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  “All right,” was all Taras could think to say.

  “My lord, the tsar receives people in the morning, so I shall have to put you in guest quarters for the night. If my lord would wait here, it might take some time to put a room together.”

  “I can wait.”

  The clerk walked to Taras’s horse, looking around. “Does my lord have any . . . other possessions?”

  “Only my horse and what’s in my saddle bags.”

  The man’s mouth tightened in disapproval. “I see.”

  An hour later, a groom had taken Jasper to the stables, and Taras, his saddlebags slung over his shoulder, followed the clerk through the palace’s vast corridors. The palace seemed larger than he remembered. The corridors were three times the size of the ones at his country estate in England. Thick, colorful carpets lay upon the floors. The walls were decorated ornate tapestries, and every table and window ledge held some piece of pottery or sculpture.

  “My lord must excuse the crudeness of the rooms,” the clerk said. “There are no bed linens yet, but the servants will bring them soon. You must understand, my lord, it is spring and the entire castle is bustling.”

  “I can see that.” He could, indeed. All kinds of people hurried through the halls: servants, merchants, nobles, boyars, grooms, tradesmen, and dozens more. “It seems as if you are celebrating.”

  “And why not, my lord? The grand prince is now the tsar. He has married the beautiful Anastasia and is in good spirits. When the tsar is in good spirits, all of Russia is the same.”

  They came to a large wooden door—one of many identical ones lining this corridor. The clerk opened and held it for Taras. Taras entered, and nearly gaped. The room was huge. Not room—rooms. He stood in a sitting room. Several comfortable-looking chairs surrounded a large fireplace. A bottle of vodka and several goblets stood on a nearby table. The adjoining room held a bed, washstand, and chest of drawers. A freestanding wardrobe sat on the far side, and another, smaller fireplace as well.

  Taras walked to the windows. His view mostly comprised the inside of the Kremlin Wall, but it faced south and he could see the tops of the orchards across the river. Beyond that, the skyline stretched for miles.

  “Are the rooms to my lord’s liking?”

  Taras barely contained a laugh. “They’re . . . extremely grand.”

  The clerk frowned.

  “I didn’t expect so much space,” Taras said quickly.

  The clerk gave Taras a long-suffering smile. “You will be presented to the first tsar of Russia tomorrow. He will decide how important you are. Until then, it is my job to make sure you are well taken care of.”

  Taras nodded. “The answer is yes. The rooms are very much to my liking.”

  The clerk nodded as though he'd expected no less. “Very good, my lord. You will have a servant to assist you with anything you need. Although, due to the aforementioned bustle, it may be a few hours before he arrives.”

  Taras put his hands up. “There’s no rush. I won’t be needing much tonight, anyway. I am tired from travel, and will probably retire after dinner.”

  The clerk studied him. “I suppose that will work for tonight.”

  Taras raised an eyebrow. “But not on other nights?”

  “The tsar welcomes the Khan of Kosimov today, my lord. Tomorrow night, there will be a feast in his honor. All guests of the tsar are expected to attend.”

  Taras's stomach clenched. “A feast?”

  “Yes, my lord.” The clerk glanced pointedly at Taras’s saddlebags. “Does my lord have the proper apparel?”

  Taras followed the man’s gaze, then shook his head slowly. “Only travel-wear.”

  The clerk smiled his long-suffering smile again. “I will send the tailor tonight, so my lord may be ready for tomorrow.”

  “I have little money to pay for such extravagances.”

  The clerk shook his head. “It’s of no consequence. As a guest of the tsar, you will get what you need, no matter the cost. The rest will work itself out.” Before Taras could reply, the man turned to go. “I have much to do, so if my lord would excuse me.” He paused at the door. “Will my lord be needing anything else immediately?”

  Taras smiled. “How about something to call you?”

  “I am called Boris, but I don’t think you’ll have need to speak with me again. Your personal attendant will be here soon. If my lord needs anything in the meantime, step out into the corridor and flag down one of the servants. There are more running the halls than I can count.”

  Taras nodded and the clerk disappeared into the corridor.

  INGA HURRIED THROUGH the halls with an armload of skins. Yehvah reported that Lord Taras had returned. She remembered him from her childhood. With him being ten years older than she and a boyar, they hadn’t exactly kept the same company. He did walk through several specific memories, though, the most vivid being the snowball incident.

  She remembered being disappointed that he'd been part of it. Not that he'd been particularly partial to her as a child, but he always smiled at her and seemed kind. When she realized he'd gone along with Sergei and his friends, she’d felt utterly cold. As a child, she'd been unable to put her finger on why. Now she knew it was betrayal. She’d been naïve to expect anything different. All boyars and their sons were the same.

  Even so, she found herself curious to find out what sort of man Taras had grown into. Apparently, he’d taken a vacant room and would be presented to the tsar in the morning.

  Ducking under the arms of two manservants carrying a large chest, Inga flattened herself against the wall to avoid being run down by a teenage courier. She opened her mouth to yell at him to watch where he was going. He disappeared around the next corner before the thought fully formed.

  At length, she made it to the room without being trampled. She rapped on the door before poking her head in. Taras Demidov stood by the window. He'd grown tall—head and shoulders above her, to be sure. He glanced up as she came in.

  “Bedding for you, my lord.”

  Looking back out the window, he nodded and motioned her to come in. “Of course.”

  She crossed to the bed, dropping her pile onto it with relief. As she spread out the thick animal skins, she studied him in her periphery.

  His hair remained an amazingly white shade of blond. She also remembered those piercing blue eyes from her childhood. He wore a week’s worth of stubble on his face, and his clothes were dirty and travel-worn. He stood perfectly still, staring out toward the orchards, and she wondered what his thoughts dwelled on.

  “Miss?”

  The sound of his voice startled her and she jumped. He still faced away from her and didn’t notice.

  “My lord?”

  "I’m quite covered with dust from travel. Can I trouble you for a basin of water to make myself more presentable?” He turned from the window to look at her.

  She smiled. “Of course, my lord. I’ll have the manservants bring in a pitcher and some rags for you.” Inga ducked her head and went back to making up the bed. He stayed silent for several minutes while she spread out the skins, but she felt his eyes on her. It made her nervous. She told herself concentrate on her task. If he wanted anything else, he would ask.

  The bed finished at last, Inga felt glad to have an excuse to leave. She took care to keep her eyes down as she turned toward the door. “If my lord needs anything else—“

  His hand closed firmly around her forearm and she gasped. She hadn’t heard him cross the room. Forgetting to avert her gaze, she gazed straight up into his eyes. He stood beside her, looking down at her from under furrowed brows.

  Inga didn’t know what to do. His stare was unnerving.

  Finally, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. You look familiar to me. Have we met?”

  Inga smiled. She didn’t know why his remembering her made her happy.

  “We were children together in the palace, my lord.”

  His eyebrows rose slightly. “We played togeth
er?”

  Inga’s smile widened. “No, my lord. You were the son of a boyar, and I a servant. But we did cross paths from time to time.”

  He stared at her for several seconds, face unreadable, then shook himself and smiled sheepishly. “Forgive me. I remember your face, but can’t place you. What’s your name?”

  “Inga, my lord.”

  After a moment, he nodded. “So,” he gave her a more genuine smile, “will you be my personal servant, then?”

  Inga opened her mouth to say no. Another voice behind spoke first.

  “She will not, my lord.” Yehvah came sweeping into the room, a pile of men’s clothes in her arms.

  Taras’s smile broadened. “Yehvah. You, I remember!”

  Yehvah plopped the pile down on the bed. “Of course you do, my lord. I whipped you more than once for getting into trouble, especially in the kitchens.”

  Inga ducked her head, trying to hold in a laugh. She found the thought of Yehvah slapping the hands of a much younger Taras hilarious.

  Taras chuckled. “Come, now. Can you fault a growing boy for being hungry?”

  Yehvah smiled. “I suppose not, my lord. Boys are boys.” She gave Inga a mischievous look. “But then, men are men, as well.” Yehah said the second part quietly, but Inga was certain Taras heard, as his eyebrows raised slightly. Inga felt equally certain that Yehvah meant for him to hear, and Taras didn’t take offense.

  “Inga will not be your servant, my lord,” Yehvah went on. “A man servant will be assigned to you, as is appropriate. His name is Anatoly, and he should be here momentarily. He will take care of any further needs you have. Of course, if you need anything else right now, my lord—"

  “Actually . . .”

  Inga and Yehvah waited. Taras rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. He was being sheepish again.

  “Yes, my lord?” Yehvah prodded.

  “I understand I am expected to attend the feast tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, my lord.” As Yehvah ranked higher than Inga as a servant, it fell to her to answer.

  “Will I be expected to dance?”

  Yehvah’s smile turned mischievous. “Everyone’s expected to dance, my lord.”

  Taras let out an exasperated breath. He ran his fingers through his hair and smiled timidly at them. “Wonderful,” he muttered.

  “Come, Lord Taras,” Yehvah laughed. “I know your father taught you the dances as a child. You were quite good; better than most of the other boys.”

  “Perhaps once, but I haven’t done the dances of the Russian court in years.”

  “I suppose that will end tonight,” Yehvah said quietly.

  Taras raised his head to look at her. “What do you mean?”

  She smiled again, but without mirth. “Everyone dances for the court of the imperial tsar, my lord.” It was close to what she’d said in answer to his earlier question, but where the earlier statement had been made with mirth, Yehvah now sounded utterly seriousness.

  Inga felt a chill.

  Taras must have too, because he frowned at Yehvah. “I’m sure with some of practice, I would pick it up again. Could you perhaps spare one of your servants to practice with me?”

  Yehvah frowned.

  “Perhaps one of the stable hands or clerk’s apprentices can teach me,” he pressed.

  Yehvah’s smile returned. “I can’t promise anything, my lord. The palace is in a whirlwind, but perhaps I can find one of the courtier’s sons to help you.”

  Taras smiled. “Thank you, Yehvah. I am most appreciative.”

  Yehvah’s smile deepened. “We’ll see. Teenaged boyars can be . . . less than pleasant, or don’t you remember?”

  Taras grinned again. “I think I can handle it.”

  “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  Taras heaved a deep breath. “No, Yehvah, I don’t think so. I will wait for my servant—Anatoly, is it?—and ask him to bring in some water for me.”

  “Very good, my lord. Have a pleasant evening. Sleep well. You’ll want to be well-rested for the tsar tomorrow.”

  “I will, Yehvah. Thank you.”

  Yehvah swept out the door. Inga risked another look at Taras before following. He smiled warmly at her.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Inga returned his smile. Liking a boyar could mean danger, but she couldn’t help herself. She remembered meeting him as a child, while cleaning with Natalya. She’d thought he was unlike any boyar she’d ever met. That, it seemed, had not changed. Most boyars would not lower themselves to converse so openly with servants, yet Taras had a warm, friendly manner. He’d treated Yehvah like an old friend, though they'd not been close when he was a child.

  He even looked different than the other boyars. He wore a traveler’s beard, but it was short enough to show that he usually kept his face clean-shaven. The men in Russia never shaved their beards; superstition forbid it. And of course Taras’s travel-worn clothes were of English fashion, quite different from what the courtiers wore here.

  Inga was intrigued.

  Chapter 15

  TARAS BATHED, LUNCHED, then slept most of the afternoon away. When he awoke, it was still too early for supper. He wandered the palace corridors, familiarizing himself with their layout.

  He strolled over the palace grounds, toward the apartments where he'd lived with his parents nearly fifteen years before. Passing by them at a distance, he wondered if they were currently occupied. He doubted it. Even with the sinking sun casting a homey light over the Kremlin, they looked cold and vacant. Twenty minutes later he found himself in the graveyard.

  Taras thought he would have to search for his mother’s grave. He assumed things would have changed so much, he wouldn’t remember its location. That wasn't the case. As he entered the cemetery, long suppressed memories stirred in the back of his mind, coming back with vigor and clarity.

  The last of the winter snow clung on the ground in tufts over the yellow grass. It crunched under his boots as he walked. His mother’s headstone was plain and old now, but still readable. With a gloved hand, he wiped away some caked-on dirt. Then he sat back and breathed in deeply. He squatted inches above his mother’s body. It gave him a quiet comfort to have her there, to be near her again, his one comfort in this alien place.

  He placed his hand on the frozen ground in front of the stone.

  “Hello, Mother,” he said. It felt strange, speaking aloud to her. He had never done that—not in all his years in England. But then, she wasn't buried in England.

  He sighed. “I don’t have any idea what I’m doing here. I wish I had your guidance.” He scooped up a handful of earth. The frozen ground only yielded a smattering of dust and frozen rocks. “For the first time since I left, I may be in a position to keep my promise.” A numbing wind thundered past him, and he shivered.

  He pulled a small square of parchment from his belt pouch, the only piece he had left. He made a mental note to ask the clerks how much it would cost to secure some more. Pulling a nub of charred wood from another pouch, he sketched his mother’s headstone, complete with the patches of melting snow on it and the Siberian landscape behind it.

  The distant crunch of snow announced a visitor. Irritated, Taras waited patiently for the new-comer to pass him by. This was not his personal cemetery, after all. The footsteps drew near, not from the Palace, but toward it. Still squatting, Taras spun silently on one toe.

  The newcomer had to be a woman; the frame did not look large enough to be a man. A threadbare skin hugged her shoulders, leaving her forearms exposed. She carried a heavy-looking basket. He peered intently at her, trying to make out details.

  She emerged from the shadows of the overhanging trees.

  “Inga?” he called.

  Inga froze, then turned slowly to him. She immediately dropped into a curtsy.

  “My lord. I am so sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “You haven’t.” He straightened his legs. “Are you visiting a loved one?”


  Inga smiled sheepishly, keeping her eyes on the ground between them. “No, my lord. I take a shortcut through the cemetery when I’m sent to the market in Red Square.”

  Taras smiled. “There are some who would find it disturbing—even morbid. Aren’t you afraid of the serdechniki?”

  Inga glanced up at him. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then shut it again.

  “It’s all right,” Taras prodded. “You may speak your mind to me, with no fear of repercussions.”

  She gazed up at him steadily. “I do not think evil spirits roam the cemeteries, my lord.”

  “No?”

  “No. People are superstitious. All these graves belong to people who were once someone’s loved ones. I find it peaceful.”

  Taras stared at her intently. Serdechniki were evil, mischievous spirits that supposedly roamed Russia, creating havoc everywhere they went—the same way goblins and imps apparently plagued England. When bad things happened, people often attributed them to the deeds of the serdechniki. How strange to find a non-superstitious Russian, especially a kitchen maid who wandered through graveyards between her errands.

  “I know exactly what you mean.” He smiled at her. She returned the smile shyly, then dropped her eyes again.

  “If my lord does not need anything, I must be getting back . . .”

  “Yes, of course. My apologies. Don’t let me keep you.” He glanced down at his mother’s grave, but decided his visit for this evening was complete. Folding the parchment carefully, he returned it to his belt pouch. “Would you like some company?” He peered into her face, but she refused to look at him.

  “My lord can do whatever he wishes.”

  Taras pursed his lips. He already saw a pattern. She truly believed she had no choice when it came to the wishes of the higher class. Perhaps in Russia it was true of most boyars. He did not want their relationship to be like that.

  He crossed the distance between them until he stood over her. Reaching out to touch her arm, he paused when he realized her breathing was shaky.

  “Inga, look at me.” When she did, her eyes were unreadable. “I’m asking if you would like the company. It’s acceptable to say no if you’d rather walk alone.”