Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [147]
Irina sat down beside her friend and took her hands in her own. “Well, who could blame you if you did? Still, I doubt your husband would approve.”
“Nikodim Gregorovich? He would be elated. I have never told anybody this, precious one, but the baron wanted me to do…certain things. And when I did, he…Well. Our marriage must be counted a failure.”
Irina did her best to look surprised by news which all of Moscow society had known for years. Luckily, the baronessa was too lost in her own unhappiness to notice the sardonic twist to Irina’s mouth when she said, “I am shocked. But never mind that. Come home with me, Dunyasha, and I will have my servants bathe you. Then I will dry you with my own two hands and lead you to bed, and pleasure you with my mouth. I will sing you a lullaby and watch over you until you fall asleep.”
“Dear, sweet Irinushka,” the baroness said. “Whatever have I done to deserve such loving kindness from you?”
“You honestly don’t know?”
“No.”
“Years ago, I was affianced to the baron at the time, and you stole him away from me. Surely you remember that.”
“Oh, Irina Varbarova, I’m so sorry! That was such a strange and romantic summer, with all those parties and flirtations, and somehow I convinced myself that you did not mind.”
“Nor did I,” Irina said. “It was to be a marriage of convenience. The baron had money and I had none. So my feelings toward him hardly mattered. But I was quite afraid of him. I believe that’s what attracted him to me in the first place. Really, I am indebted to you for saving me from a marriage I dreaded. Even if it did mean I lacked financial security as a result.”
“Oh, Irina, you will never want for anything so long as I live. Anything I have, whatever you want, is yours.”
“I know. That’s why I’m your friend.”
Irina could say things like that to Avdotya, because she knew the baronessa did not understand how true they were.
Anya Pepsicolova walked the streets of the burning city genuinely delighted with everything she saw. She was experiencing quite the most giddy joy imaginable. The gray, choking smoke that drifted through the streets—marvelous! The sound of cannon fire and of burning buildings collapsing—quite wonderful! The black snowflakes of soot that floated down through the air—a delight! She swung her arms up and down, like a little girl making imaginary angel wings in the air. She was free to go in whatever direction she cared. East, west, up, down, it didn’t matter. All ways were good when there was nobody to tell you no.
She came upon a fire engine being pumped by three of the biggest, hairiest men she had ever seen in her life. They were putting out the last smoldering embers of what had once been somebody’s house. Atop the engine stood a woman of such tremendous beauty as to make Anya disbelieve her own eyes. She stopped to gawk.
One of the apelike men squatted down and gently extended a grotesquely large and lumpish hand. “Heyyy, what a nice little fella. Is it yours?”
“Yes, but be careful. Vera’s a rescue dog. She has a temper.”
Vera bristled and showed her teeth but the big man held himself still, not flinching away, and clucked his tongue reassuringly. After a bit, she relented and let him rub her head. “Who’s a good girl?” he said. “You are. You are. Yes, you are.”
“I shared my meal with her and we bonded,” Pepsicolova explained. Then, to the beautiful woman, “You look awfully happy.” It was particularly delightful to encounter somebody as joyful as herself. Everyone