Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(2)

But a ridiculous plan had come into Tasia's head, inspired by the passage in Job: “that thou wouldest hide me in the grave, that thou wouldest keep me secret…” Hide in the grave…If she could somehow find a way to assume the appearance of death, and escape…

Tasia jiggled the contents of the vial, a mixture of poisons secretly obtained from a chemist in St. Petersburg. A feeling of unreality came over her. “You remember everything we planned?” she asked.

Varka nodded unsteadily.

“All right.” Tasia broke the wax seal in a decisive motion. Lifting the poison in the air, she feigned a toast. “To justice,” she said, and downed the entire draught. She shuddered at the unbearable taste. Holding the palm of her hand to her mouth, she closed her eyes and waited until a tremendous wave of nausea subsided. “It is in God's hands now,” she said, giving back the vial.

Varka bent her head and sobbed. “Oh, my lady—”

“Take care of my mother. Try to give her comfort.” Tasia smoothed the servant's rough gray hair. “Go,” she whispered. “Quickly, Varka.” She leaned back on the pallet and tried to focus on the icon while Varka left. Suddenly she was very cold, and her ears were ringing. Frightened, she concentrated on breathing in and out. Her heart pounded in her chest with the force of a mallet. “My lovers and my friends stand aloof…my kinsmen stand afar off…” The Madonna's sorrowful face began to dissolve “…that thou wouldest hide me in the grave…keep me secret, until thy wrath be past…” The words of a prayer froze on her lips. Dear God, what is happening to me? Papa, help me…

So this was what it was like to die, all feeling draining away, her body turning to stone. Life ebbed from her like the receding tide, and her memories drifted away, leaving her to sink into the gray world between death and life. “On my eyelids is the shadow of death…” “Hide me in the grave…”

For a long time she was aware of nothing until the dreams began. There was a parade of images: knives, pools of blood, crucifixes, and holy relics. She recognized the saints in her beloved icons, Nikita, John, Lazarus half-wrapped in his burial shroud, his solemn eyes staring into hers. The images floated away, and she was a child again. It was summer at the Kapterev dacha in the country. Sitting with her plump legs dangling from the edge of a gilt chair, she ate ice cream from a golden plate. “Papa, may I give the rest to Ghost?” she asked, while a fluffy white puppy waited expectantly nearby.

“Yes, if you're finished.” A smile broke across her father's bearded face. “Tasia, your mother thinks that perhaps we should name the dog something more cheerful…Snowdrop, or Sunshine—”

“But when she sleeps in the corner of my room at night she looks like a ghost, Papa.”

Her father laughed gently. “Then we'll call her whatever you wish, my clever one.”

The scene changed, and Tasia found herself in the library of the Angelovsky Palace, filled with books and gold-embossed leather. There was a sound behind her, and she whirled to face her cousin Mikhail. He staggered toward her, his face twisted in a grimace. A knife protruded from his throat, and a scarlet stream welled over his gold brocade coat. Blood was spattered on Tasia's hands and the front of her gown. Screaming in horror, she turned and ran. She came to a church and pounded on the massive wooden doors until they opened. The church blazed with the light of a thousand tapers, illuminating the smoke-darkened icons on the walls. The faces of the saints were drawn with sorrow as they looked down at her. The Trinity, the Blessed Virgin, St. John the Divine…Falling to her knees, she touched her forehead to the stone floor and began to pray for deliverance.

“Anastasia.”

She looked up and beheld a darkly beautiful man standing before her. His hair was as black as coal, his eyes like blue fire. She shrank from him. He was the devil, coming to claim her life as forfeit for her sins. “I didn't mean to do it,” she whimpered. “I didn't want to hurt anyone. Please, have mercy—”

He ignored her pleas and reached down for her. “No,” she cried, but he lifted her in his arms and carried her away in the darkness. Then the hurtful arms vanished from around her, and he was gone. She reeled in a world of noise and brilliant color, her nerves shattering. A powerful force drew her through currents of ice and pain. Resisting, she tried to pull back, but she was dragged inexorably to the surface.

When Tasia opened her eyes, she recoiled from the light of a nearby lantern. She groaned in pain, and immediately the flame was turned low.

Kirill Kapterev's blurry face was above her, his voice a quiet rumble. “I thought the sleeping princess was just a folk table. Instead I found her right here on my ship. Somewhere in the world there must be a handsome prince asking the moon where he may find his beloved.”

“Uncle,” she tried to say, but a shuddering sound came from her lips.

He smiled at her, though his broad forehead was webbed with lines of worry. “You're with the world again, little niece.”

Tasia was comforted by his voice, so similar to her father's. He had the look of all the Kapterev men; a strong face with thick brows, high cheekbones, and a beard clipped to a precise point. But unlike her father, Kirill had a passionate love for the sea. In his youth he had served in the Russian fleet, and eventually established his own trading company. He owned vast shipyards and a string of commercial frigates. Several times a year he captained one of his ships from Russia to England and back again, transporting textiles and machinery. As a little girl, Tasia had thrilled to Kirill's occasional visits, for he always told her exciting tales, brought her gifts from foreign lands, and carried with him the salt-and-brine scent of the sea.