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  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2013 by Annemarie O’Brien

  Jacket art copyright © 2013 by Tim Jessell

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the Overlook Press for permission to reprint five lines from “Autumn,” four lines from “Cleopatra,” two lines from “Winter Journey,” and four lines from “Foreboding” from Collected Narrative and Lyrical Poetry by Alexander Pushkin, edited and translated by Walter Arndt. Translation copyright © 1984 by Walter Arndt. Published in 2002 by Ardis Publishers/The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc., New York, NY, overlookpress.com. All rights reserved.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  O’Brien, Annemarie.

  Lara’s gift / Annemarie O’Brien. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: In 1914 Russia, Lara is being groomed by her father to be the next kennel steward for the Count’s borzoi dogs unless her mother bears a son, but her visions, although suppressed by her father, seem to suggest she has a special bond with the dogs.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-97548-5

  [1. Borzoi—Fiction. 2. Dogs—Fiction. 3. Fathers and daughters—Fiction.

  4. Sex role—Fiction. 5. Visions—Fiction. 6. Family life—Russia—Fiction.

  7. Russia—History—1904–1914—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.O126713Lar 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2012034070

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  For Aubrey and Anjuli

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Russia, 1910

  Chapter One: The Hunting Horn

  Chapter Two: The Red Thief

  Chapter Three: A Candle of Hope

  Chapter Four: The Red Door

  Chapter Five: The Birth

  Chapter Six: The Next Bride

  Chapter Seven: The Wedding Dress

  Chapter Eight: The Bet

  Chapter Nine: Chara

  Chapter Ten: The Red Thief Returns

  Chapter Eleven: Red Snow

  Chapter Twelve: The Hunt

  Chapter Thirteen: The Black Box

  Chapter Fourteen: The Dance

  Author’s Note

  Afterword by Alexander Woronzoff-Dashkoff

  Glossary

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Ta-ra! Ta-ra! the bugles blow.

  Up since dawn, the hunters sit

  their horses chafing at the bit;

  the borzoi tug the leash to go.

  The master sallies out, surveys

  the company: His easy grin

  reflects a candid pleasure in

  the little world that he purveys.

  His Cossack jacket, patched and frayed,

  is buttoned snug across his chest;

  a brandy flask, a Turkish blade,

  and horn equip him for the rest.…

  It’s dark, it’s cold, it rains, it snows,

  and wolves are on the prowl. But still

  nothing daunts the hunter’s will.

  Up at dawn, he gallops off

  to make his way, however rough,

  through brake and brush, uphill and down.…

  “COUNT NULIN” BY ALEXANDER PUSHKIN

  TRANSLATED BY BETSY HULICK

  Russia, 1910

  On the eve my beloved Ryczar was born, under a bright full moon, the north wind whistled and howled. Like a forest spirit gone mad with merriment, it ripped through the Woronzova Kennel and sprawling grounds of Count Vorontsov’s grand country estate. All night long, icy flakes of windswept snow drummed against the stable windows until the last pup was born at dawn.

  Settled inside the birthing stall on fresh golden straw, Papa and I huddled around Zarya and her newborn pups—in awe of the wondrous miracle that lay before us on plush brown bear hides, for every borzoi birth was a gift from God.

  “Lara, it’s time to name the pups,” Papa said. Whenever a new litter of pups was born, the Count gave me the honor of naming each one. His son, Alexander, told him I had a knack for choosing names the dogs lived up to.

  With Zarya’s permission I lifted the pup with a big red spot on her rump and looked her square in the face. “You shall be Umnitza. The firstborn is always clever.”

  Papa raised his bushy brows. Hidden behind the long black hairs of his beard, I glimpsed a grin full of pride. Like me, Papa was a firstborn, too. He gently tugged at the long, dark braid that hung down my back. With a nod of his head he motioned toward the rest of the pups. “We’ve no time to dawdle.”

  I put Umnitza down and picked up the second and third pups, both champagne in color. They had come out with such force and such quickness. “Your names will be easy,” I told them. “You, little girl, will be called Sila for your strength, and you, sweet boy, will be Bistri, for your speed.”

  As I returned them to their mother, Papa interceded and took Bistri from my hands—turning him from front to back and front again. Then Papa ran his finger along Bistri’s spine and grinned from ear to ear. “The Count will be pleased with this pup.”

  Like Papa, I, too, ran my finger along Bistri’s spine. “But, Tyatya, I don’t feel anything different.”

  “Be patient, Lara. You’re only ten. You’ve got plenty of time to learn the art of breeding fine borzoi, so long as your mama doesn’t give me a son in the meantime.…” Papa’s voice trailed off into a sigh.

  There was little chance of Mama giving Papa a son. She couldn’t carry a baby longer than a few months. All of them had been taken away from us before we could even swaddle them.

  I put Bistri down and picked up the fourth pup, as gold as the straw she lay on. She squiggled so much her tiny nails scratched me. “Such a sweet little thorn, you shall be called Zanoza.”

  “Hmmm.” Papa eyed the little marks on my hands. “That name suits her well.”

  The fifth pup, of cream color, looked like he would grow up to be as fast as the north wind. “I will call you Borei.”

  Papa took him from my hands and ran his finger along his spine. “I’d wager my lucky hunting horn that this pup becomes the Count’s finest hound one day.”

  Before I could run my finger along Borei’s spine, a swoosh of wind clapped against the window and rattled the panes. I cupped my ears and listened to the ceaseless wind that clawed along the length of the stable walls in tipsy mirth.

  “Your mama would say it’s a sign and not a good one,” Papa said. He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a look—the one that said I could pick another name for the pup.

  He didn’t believe in superstitions, and because of it, nor would I. �
�Borei’s a perfect name for a top dog,” I said with confidence.

  Papa patted my head, like he would with one of the dogs. “That’s my girl.”

  So pleased was I with Papa’s praise, had I been born a dog, my tail would be wagging.

  The sixth pup was the tiniest pup I ever did see and his coat was as white as snow. “You shall be Ryczar—my knight of knights.”

  I scooped him up and cradled him in my hands. Just as I nuzzled him to my neck, Papa grabbed him from me.

  “Don’t bother giving him a name,” Papa said. “He’ll need to be culled.”

  “But he’s the only white pup in the litter.” It was the color His Majesty Tsar Nicholas, ruler of all Russia, favored most of all. I was certain Ryczar would be prized more than the other pups—even if he was small.

  “Zarya doesn’t produce much milk. You know that,” Papa said. “White pup or not, with the runt gone the other five will have a better chance.”

  Zarya’s limited supply of milk was her only failing as a mother.

  “Tyatya, nyet—”

  “Enough.” Papa’s ruddy cheeks reddened a shade darker. “You know what must be done.”

  I did know. But knowing did not mean I agreed. As much as I dreamed of one day walking in Papa’s boots to breed borzoi worthy of His Majesty Tsar Nicholas, I shunned culling any pup.

  But what I thought didn’t matter. Papa was the Count’s kennel steward. Not I.

  “Let me hold Ryczar one last time,” I braved, for I knew what awaited the pup. A drowning in a deep bed of snow.

  “You’re only making it harder on yourself,” Papa griped.

  On tiptoes I reached up for the pup with outstretched arms, and a twinge of headache pulsed across my forehead. “Please, dear Tyatya. Just one last time.”

  “All right, all right,” Papa said.

  With a grumpy frown, Papa handed Ryczar back to me.

  I smothered his soft, little rump with kisses and coddled him against my cheek. If only given a chance, this pudgy white ball of skin with knobby legs and a squished-in face might grow into a sleek, silky-coated borzoi with long, graceful legs, and an elegant muzzle to match. As I rubbed noses with Ryczar and took in the sweet smell of puppy breath, I counted my blessings that I had been born into a long line of kennel stewards and not into a family that harvested crops, for the borzoi wasn’t just any dog. Borzoi were a national treasure, gifted among nobility like Fabergé eggs. A peasant girl like me might never get an opportunity to lay her eyes on a borzoi and I had dozens around me.

  My twanging headache suddenly turned into throbbing pain at my temples. Quickly I put Ryczar down alongside his mother, Zarya. With my fingers pressed against my forehead, I tried to rub away the pain—a pain I had never experienced before.

  “Larochka, are you all right?” Papa’s voice carried a haunted tone.

  “I’m scared, Tyatya.” I pressed harder against my temples, yet the pain didn’t subside.

  I closed my eyes.

  In the darkness behind my eyelids—as if in a dream—stood an older-looking Ryczar. He was smaller than most male borzoi and his coat was thick with wavy white curls. He held his head high and his chest puffed out with pride. Below him lay a dead wolf with silvery-red-tipped fur in blood-soaked snow.

  Ryczar’s image was as crisp as a photo and as real to me as my love for the dogs.

  In complete awe and wonder, I willed myself to see more and squeezed my eyes shut until it hurt.

  Despite my will, the image faded away along with the throbbing pain.

  I opened my eyes and tugged at Papa’s sleeve.

  “We must keep this pup. I think I saw his future.” The words raced off my tongue like a borzoi in pursuit of its prey.

  A hundred tiny lines creased Papa’s forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “Ryczar won’t be the runt forever. He’ll catch wolves just like borzoi are bred to do,” I said.

  Papa covered my mouth with his hand. “Not another word,” he whispered.

  “But—”

  “Bad things will follow from a vision, if given credence.” To scare me even more, Papa added, “You know how the Count feels about psychics like Rasputin. Do you want to lead a life like his?”

  I shuddered at the thought. Whenever his name cropped up, harsh, ugly words flew through the air like a raging blizzard. “Of course not,” I answered. “My place is here with you and the dogs.”

  “Then speak of this to no one,” Papa said. “Not even to Alexander.”

  “Why, Tyatya? I don’t understand.” I shared everything about the dogs with Alexander. Nobody loved them more than we did.

  Papa’s ruddy cheeks paled and that scared me. Nothing ever shook his nerves. “Promise me.”

  Just then, Mama entered the birthing room, carrying our morning basket of black bread. With her black eyebrows, thick like a sable’s tail, almond-shaped amber eyes, and pitch-dark plaited hair, I resembled Mama more than I did Papa. Unlike the stable clothing I wore, she was dressed in reds and golds and always looked like an iconic angel whenever she lighted prayer candles in the chapel.

  No doubt for a second child.

  “Promise what?” Mama looked from me to Papa.

  “Evil courses through Lara’s veins,” Papa whispered.

  Mama’s eyes filled with worry. She knelt down beside me and placed the back of her hand on my forehead. “There’s no fever,” she said with relief in her voice. “What kind of evil do you speak of?”

  “Lara had a vision,” Papa answered, as if that one word would explain it all to Mama.

  His stone-tight hands clutched my shoulders like a steel trap. He stared deeply into my eyes and looked like he had a thousand secrets hidden underneath his sheepskin hat. “If you have another one, you must ignore it, Lara.”

  I couldn’t bear to disappoint Papa even if I didn’t understand. “Forgive me. I’ll never do it again. I promise.”

  “A promise is a promise,” Papa stressed.

  “Yes, Tyatya—Golden Rule Number One.”

  The lines on Papa’s forehead softened. “To be a great kennel steward, you must live by your word, as well as by the Rules that govern us.”

  “When the Rules make sense, dear husband.”

  Mama and Papa exchanged looks that puzzled me. I didn’t dare interrupt.

  “Visions, whatever they might bring, are a gift from God—a gift we must embrace.” Mama folded her arms. “Don’t go filling our daughter’s head with your nonsense.”

  Papa shook his head. “Only a fool in the guise of a devil makes decisions based on a vision.” He grabbed his sheepskin coat and laced his felt boots. “I don’t have time to bicker. I’ve got to ring the stable bells to announce the birth.”

  Papa snatched Ryczar from his littermates by the scruff of his neck, dropped him into an empty sack, and tied it shut with some hemp.

  “Tyatya, let me care for the little white pup,” I proposed.

  “You’ll be awake all night for weeks until he’s big enough to eat on his own,” Papa said. “Assuming he makes it past the first few days.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with him,” I insisted. “He’s small, that’s all.”

  “I don’t have extra kopecks to bottle-feed every runt,” Papa barked.

  “I’ll take on more kennel chores to earn his keep.”

  “Splendid,” Papa said, crossing his arms. “Like you have time to spare. You already spend every waking moment working in the kennel.”

  “Please,” I begged.

  Mama placed her hand on Papa’s shoulder. “What harm is there in letting Lara try, dear husband? If the runt is not meant to live, as you say, surely he will die, regardless of her efforts. Give her the chance to learn this for herself.”

  Papa twisted the long black hairs of his beard, just as he always did when he struggled with a decision.

  “This isn’t the lesson I intended to teach you,” Papa grunted, handing me the sack. “But your mama’s right that y
ou’ll learn this for yourself, if you experience it firsthand. Your runt can have one final feeding with Zarya, and then his fate falls on you.”

  “Spasibo!” I thought I’d jump out of myself, I was so thankful.

  “Don’t come crying to me when the pup drops dead. Culling him now would save us all a lot of trouble,” Papa said.

  I unfastened the hemp and freed Ryczar as quickly as a dog licks his bowl clean. I wrapped my hands around him, brought him to my lips, and kissed his little face. And then I hurried him back to the warmth of his litter and placed him on one of Zarya’s nipples. “Drink up, little boy. It’ll be goat’s milk after this.”

  Ryczar squirmed into place between his littermates Sila and Bistri and suckled. Gently, I stroked his back. “You’ll remain Ryczar, for the knight you’ll one day become, but I’ll call you Zar in honor of your mother, Zarya, for bringing you into this world—and to me.”

  “Korotyshka would be a better name for the runt he’ll always be,” Papa said.

  “Pay him no heed.” Mama lovingly poked Papa’s round belly.

  Although he swatted at her hand, a slight smile crept onto his face.

  “It doesn’t matter what Papa thinks right now,” I told Zar. “One day he’ll see that it was right to let you live.”

  The wind whistled in beautiful song, as if it heard me and echoed after it.

  “Curse that wind,” Papa complained. He gathered three birch logs and tossed them into the wood-burning stove. With a poker he pushed the logs into place until they popped and hissed and a red-orange flame roared around them. Then he wagged his finger at me. “Remember, Lara. Not a word of your vision to anyone.”

  Even though it would kill me to keep it from Alexander, I answered, “Of course not. I wouldn’t dare break my promise.”

  With a pleased look on his face, Papa left to ring the bells.

  “Be careful what you promise,” Mama said to me. She peeled away the cloth towel covering the black bread. From it she cut a thick slice, slathered butter on it, and then handed it to me. “Eat, dorogusha. You’ll need your strength to prove your papa wrong about Zar and to help him find the truth.”