The Lost Souls of Angelkov (12 page)

That was the last entry.

When Antonina couldn’t cry anymore, she took the book and went back to her bedroom. Now, in the near darkness, she caresses its cover with her hand and thinks about her son and a dog named Dani.

“Tinka?” she calls. She hears the dog’s short claws scraping at the edge of the bedcover. At almost twelve years old, Tinka is no longer able to jump up onto the bed. Lilya picks up the little cream- and caramel-coloured Maltese and sets her beside Antonina. The dog licks the back of Antonina’s hand and then walks to the end of the bed and turns in a circle four times before lying down.

Antonina remains still as Lilya moves about the dim room, putting away clothing and straightening bottles on the dressing table. There is nowhere for her to be, nothing for her to do. She is just waiting. Waiting takes a huge amount of energy; she is so tired all the time. She knows the men search the same trails, ride through the same
villages. She doesn’t ask to go with them now; she doesn’t have the strength.

Outside her door, there are hushed voices and many footsteps. Very quietly a man says,
Countess Mitlovskiya?
It might be one of the doctors, or the priest.

Lilya goes to the door, opens it and speaks, then closes it and comes back to the bed. “Nothing important,” she says, looking down at Antonina. “You must try to find peace, sweet Tosya.” She brushes Antonina’s hair from her forehead, and then leans over, kissing the smooth, warm brow. Her lips stay an extra few seconds on Antonina’s skin, and at that Antonina draws in a quavering breath.

“But how can I find peace, Lilya? How can I ever feel peaceful again?” she whispers. “I’m so frightened.”

At this, Lilya lies beside Antonina, putting her arms around her. Antonina buries her face against Lilya’s shoulder.

“I’ll help you,” Lilya tells her. “I will always be here with you.” Her voice, although barely above a murmur, is confident.

After a few moments, Antonina’s breathing grows soft and even. The laudanum, aided by the wine and the vodka she drank in Misha’s room, is working. Lilya moves her head back so that she can see the other woman’s face. She touches Antonina’s cheek, and then leans towards her and softly, softly, so as not to wake Antonina, kisses her mouth, tasting the laudanum on her lips.

T
he first time Lilya kissed Antonina was when they were thirteen years old, and she a village serf on Antonina’s father’s estate.

Antonina was the daughter of Prince Leonid Stepanovich Olonov and Princess Galina Maximova Olonova. Although it was difficult to remember the very distant royal lines so many of the aristocrats laid claim to, Russian nobility was divided into ranks, Grand Duke being the most senior title, reserved for members of the imperial family, followed by thousands of princes, counts and barons.

Prince Olonov had an opulent home in St. Petersburg but preferred to spend his time on his sprawling, luxurious country estate built in imitation of an English manor. The Palladian mansion in the province of Pskov had an imposing facade and separate wings, attached to the house by corridors. Outside were verdant parterres and
allées
. Spreading
for hundreds of versts in all directions were dark forests of birch and pine, and rolling meadows, ponds and rivers, as well as rich fields that, every year, with the labour of his serfs, turned from black to green or golden and yielded all manner of crops: wheat, corn, sunflowers and sugar beets. Prince Olonov owned thousands of souls, the male and female serfs living on the estate or in the many small villages that dotted the countryside.

Antonina was the last of four children. There were three boys before her, the youngest brother already eight years old when she was born.

Lilya was the daughter of a blacksmith and a fieldworker. Lyosha, ten years younger, was her only living sibling; six children had died between Lilya and Lyosha. They lived in one of eighty-nine single-roomed izbas in Kazhra, the village closest to the manor house.

One afternoon in early May, Antonina rode through her father’s forest, accompanied by Kesha and Semyon. They had been her guards for the last three years, ever since she had begged her father to let her ride away from the fenced fields near the house. Antonina stopped so her pony could nose at some soft underbrush; the new grass was just appearing after the long winter. Kesha and Semyon stayed well behind her, as Antonina demanded. She resented their constant presence, and longed to be alone, truly alone, although she knew it could never be allowed.

Antonina sat on her supple leather saddle as her pony munched the fragrant grass in the quiet afternoon air. After a moment she frowned, pulling up the pony’s reins to stop his
chewing, and turned her head. Signalling the two men to stay where they were, she rode slowly in the direction of what sounded like weeping.

In a clearing, a girl knelt, hugging a small cloth-wrapped bundle against her chest. As Antonina watched, the girl laid the bundle, very gently, in a shallow depression hollowed from the soggy, dead leaf–strewn ground, and started to brush the damp soil over the cloth. Lost in her grief, she didn’t hear Antonina until she had dismounted and walked a few steps towards her. As a dry branch cracked under Antonina’s foot, the girl’s head jerked up.

“What is that?” Antonina asked, stopping between the slim, naked birches. “What are you burying?”

The other girl jumped to her feet, brushing her hands down her apron. Antonina saw how red her hands were, the nails broken and rimmed with dirt. The girl immediately bent from the waist, her face parallel with the ground.

“Rise,” Antonina said, and the girl straightened.

Although she was afraid to look into the princess’s face, the girl studied the strange clothing she wore. The Princess Olonova, daughter of the man who owned her and her brother and mother and father, their hut and village and the land they worked, was dressed as a boy: trousers and a belted tunic and boots and a short jacket. Yes, the trousers were of luxurious brown velvet, and the white linen tunic fine, with stitching of the most delicate design down the front; the belt and boots were of soft, pliant leather, the jacket a rich dark green wool. But still, this was not the clothing of a princess. Her blond braids were coming out of their bindings, and the loose hair—she wore no hat at all—was stuck to her forehead with perspiration. Her eyes were wide
and grey-green, her mouth also wide, her nose perhaps a little too long. She looked slightly annoyed. For one instant the village girl in her ankle-length skirt and embroidered blouse and apron and kerchief thought that she herself looked cleaner and tidier than the princess. She silently asked for forgiveness, knowing she would confess her sin of pride that evening at church.

“I asked you what you are burying.”

Finally she glanced into the princess’s face, but only for a second. “It’s Romka. He was my puppy.”

Antonina went to the edge of the little grave. “What happened to him?”

“He ate poison put out for the rats in my father’s shop,” the girl said. She raised her head, although her eyes were lowered. “I didn’t know my father had set out the poison.” She drew in a ragged breath. “Poor Romka. He cried so loudly at the end.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the ends of her braids.

Antonina crouched, patting the earth over the slight mound. “Shall we say a prayer?” she asked, looking up at the girl, who stood motionless. “Shall we?”

The girl gave a small nod, blinking.

“What’s your name?” Antonina asked.

“Nevskaya, Lilya Petrova,” she answered.

“You know who I am,” Antonina stated, standing again.

The girl bowed low, her hands clasped in front of her. “Of course I know who you are, Princess Olonova,” she said, and then, with a slight hesitation, she looked up again. She was a little shorter than Antonina. She had dark auburn hair and eyes that were golden brown. Her skin was darkened from the spring sun and wind.

Antonina liked the colour of the girl’s eyes.

“I’ve seen you when you ride through Kazhra,” the girl added, as if the princess was waiting for an explanation. “Where I live.”

“Oh,” Antonina said, studying her. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen. Exactly three months older than you. To the day.”

“How do you know my birthday?”

Lilya’s mouth moved in a very small, uncertain smile. Her eyes were still damp. “Everyone knows the birthdays of the prince and princess and their children,” she said. “Each family in the village is given a celebratory bottle of vodka on the birthdays and the name days.”

“I didn’t know that.” Antonina studied Lilya. “So we are the same age. Do you have many friends in the village?”

“Oh yes, princess.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Do?” Lilya asked, growing more and more uncomfortable. She had never before been in the private presence of her landowner or any members of his family, but knew the importance of subservience to them.

“Yes. Do you play games with them?” Antonina thought of the yard boys on the estate and the confusing games they played with pigs’ knuckles and rocks and sticks. But she wasn’t to speak to any of them, unless it was to give an order.