watch them. In the entire time that Mokosha’s blood was in Mir, and despite the intermarriages with other countries, that blood never flowed outside of Russia. It couldn’t bear to leave its Mother. All I needed was a little Mokosha, warm in a beating Mir heart, to keep the worlds from slipping apart permanently. At least Aleksandr’s promise had ensured that.

Two of Nikolai’s children had it: the youngest daughter, Anastasia, and Aleksei, the little boy. Aleksei had inherited something else in his blood: it wouldn’t clot properly. Little
accidents became huge catastrophes. The boy was terribly ill, seemed doomed to an early grave.

Still, I did not force my hand. This time, I wanted to come to court as an invited guest, not as a sinister intruder.

When I came to St Petersburg, it was at the behest of one of the Tsaritsa’s closest friends, Anya Vyrubova. Anya was interested in mysticism, in prophets, mesmerists, saints, clairvoyants, rogues and madmen. She was a pretty moon-faced woman, doe-eyed and sweetly smiling, although there was something vain and vacant about her. She found for me a little room, and made sure I wanted for nothing. I was comfortable there for a time.

St Petersburg was a thriving modern city. Motor cars shared the bridges with horses and carts; electric street lamps lit the roads radiating out from the admiralty; the finest homes always had a telephone. Anya paid me handsomely for a few magic tricks, and from there my reputation spread. I was besieged by supplicants: they wanted miracles, blessings, prophecies. Magic is physically demanding and, at first, I would lie exhausted on a shelf of the bathhouse after a night’s work.

Then I grew canny. I gave very few of them what they really wanted. They were mostly happy to be divested of their money in return for some mumbling incantations and vague platitudes about God.

Those who couldn’t pay in money paid in other ways. Sweets, alcohol, clocks, flowers, fish, anything. Some women, bored with their upper-class lives and drawn to my raw, bestial nature, paid with their bodies happily. Repeatedly.

I was humping one such woman, a baroness with stout ankles, on my creaking iron bed, when Anya burst into the room. She was flushed and her eyes sparkled. Without apology, she said, “Grigory! Exciting news! The Tsaritsa has asked to meet you!”

Anya and I were received in the Formal Reception Room of the palace at Tsarskoe Selo and told to wait. Anya sat on an upholstered French chair, while I circled the gold parquet floor. Seven huge windows invited in broad streams of sunlight. The walls, overlaid with white marble, seemed to glow. I paused in my pacing, gazing out the window over Aleksander Park. It was
only October, but a light snow had fallen the previous night. Yellow leaves loosened and dived in the breeze, and with the sun glinting on the snow the effect was one of silvers and golds, as though the park was an extension of the extravagant grandeur inside.

“No need to be nervous, Grigory,” Anya said. I hadn’t realised she had come to stand at my side.

“I’m not nervous,” I said to her with a smile. “I’m excited.”

The door flew open, then thudded closed behind an imposing woman. Anya hurried to her side, offering her a kiss. “My dear Sunny,” she said. “I have brought the holy man to you.”

The woman turned to me. Her strong German face was beautiful, her blue eyes imperious, her red-gold hair gleamed in the sunshine. This was the Tsaritsa, Alix of Hesse-Darmstadt. The nickname “Sunny” had never suited anyone less. I never saw her brow without rainclouds upon it. I never saw her hands still, or her feet in one place. Even on this, our first meeting, I could sense a great disquiet in her. It wasn’t my way to humble myself before these people, and I sensed anyway that I would make inroads with this woman if I avoided the simpering servility which kept all others at a distance from her. I walked forward, seized her elbows and enfolded her into an embrace.

“Mama,” I said, “how you must have suffered with your little boy.”

Sunny took a step back from me, alarmed but not angry. “Yes, I have. But how could you know?”

“I haven’t told him anything,” Anya interjected quickly.

“Your son,” I said, “he suffers a bleeding disease.”

Sunny pressed her hand to her mouth. “That is impossible for you to know. We have kept it secret from all but our closest circle.”

“It is true though,” I said.

Sunny lowered herself into a chair, her elbow resting on the ebony table beside her. “How can he know that?” she mumbled. “Anya, are you sure you didn’t tell him?”

“I said nothing of Aleksei to him,” Anya said, her round eyes agog. “I am as amazed as you.”

I knelt in front of her, boldly taking her hands. “I know more than that, Mama,” I said. “I know the trouble on your heart is
guilt, that you believe Aleksei’s illness is your fault. The bleeding is in your family, isn’t it?”

Sunny’s hand went to her breast, and she began to breathe rapidly.

“But I will tell you this now. The child will outgrow his illness. By the time he is a man, he will be well.”

Sunny met my gaze, and her eyes were damp and her lips were trembling. “How can you say that will be so?”

I rose, smoothing my tangled hair. A few crumbs dropped out on the shoulder of my rough shirt. “I will make it so. If you will allow me to help you.” I returned to the window, letting my promise sink in. From the corner of my eye, I could see Anya urging the Tsaritsa to stand, to approach me. I waited, and she came.

“My son,” she said, “has just learned to walk. He stumbles and falls often. It makes me mad with worry. As though blackbirds in my head are flapping to be free.” Here, she pressed her hand against her temple. “This morning, he hit his knee. It has already swollen hugely, and he has hardly stopped crying.”

“Then bring him to me,” I said, “and we shall see how it goes.”

Sunny hurried to the door, throwing it open and bustling out. From a distance, I could hear her bellowing, “Maria! Bring Aleksei at once!”

Anya fell to her knees and touched my hand. “Grigory, you are a prophet.”

“Stand up, Anya. We are old friends.”

“I feel humbled. I have always been your most ardent supporter, but I did not know your gifts were so far-ranging.”

I pulled her to her feet. “Now, now, Anya. Enough of that.”

Anya clutched at my fingers still, shaking her head. “Do you not see? If you can heal Aleksei, you will be the most powerful man in all of Russia.”

Precisely then, the scampering of feet rushed down the corridor towards us, and a little white dog raced into the room, with a little fair-haired girl in pursuit.

“Trushka, no!” she declared, hunting the dog to his hiding place under a table and firmly wagging her finger at him. “Bad dog.” Then she looked up, saw me, and her jaw dropped. “Oh, my!”

I was puzzled. I knew that this was the Grand Duchess Anastasia, all of four years old but already remarkable for her pretty, mischievous face. Why should she react to my presence with such surprise?

“What is it, little girl?” I asked.

The dog ran past her and back into the corridor. Anastasia glanced after him only briefly, turning her gaze back to me. “I dreamed of you last night, sir,” she said, “and now you are real.”

I smiled, hoping the gesture would diminish the oddness of my wolf-like eyes. “Was it a nice dream?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. You were trying to steal my bear.”

“Your bear?”

“I’ll show you.”

She raced off and I turned to Anya, feigning amused puzzlement. It was not odd to me that Anastasia should dream of me and the Golden Bear, especially the night before my arrival. Her Skazki blood gave her many gifts that she would probably never recognise or use.

In a few moments she was back, panting and flushed, with the dog scurrying at her heels. She presented for my inspection the Golden Bear. I took it carefully from her.

“She’s very beautiful,” I said. “Where did you get her?”

“She belongs to my family, but I love her the most and so she stays in my room. Though Aleksei stole her the other day, but I just stole her right back.”

I was stroking the bear’s familiar belly when Sunny returned, stern-faced.

“Get that dog out of here! You imp, I’ve told you no dogs in the reception room.”

Anastasia collected the dog in her arms, and started, “But, Mama, this man—” Then she hushed when the nurse stole into the room with little Aleksei in her arms. The child was crying softly, hoarsely.

“I’ll go, Mama,” she said, leaving quickly and closing the door behind her.

I placed the bear on the table, and moved forward to lift Aleksei from the nurse’s arms. She shrank from me, frightened. The child,
however, relaxed as soon as he was in my embrace. No magic there. Sunny and the nurse were nervy women, always anxious and over solicitous. With me, Aleksei merely felt that somebody strong and calm was in charge.

“Sit with me, my child,” I said, lowering myself to the floor with my legs stretched out in front of me. I laid Aleksei across my lap and peeled back the bandage around his swollen knee. The blood was collecting under the skin. Fortunately it was only a minor bump, but a major injury would easily result in the boy bleeding to death. I understood the Tsaritsa’s anxiety. It wasn’t just for herself: it was for her country. Aleksei’s death would leave Nikolai without a male heir.

I was still not sure what I would do, though I felt certain that somehow the sympathy of my Skazki nature, and this child’s Skazki blood, would provide the key. I placed my hands on the swelling, and Aleksei whimpered but didn’t flinch. Beneath my fingers, I could feel Mokosha’s blood, strong and magical. The Mir weakness, which Sunny had introduced into Aleksei’s body, was trying to drag it down.

The first thing I had to do was to ensure that the child wouldn’t die while I performed my magic. He was very young, and there was no telling what effect powerful magic might have on him. I hummed softly, rocking him back and forth, preparing to store his soul outside of his body to protect it from whatever physical demands I had to place on it to heal him. There were no dogs, ducks or rats nearby. Ordinarily, I would have preferred to send his soul into another warm being, but on this day, I decided to send it to the Golden Bear.

With a breath and a muttered incantation, the boy’s soul flew away, speared into the bear, and sat waiting to return. Aleksei still cried and whimpered, and I understood that an inanimate object like the bear could not hold a life completely within its dark confines, that the layer of the soul most closely linked to the physical had to stay behind in a warm body and continue to suffer. Suffering I could allow, but I would not allow this child to die.

I cupped the swelling on his knee with my palm, and closed my eyes and forced my mind down into the blood. Dark and red and moving around me like a powerful river. In it, I searched for
Mokosha, for the familiar shadowy intensity of her magic; I pulled the shadows together, creating a tide, and with the tide, I pulled the blood back, out of the swelling, into his veins and heart. Below my hand, the lump began to shrink, Aleksei’s sobs eased and his little body drooped and cooled. I had gone too far; I let go. His breath caught on a hook. Mine too. Then he breathed again, and warmth returned to his skin. I pressed him against me and hummed his soul back into his body, and he was restored to himself. He sat up and looked around, palming tears from his face.