Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [31]
My first thought was to blame the Nikolashki—only they could’ve seized whatever property they desired without attracting attention, without the newspapers even knowing what was taken, and without having to engineer a fire. Since there were no suspects mentioned, they were not trying to frame anyone either. I decided the crime was genuine—that is, no official governmental bodies were involved.
Of course, my mind could not help but worry at Jack’s sudden appearance on the night that I first met him—he was there, by the club, soon after sunset. That was nothing, I told myself—plenty of people happened to visit the club, and plenty of others had made appearances in places that later became scenes of crimes—why, it was practically impossible to avoid.
I folded the newspaper, finished my bread and butter with grim determination, and decided to go for a walk along the embankment, to clear my head.
Thankfully, the rain had lifted, and the pale sun lit the sky, coloring it pearl gray at first and then pale blue. The tree branches, still studded with water droplets, shone in the sunlight, and as I left the dormitories, I thought of the winter, of how soon enough it would change everything—it would enclose the tree branches with a carapace of ice, as glorious as it was alien and terrifying; I imagined snow crunching underfoot, its virgin expanse quickly tracked and split with many footpaths, like veins on pale skin. I thought of all the birds—yellow, red-breasted—flocking from woods to the cities, to be cooed at and to feed shyly on breadcrumbs and grains of rye thrown to them. I walked alone, tracing the outline of Vasilyevsky Island with my slow footsteps, and thinking about school and Jack.
I tried not to think of my friends, especially of Chiang Tse—I tried not to guess if he had ever encountered snow, or if he would delight in learning to skate on the frozen surface of ponds and lakes. It felt so terribly unfair, that he, perhaps one of the gentlest people I knew, was chased away and denied the opportunity to enjoy the winter in St. Petersburg—not its shallow season and vapid self-aggrandizement, but its true and natural beauty offset by a frame of snow and ice into which it would be placed like a gray precious stone.
I realized then how much I missed Chiang Tse and his friends, how this final violation of their beloved club was a blow struck to a heart already wounded. How I missed them then, and how guilty I felt about the Manchu Wong Jun, locked up in a jail somewhere, not knowing that there were people who still cared about him. I couldn’t imagine whether it would be a comfort if he knew or not.
On Monday, my tormented unease was assuaged by Olga’s return—she did not say it outright, but I suspected her family preferred her here, safely away, where she was fed and looked after and taken care of. I greeted her with open arms, and felt only a small pang of guilt at the selfishness of my joy.
As soon as she had settled—which did not take at all long, seeing how she was gone only a couple of days—I told her about the Northern Star and Crane Club. She seemed, however, less interested in mechanical piano players and robberies than she was in Jack. She made me repeat everything Jack had said to me, and what I said back, and describe the way he was looking at me.
“Clear enough,” she said after our third cup of tea, and sat back in her chair. Anastasia took the gesture as a permission to retire, and was gone in the direction of Natalia Sergeevna’s apartment before I had a chance to dissuade her.
“What’s clear?” I asked, looking