Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [21]
Jack only shook his head. “I cannot help you there, Miss Trubetskaya.”
“You’ve already accomplished a great deal,” I said. “I am quite grateful. I will now look into the matter using my own resources.”
“I wish you good luck,” he said. Once outside, he put on his hat—not a top hat like most men wore that season, but the wide-brimmed, soft contraption he’d worn the night before. It hid most of his face from view—although not from me, because I walked closely enough to peek under it.
I had forgotten about Olga and Dasha who had gone ahead, quite content to walk along with Jack Bartram in whatever direction he cared to point the tips of his black scuffed boots. Even though his legs were ridiculously long, he took care to match his loping stride to mine, and seemed as pleased to walk along the paths covered in yellow leaves as I was. We breathed the bitter autumn smells and the scent of coal from the river, and I found myself in front of my dormitory quite a bit sooner than I expected.
As much as I found Jack’s attention flattering—especially because, rightly or wrongly, I assumed he was less aware of my impending titles and fortune than my compatriots, and therefore I could ascribe unselfish motives to him. As soon as I was alone in my apartment, I turned my mind to finding out about Wong Jun. It really would be more convenient, I mused, if one had an ability to not worry about people one had just met and seen arrested by the secret police. For better or worse, however, such ability was as beyond my grasp as the clouds now gathering outside of my windows.
Anastasia busied herself in the kitchen, and I sat by the window, resting my chin on folded arms, various possibilities bumping against each other in my mind. I had deferred worry over Lee Bo and Chiang Tse, having decided to trust Jack’s word of their safety. Wong Jun still seemed a natural target for my concern.
I took out my notebook and leafed through the notes, past diagrams of Newtonian and Da Vincian machines, to the meager still-empty section. I settled my lap-desk and snatched up my pen. Uncapping the well, I inhaled the rich smell of ink. I tore a page from my notebook, each page bearing the insignia of St. Petersburg’s University. Of course I had my own stationery, with the Trubetskoy crest, but the use of a page torn from a student’s notebook seemed a better choice. I was not above trying to project an image of artless and studious youth and innocence if it could help Wong Jun.
I addressed my query to Prince Nicholas himself and sealed the letter with the Trubetskoy seal, to ensure that it would be read. With nothing else to pursue as far as Won Jun’s predicament, I turned to studying for my impending exams.
I looked forward to the end of term and the short respite before the next one began—and I fervently hoped I would be able to see Eugenia and my mother during the recess.
Exams had filled me with enough sense of impending doom to chase almost every other thought from my mind. The increasing gulf between Olga and me seemed almost natural considering recent events, and the new friendship with Dasha Muravieva filled what little need for companionship I felt. But Jack Bartram occupied what thoughts I had other than study—quite disproportionately to our short walks between the philosophy class and the dormitory. During these strolls we spoke little, and I wondered about the role these ritual walks were starting to play in my life.
Jack rarely spoke about himself—I only gleaned that philosophy was his main focus and that he hoped to attempt a course of study in Germany, perhaps next year. I asked him about London, but he grew recalcitrant and spoke only in generalities. He complained about the smell from the Thames, and mentioned its gas-lit streets as something he was trying to leave behind,