Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [66]
There was a thundering of hooves behind us, and a small group of hussars rounded the Kremlin wall and headed toward the embankment. They wore the same colors as the rotmistr—blue and red with white pelisses. I waved at them and called out, “Are you with the Muscovy Regiment?”
“Yes, lad,” one of them replied. “Semionovsky?”
“Indeed,” I answered. “Listen, if you’re heading down Balchug, there are some Englishmen who started fisticuffs with three hussars just a little while back. Rotmistr Ivankov was there.”
“The rotmistr?” the man sat straighter in his saddle. His breath clouded the air and left a thin patina on the silver tack of his bay gelding. The horse snorted, breathing out great plumes of dense white vapor, and I could see hairs on its muzzle rimed with hoarfrost. “We better go see if he needs help. Thanks for telling us, lad.”
“What was that about?” Jack asked as the hussars departed.
“You don’t understand any Russian?” We had always spoken in English, but I was taken aback to realize he never understood a word I said in Russian, as infrequently as that happened.
He shook his head. “I know, very lacking on my part. Maybe you can teach me on the train . . . after you explain about the rotmistr and the hussars.”
“Only if you finish telling me about your life,” I said.
“It’s a deal,” he answered. “We better hurry, though, to avoid Nightingale’s men catching up with us.”
“No need,” I said happily. “Those hussars will detain them and perhaps incapacitate them altogether.”
It was so cold that the inside of my nose felt frozen solid, and my lips split and chapped with every breath I took. Jack loped ahead of me, intent on arriving at the train station before the St. Petersburg train, his boots moving through blackened slush with aggravating ease as I struggled after, wondering if I would ever restore the shine to my boots.
We made it to the station just in time. As Jack forged fearlessly ahead, I looked around, dreading I might catch a glimpse of the Englishmen or Nightingale. It did not matter that, rationally, there was no possibility of finding us so quickly, especially waylaid by the hussars—Dame Nightingale had become a creature of a nightmare to me, omnipotent, omniscient, and unstoppable in her malice.
Jack turned around and waved to me. I hurried after him, pushing through the dense crowd with my shoulder. Say what you will, but I took a certain relish and satisfaction in behaving in such an unladylike way. I now understood why Eugenia walked as she did, why her strides were always so long and unrestrained and mannish.
The courier had returned, and he had a letter. A wave of relief washed over me—I did not allow myself to think about everything that could go wrong up until this moment. I tore into the envelope as Jack paid the courier—who looked tired with his stubbly cheeks and red-rimmed eyes.
“Dearest Sasha,” Eugenia wrote.
“Thank you for your thoughtful gift—it was received as well as the notes from your friends. Give them my thanks for housing you for the time of your vacation, even though you do have to miss the season. Your mother was quite distraught about that, but she came to share my view that the warm climes are beneficial for a young lady of your fragile constitution. I hope Sochi is nice, and you are having a good time with your friends.
“Regarding your question—I should be able to take care of your request soon. Unfortunately, the parties involved are both stubborn and inaccessible, but I am certain a small payment will ease my attempts to gain their company. As for our mutual friend who is in the care of Captain Mishkin, he is well and sends his regards. I have started a correspondence with him via the captain, who has been quite kind about it. Your friend expressed his hope for your success, and I join my wishes to his.”
“What does she say?” Jack interrupted my reading. I looked up only to see that the crowd had dispersed considerably, and was probably boarding the outbound train. Jack and I stood nearly alone