Rosa and the Veil of Gold (44 page)

Time blurred. Daniel fluttered in and out of consciousness. He understood that he was somewhere warm and comfortable, that hushed voices circled around him, that somebody with tender hands was caring for him.

From time to time a face would flash into his field of vision: a pale face, framed by snowy hair, with eyes…eyes that seemed somehow familiar but somehow not. He’d dreamed once of those eyes, or had he? The line between waking and dreaming was hopelessly clouded.

After a time…days or weeks, he couldn’t tell…the voices became more distinct. Even snatches of conversation began to make sense.

Isn’t it wonderful, Papa? He has made her well again.

You must rest, my darling.

But I love him, Mama. I love him.

Who do you think he is?

When full consciousness came, it was all at once, in the first glimmer of dawn. He woke, and he was in a bed in a dusty room. Across from him another bed, with a snowy-haired boy asleep in it.

Daniel struggled to sit. His head hurt, and he groaned softly.

The little boy was sitting up an instant later, eyes wide with excitement. “You’re awake,” he said. “You’re awake.”

“Where am I?”

The little boy threw back his covers and ran into the hallway. “He’s awake, he’s awake!” he cried. Soon, the room was full of people: a hard-faced woman who pushed him firmly back into his
pillow and told him to be easy with himself; a hulking man with a sullen face; a thin, pale woman whom he recognised as the tender presence from his dreams; and the little boy, full of excited chatter.

“Who are you?” the boy asked.

“I’m Daniel,” he said.

“I’m Makhar. This is my mother Ludmilla, my father Anatoly who found you on your travels, and my sister Elizavetta, who was sick and unconscious, and on the edge of dying before you came.” Makhar sat on Daniel’s bed and picked up one of his hands to squeeze. “Thank you. You saved her. Look how her eyes shine!”

Elizavetta turned away coyly, a smile repressed on her lips.

“I didn’t do anything,” Daniel said, understanding that this was the Chenchikov family, whom Rosa had spoken of. “I can’t stay. I have to get to St Petersburg.”

“All in good time,” Anatoly said. He took Elizavetta firmly by the shoulder and turned her towards the door. “Luda and Elizavetta will fix you some breakfast.”

Elizavetta glanced at him over her shoulder, and he felt his heart lurch. Crazy. He didn’t even know her. His fingers fiddled absently with the end of the cool sheet. The smell of laundry detergent and faint damp mustiness.

Makhar was dismissed too, and Anatoly sat by Daniel’s bed. He took a few moments, adjusting his collar and running his hand over his beard. Finally, he said, “Don’t tell them anything.”

“I don’t intend to. I just want to get to St Petersburg.”

“You need to recuperate first.”

“You can’t stop me,” Daniel said, struggling to sit. “Rosa wanted—”

“Hush!” Anatoly said, pushing him down forcibly. “Hush and listen. I don’t want to stop you, fool. I’m not a monster. You have left your monsters behind.”

Daniel was taken aback, tensed himself to get out of bed and run if Anatoly was violent. The older man drooped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, and Daniel realised he was crying.

In time, he raised his head. “I am a man who has suffered,” Anatoly said, collecting himself. “I am a man who continues to suffer, and is still not reconciled to certain recent events.” He
watched over his shoulder for a long time, and Daniel waited, completely confused.

“Anatoly?” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

“Not all is as it appears to be, young man,” Anatoly said, as though he hadn’t heard him. “Some people will only ever see what they’ve always seen. Remember that. Now rest.”

Daniel watched him leave, wondering at his cryptic words. His brain was tired, and he did need to rest. He turned on his side, where he caught sight of a photograph on the bedside table. A young couple on their wedding day. He picked it up, read the inscription lettered in silver on the photo mat:
Ilya and Elizavetta.

Elizavetta. He examined her in the photograph, and the sense of familiarity, of knowing her somehow, was gone. This woman looked different. She was plumper, that was for certain, but she had been ill a long time.

No, it was something else.

Her eyes.

The woman in the photograph had pale blue eyes; the Elizavetta he had just met had eyes of dark ocean-blue.

Daniel flipped the photo face down, and smiled.

Rosa Kovalenka was beautiful and clever, and almost nobody knew the truth about her.

Those who did, kept it to themselves.

I would like to acknowledge the assistance of the following people:

For help with my research, my sincerest thanks to Dr Andrew Gentes, Dr Sonia Puttock, Professor Elizabeth Warner, Samantha Tinker, Tanya Martin, Andrei Nekrosov, Vladislav Nekliaev, A. J. Rochester, Caroline Yates, Carmen Roberts, Meg Heaslop and Kate Cuthbert. I claim all mistakes and bent truths as wholly my own.

For writing support, I’d like to acknowledge Paul Brandon, Mary-Rose MacColl, Verity Morgan, Sean Williams, Rebecca Sparrow, Louise Cusack and, of course, Selwa Anthony. I’d like to pay a particular debt of gratitude to Kate Morton, for going on this journey so closely with me: what a fine travelling companion you are, BF. The practical help offered by Mirko Ruckels, Elaine Wilkins, Nicole Ruckels and Ian Wilkins gave me the time and the space to write. Folk at HarperCollins who are never acknowledged fully enough for their positivity and goodwill are Stephanie Smith, Linda Funnell, Airlie Lawson, Alison Urquhart and Karen-Maree Griffiths (kisses to you, KMG).

A special thanks and hello to the staff of the Fryer Library, University of Queensland. Thank you for letting me work with the lights off.

Thank you also to Faye Booth, for her tireless work on my online community.

So much of the research on this project was done with the help of those who are impossible to talk to, but whose versions of Russia are the most vivid and evocative. So a special acknowledgement,
presumptuous though it may be, to Tyutchev, Blok, Pushkin, Lermontov, Akhmatova, Tolstoy, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninov, and mad, mad Prokofiev (where would this book have been without his sleigh ride?).

And for Luka Nikolai, a special thank you and the dedication of this book. You inspire me simply by smiling, and you have enriched my world beyond measure.

Kim Wilkins was born in London and grew up at the seaside in Queensland. She has degrees in English Literature and Creative Writing, and has won four Aurealis awards for fantasy and horror. Her books are also published in the UK, US and Europe. Kim lives in Brisbane with her partner, her son, and two spoiled black cats.

You can write to her at [email protected], or find more information at www.kimwilkins.com

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