Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [45]
I could never lie to her about these things, and yet I had trouble articulating why I had undergone such a change of heart. She knew, of course, that I had first gone to the university out of obedience rather than enthusiasm. And now, as much as I would hate to disappoint her if I quit, the drive to stay and to excel was entirely mine. “I am not sure,” I said after some soul-searching. “I suppose this is one thing that is entirely mine.”
She raised an eyebrow at me, but finished her tea and stood. “The coach will be here tomorrow at eight in the morning. Be ready.”
I slept surprisingly well that night. I suppose I should have fretted and been concerned for Wong Jun’s well-being and for my own impending and perilous trip. If there were to be a trip, if Jack managed to steal the necessary papers and we escaped the unpleasant attention of Dame Nightingale. Instead, I stretched like my mother’s tabby cat and went to sleep, not a worry in my mind . . .
. . . and it was morning with Anastasia whispering fiercely for me to wake up, wake up, miss, please wake up.
She got me dressed—I chose a sophisticated two-piece tweed ensemble trimmed with lace that simultaneously signaled refinement and naiveté—and made me breakfast. Eugenia had already gone for the day, and I wished I could talk to her a bit before leaving. Instead I had to content myself with admonishing Anastasia to not forget to take the message to all my professors, and not to spend too much time gabbing with Natalia Sergeevna.
The coach took me along the University Embankment, all the way around the eastern tip of Vasilyevsky Island, and turned north toward the Tuchkov Bridge to Petrovsky Island. I briefly considered the folly of building a city on several islands, and the dangers spring floods always presented. I had heard a few stories of the Neva and other rivers overflowing their banks despite the tall containment walls; hundreds of people drowned. I supposed the trick of living so close to water was to never contemplate the damage it could cause longer than strictly necessary. I stared out the window instead.
The coach traveled east and north, along Bolshoy Prospect, a crowded, noisy avenue that was not nearly as pleasant as Nevsky, and much dirtier. The northern wind brought clouds of acrid smoke and exhaust from the factories by the Malaya Nevka River, and I covered my nose and mouth with my handkerchief. The scent of lilac sachet was comforting and far less objectionable than the air. We turned east and traveled over a small wooden bridge to Zayachiy Island. The carriage stopped at the gatehouse of the fortress—a place of grim aspect—and the coachman assisted me out.
“I’ll wait for you here, miss,” the freedman driver said. “Here, on the outside.”
I could not blame him for not wanting to go into the fortress. I hesitated myself, suspicious this was all a ploy to lure me here. I soon realized that was rather irrational. Surely, a simple arrest would get me into jail just as securely and more efficiently than laying an elaborate trap. I knocked on the small side door by the gate.
A guardsman in full uniform the epaulettes as large as his face let me inside, and I admired the trees and the carpet of orange and red leaves lining what in the summer was likely to be a very soft lawn. The guardsman escorted me to the commandant’s house.
Commandant Mishkin, a stout, mustachioed man in shining black boots and very thoroughly pressed uniform, checked my papers and asked me a few perfunctory questions. As he walked me along one of the many twining paths toward the Ravelin itself, he smiled. “You know,” he said, “this fortress is quite prestigious, far as jails go. Some of the brightest minds have stayed with us at one time or another.”
I found the idea that the caliber of a prison was measured by the talents of those unjustly contained within terrifying and funny at the same time, a comical nightmare. I managed not to betray my thoughts but only nodded thoughtfully.