Lara's Gift Page 10

  It wasn’t until Papa started to climb up onto the sledge that I was moved to action. I swallowed a lump of fear the size of an iceberg and thrust the knife into the wolf’s heart.

  Blood spurted.

  Onto me.

  Onto Zar.

  Everywhere.

  “You did it,” Alexander cheered.

  “You were right about Zar,” the Count teased Papa. “What a nuisance!”

  I put my arms around my knight of knights. “We did it, Zar.”

  Papa leaned over the side of the sledge and patted Zar on the head. “You’ve done good tonight, boy. You’ve done good tonight, too,” he said to me. “But you disobeyed me.”

  “I had good cause, Tyatya.”

  “The reason is unimportant.” Little blue veins popped out on Papa’s neck. “You don’t belong out here, and there’ll be consequences.”

  Papa’s shoulders slumped. He retrieved Borei and lifted him from the snow stained in blood and placed him on a blanket in the back of the sledge.

  Papa brought his hunting horn to his lips and kissed it three times, and then he blew into it—long and low to warn the kennel hands back at the stable that the hunt had gone bad. Papa climbed up onto the sledge, buried his face in Borei’s fur, and lay there clutching him. Then Papa covered Borei in a blanket and made the sign of the cross. “You’re in God’s hands now.”

  The Count and Alexander dragged the dead wolves and lifted them up onto the sledge, stacking them one on top of the other. There were five of them.

  Had it been worth it?

  The Red Thief had so much blood on his mouth, Borei’s blood. I couldn’t bear to look.

  If only I had found a way to save Borei.

  It was my fault for not speaking up.

  The guilt and hurt that I felt was raw and exposed, as if one of my legs had just been chewed off.

  I covered the rest of the wolves with blankets to purge them from my thoughts.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Black Box

  For several weeks after the hunt, Papa remained to himself. The only shimmer of joy I saw on his face was when he held Bohdan and that wasn’t all that frequent, since Papa spent most of his time at the kennel. When our paths did cross, Papa barely acknowledged me and often darted away in a new direction, as if I were a skunk with a raised tail.

  “Papa won’t talk to me, Matushka. His silence is worse than his bark.”

  “Losing Borei has been hard on him, even more so when I told him that you had wanted to warn him not to go on the hunt,” Mama said. “He has much to think about now. His whole world of beliefs and Rules has flip-flopped. He’s struggling to sort it all out and make it right for you, himself, and the future of the dogs. Give him time to mull over all of this. I have faith that he’ll come around and accept your visions for the gift that it is.” Mama’s smile hugged me. “I wish I could tell you more. The rest should come from your papa. When it does, it shall all make sense. Patience, dorogaya.”

  “I’m tired of being patient. I want things between me and Papa to return to what it once was—before Bohdan was born, when Papa let me shadow him at the kennel.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Larochka.”

  At first, I shrugged away Mama’s advice. There was nothing I cherished more than my childhood memories of Papa and the dogs. But her words lingered with me.

  During Papa’s period of silence, I split my time between my kennel chores at Mama’s urging, as well as my responsibilities caring for Bohdan. I couldn’t bear letting all the work fall on Mama. Despite coming from hardy stock, Mama had slowed since Bohdan’s birth.

  Not surprisingly, news about Zar had spread quickly. Requests to breed him with other borzoi from other kennels came in every day by telegram. Zar had become a regional hero. Yet Papa still refused to acknowledge Zar for the fearless hunter that he was.

  Papa’s gloomy mood over the loss of Borei seemed to have cast a spell over the entire kennel and its staff. Nothing lifted Papa’s spirits—not even the Count’s announcement of a celebration in joint honor of Zola’s litter—as was tradition—and of Zar’s triumph over the Red Thief. Around Papa his staff behaved in a mournful manner. As soon as Papa was out of earshot, all anyone, including Maxim, could chirp about was the upcoming celebration and the champagne and caviar upon which we would feast.

  The night of the celebration, under a near-full moon, I took my favorite red ribbon from my braid and tied it around Zar’s neck. Mama and I wore our best clothing made of red brocade with gold ribbon borders and donned matching headdresses decorated in gold galloons that Mama had made for special occasions. At Mama’s insistence, Papa put on his finest shirt, and then he groomed the long black hairs of his beard. He ripped through the knots without a single flinch, as if all feeling had left him, as if life no longer existed inside him.

  Mama took the brush from him and gently combed through the knots. “Smile, dear husband. There’s much about which to be joyous.”

  “Of that I don’t doubt, for the Count wouldn’t extend his hospitality over nothing,” Papa said. “But I’m lost inside myself. I can’t find my way to the truth.”

  Until I had learned to trust my gift, I, too, had felt lost inside myself. Part of me wanted to fit in and follow in Papa’s boots and live by the Golden Rules, as he and his forefathers had always done. Another part of me saw the good in my gift, for my visions spoke the truth to me and had become too real to ignore.

  “Trust in yourself, Tyatya,” I said. “You’ll find the truth.”

  For the first time since the hunt, Papa’s eyes met mine. He stared into them, as if the truth lived inside of me. “Do your visions come to you behind your eyelids?” he asked.

  Papa caught me by surprise. “Yes, how did you guess?”

  “I understand more than you think, Lara.”

  Thousands of twinkling lights glimmered from the ballroom’s chandeliers and reflected off of the gilded moldings. Vast oils of past hunts and former Counts with their dogs hung from the ceiling to the waxed parquet floors. Best of all, Zar was received in a manner fitting his new status and Papa’s staff chanted Zar’s name in a play on words with the word Tsar.

  “Long live Zar! Long live Zar! Long live Zar!” everyone chanted.

  It even made Papa smile.

  Soon the servants joined the chorus, as did the guests. The noise woke Bohdan and though startled at first, he, too, eventually blended into the singing buzz with his babbling. Zar held his head a little higher and puffed out his chest as he pranced beside me toward the tables that lined the perimeter. On them were set all of the usual foods to celebrate the birth of a litter: black caviar served on silver platters, sour cream brimming from crystal bowls, stacks of warm blini wrapped in linen spun from silk, and stuffed suckling pig dressed in horseradish.

  In honor of Zar were two roasted pigs spread out along a grand table that could easily sit thirty people. They were the biggest pigs I’d ever seen.

  Ornate mahogany stations were set up in each corner of the grand ballroom. Upon each station sat sparkling flutes arranged in tidy rows. Buckets upon buckets of iced champagne, primed and ready to be served, covered the outer perimeter of the floor.

  “I should preside among my staff on the dais,” Papa said. As if I were invisible, he bent down and kissed Bohdan’s nose, and then he left Mama and me.

  For as long as I could remember, I had always joined Papa and his team on the dais in celebratory moments like this one. I willed Papa to turn around and invite me, too, but he kept walking.

  With Bohdan in one arm, Mama wrapped her free arm around me. “Where you stand tonight holds no relevance, Lara. What matters most is the truth.”

  “Still, it hurts. Zar belongs up there more than anyone,” I said, stroking his head.

  “Your papa’s stubborn and will eventually come around,” Mama said. “He loves his work too much not to. Which reminds me. If I hope to keep my job, I should check on the Countess. She’s wea
ring a gown with a back zipper that’s as stubborn as your papa. Will you be all right?”

  I nodded and tried to take Bohdan from Mama.

  “I’ll keep him. This is just as much your night,” she said.

  Despite so much tasty food around me I wasn’t hungry. Still, I heaped spoonfuls of suckling pig, Zar’s favorite, onto a small plate and fed him one piece at a time, which he gently took from my fingers.

  “Congratulations!” Ruslan rushed up and gave me a mighty pat on the back.

  I almost didn’t recognize him all cleaned up in a crisp, saintly white shirt.

  “Everyone’s talking about Zar,” Ruslan said. “You must be proud of him.”

  “For me he’s still the same splendid dog.”

  “Of course he is,” Ruslan said. “Give others a chance to catch up to what you intimately know about Zar. Sometimes there are hurdles in front of us of which we’re unaware.”

  “You’re right.” For something weighed on Papa. I could feel it.

  “In memory of this big moment I’ve made something for you.” Ruslan pulled a small black lacquer box of papier-mâché from his pocket and handed it to me. On top was painted an almost iconic image of a white borzoi true to Zar from head to toe, standing proudly over a dead wolf of silvery-red-tipped color. I fingered Zar’s face, as if it were really his, for Ruslan captured the pools of courage in his almond-shaped eyes. Around the edge of the box were swirls of gilded curls—a tiny detail that matched the curls of Zar’s white frill.

  “You made this—for me?”

  “From all the stories I heard about the hunt from you, Alexander, and the Count, I couldn’t get Zar’s image out of my mind,” Ruslan said. “So I painted him out of my head so I could proceed with my real work.”

  I placed the small black box in front of Zar. Like any dog hopeful for a bite of meat, Zar eagerly sniffed it and quickly lost interest.

  “Hopefully, it pleases you more than it did Zar,” Ruslan joked.

  “It does. Thank you, Ruslan. I’ll keep it for as long as I live.”

  “The box is small enough to fit in your pocket,” Ruslan said. “No matter what, Zar will always be close to you.”

  Just then, a trumpet sounded and the Count and his family made their grand entrance into the ballroom. The Count and Alexander proudly wore their military uniforms in honor of the Tsar. The Countess drew oohs and aahs for the rich, deep blue silk gown she wore with diamonds sewn around its jeweled neck. In her arms she carried Almaz, wearing a diamond-encrusted collar in a pattern similar to the one around the neck of the Countess’s dress.

  The Count took a position on the dais next to Papa. He looked more tired than usual, and worn down. His bookkeeper stepped forward and handed Papa a bag of gold rubles. Papa nodded to the Count and tried to look pleased, but I could tell from Papa’s eyes that no amount of gold rubles could replace Borei.

  “May the festivities begin,” the Count announced. In one hand the Count picked up his saber and in the other a bottle of champagne. He took the saber and grazed it along the side of the bottle several times until he beheaded the bottle in one quick slash. Champagne bubbled out as he handed the bottle to one of the servers. The Count continued to open dozens of bottles—one after another—in the same manner.

  The servers quickly poured champagne into toasting flutes. They served the Count and his family first, and then came Papa, Maxim, and the rest of his kennel hands. Zar and I should have been among those standing around the table with Papa.

  When everyone had a glass, the Count raised his high above his head. “To another healthy litter! May there be more white pups like Zar in the future!” As the Count took a sip, he added, “Long live Tsar Nicholas!” He nodded first to his wife, and then to Alexander and Papa, and then to each of the kennel staff until he finally nodded to the rest of us.

  I clinked glasses with Ruslan, and then like everyone else in the room we followed the Count’s lead and took a long sip.

  Alexander spoke next. “To friendship!” He smiled at me and raised his glass.

  Again Ruslan and I clinked glasses and drank along with everyone else in the room. Spirits were on the rise. I could feel it in the air.

  Papa raised his glass and spoke third, nodding first to the Count, and then to Alexander. “To those of us who can’t be here,” he toasted in honor of Borei.

  When Papa lowered his glass, the Count followed with a closing toast. “To Ryczar—the knight of knights—and his defeat of the Red Thief!”

  I patted Zar on the head as everyone cheered.

  “Pei do dna!” the Count added. “Bottoms up!”

  To that, everyone clinked glasses and drank to the bottom. More bottles were opened and poured. I was not in the mood to celebrate. It felt wrong not to be under Papa’s wing. I bid good night to Ruslan and was searching for Mama when Alexander appeared.

  “May I steal you away for a moment?” he asked.

  Zar and I followed him into the Count’s library shelved in books from floor to ceiling along each of the four walls.

  “It’s you who deserve the credit,” he said.

  I braved to meet his eyes. They were like an ocean of blue—so vast, yet far from my world.

  We clinked glasses and he toasted, “To my crystal ball!”

  I blushed as I took a small sip.

  “How is it that you always know where to be?” Alexander pressed. “I’m sure it wasn’t a coincidence that you hid yourself on the sledge or sat with Zola the night of her birth. And there are so many other times I could list.”

  “Luck, I suppose.” I couldn’t tell him the truth, as much as I wanted to, as much as I had always wanted to tell him over the years.

  “Then I wish I had your luck,” he said.

  Be careful what you wish for, I thought. To carry a gift like mine brings its own burdens.

  “It’s your turn to make a toast.” The way Alexander looked at me made me feel like a treasured friend spun from sugar.

  “J’aime ces chiens plus que tout.” It was the first thing that came to me.

  “That’s not a toast,” Alexander said. “Try again.”

  I looked down at Zar for inspiration. His trusting eyes made me smile. When I thought of Papa’s Rules and how they interfered with my dream of breeding borzoi worthy of the Tsar, my smile faded. And when I thought of my future as a dressmaker … and Papa’s wish to marry me off to the midwife’s nephew … it all seemed … so hopeless … and that was when the words for my toast came to me.

  “To the hope of hopeless matters!”

  “To the hope of hopeless matters!” Alexander repeated.

  We clinked glasses and drank until not a single drop of champagne remained.

  “With the pressure of joining Father at the bell foundry looming over me, your toast couldn’t say it any better,” Alexander said.

  Just then, chants for Zar echoed, growing louder and louder.

  “We should go. They want Zar,” I said.

  The Count motioned for us to join him when we re-entered the ballroom. In one hand he held an unopened telegram high above his head. He positioned Alexander to his left and me to his right with Zar. I looked to Papa and his face was hard and still, like a stone embedded at the bottom of a river. As much as I willed them to, his eyes wouldn’t meet mine.

  “Does everyone have a full glass?” the Count asked.

  Some hands were raised among the crowd and servers quickly attended to them. The Count cleared his throat. “It’s not every day that a kennel discovers a gem as fine as Zar among the bunch. He represents what every kennel strives for: courage, strength, speed, and exceptional pluck.”

  I looked down at Zar and stroked his head. Papa would have no choice but to make him the top stud dog. Life on the estate would be different for Zar.

  “It takes generations of careful breeding to develop a line of dogs worthy enough for the Tsar.” The Count raised his glass high. “That’s why I’ve decided to pass the kennel down to
my son. It has been his dream to make something of this kennel, and he’s done so—with help, of course—through the successful breeding of Zar. Let’s toast to my son’s future success!”

  After Alexander clinked glasses with his father, he clinked glasses with me. “Thank you, Lara. We owe you a great deal of gratitude.”

  “Your dream is coming true,” I said to him.

  The Count patted Zar on the head and continued. “What I saw in Zar in the hunt for the Red Thief is nothing we can train a dog to do. What Zar has comes from deep within him. And despite his smaller size, and maybe because of it, too, Zar uses it to his advantage. He is agile and quick. He is courageous and clever. His pluck is peerless. Because of all these sound traits, I feel it isn’t fair to hoard him to ourselves.”

  The Count rested his hand on my shoulder. “We have a fine litter from Zar to carry on his line. That’s why I’ve offered to present Zar to His Imperial Majesty Tsar Nicholas … and in this telegram, which has just arrived, I suspect is his response.”

  As the Count opened the telegram, I looked to Alexander, wondering if he knew about this. From the gape of his mouth he seemed just as shocked as I felt. Then I looked to Papa, and I could see that he, too, hung on every word. I searched for Mama in the crowd and found her warm amber eyes, willing me to be strong.

  The Count’s face blossomed into a huge smile as he read the words. “The Tsar has accepted!”

  My crystal flute slipped from my hand and crashed to the floor. “Forgive me,” I kept saying. Servers appeared and swept up the shards of glass all around me. I stood motionless, rooted to the ground, like a dead tree refusing to fall.

  The Count glanced over at me with a puzzled look. Once another glass of champagne was in my hand, he continued with his toast. “Let’s drink to our success,” he proposed. He nodded to Papa first, and then to Alexander—whose mouth was still agape—and lastly to me. He even nodded to Zar.

  I watched everyone around me drink and tried to raise my glass to my lips. But my fingers felt like wet noodles—and I dropped that flute, too.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN