Dead of Winter - James Goss [21]
‘Isn’t it?’ I said, oddly unconvinced. He was supposed to be dying, wasn’t he, and yet he was up and about after a couple of minutes. Sleeping Beauty was right – something was up with the Prince.
Boris had made us tea from a samovar before I’d realised. He was more like his old self. ‘Don’t fuss, dear Madame Pond,’ he said. ‘I’m quite better. The attacks are getting less and less severe. You really shouldn’t worry. Some things are worth making an effort for, and one of them is tea.’ He passed me a beautifully elaborate cup and saucer. ‘Now, drink this and tell me all about yourself.’ He smiled. It was a really charming smile.
So, I told him. Or, at least, as much as I could possibly remember. The more I said, the more scared I became as I realised there was really very little I knew about myself. I stopped.
The wind blew outside the window and the sea crashed against the rocks. The distant trees danced in the wind. It was like when you’re little and there’s one of those storms and you’re really praying that no one is going to mention ghosts. We sat on Prince Boris’s bed, sipping hot, sweet tea and looking at each other. He was terribly kind and he seemed to be listening attentively, even if he was yawning ever so politely. There was an odd expression in his eyes, as though, beneath all that merry laziness, he was calculating away intently, like a beardy computer.
I told him what I could about my boys and me – but it all sounded like nonsense. I could remember so very little. I knew we travelled a lot and that we did amazing things. There was something else – something dark and wrong that I couldn’t quite remember. Oh, and I may also have told him that I quite fancied Dr Smith. Which in the 1780s was probably punishable by stoning or corsets.
‘Poor Amy,’ he said when I had finished. ‘That was quite some bump on the head.’
I nodded. ‘What’s the matter with me?’ I groaned.
Time passed. The wind blew, rattling the windows. We talked and drank tea. No Connect 4, but Boris found some draughts. Turns out draughts is a lot harder when you’ve not played it since you were a kid, and he beat me solidly. Several times.
‘Oi,’ I complained. ‘You could let me win just the once. It would be chivalrous.’
Boris roared with laughter. ‘I have told you, I am a Romanov and—’
‘Yeah, yeah, you never let anyone win. Your wife must be so miserable.’
He shrugged. ‘Madam Pond! We are locked up together! What care we of husbands and wives?’
I had a sudden worry – was I going to be found by my husband being chased round a bed by an excited member of the Russian Royal Family? Ah well, Ra Ra Rasputin…
But Boris’s attention was elsewhere. He was checking the time on an elaborately jewelled carriage clock by his bedside. ‘Where is Kosov?’ he moaned. ‘The man is late.’
‘Does his majesty need his pillows plumping?’ I asked. Truth to tell, I wasn’t eager to meet the grumpy giant again.
Boris shook his head. ‘No… no… it’s not that…’
The storm crashed on. Something was wrong.
I looked out of the window. Through the rain-streaked glass I could see… well, it looked like Maria, walking down to the beach. I hammered on the window. But she didn’t hear me.
Boris hunted in the chest of drawers for cards. Then he stopped, and sank back onto the bed.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked. He was a very funny colour. By which I mean a very funny lack of colour.
‘He doesn’t normally leave me for so long…’ Prince Boris gasped. He shook his head, as though drowning. ‘Get Kosov… I need Kosov…’
He was a shadow of his cheerful self. I helped him back onto the pillows. ‘I am so weak… please…’ he muttered, sinking. And then he stared at me, aghast. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered. ‘What are you doing in my room?’
Then the coughing started again.