Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(3)

“I didn't believe in this resurrection of yours,” Kirill said, “but I've seen it with my own eyes. I pried the lid off your coffin myself. You were as stiff and cold as a corpse. Now you're alive again.” He paused and added dryly, “But perhaps I speak too soon. Come, let me help you sit up.”

Tasia protested with a moan as he raised her shoulders and stuffed a pillow behind her. They were in a ship's stateroom, the walls paneled in mahogany, the portholes covered by embroidered velvet curtains. After pouring water from an enameled pitcher into a crystal glass, Kirill held it to her lips. Tasia tried to take a sip, but a spasm of nausea overcame her. Her face whitened, and she shook her head in refusal.

“All St. Petersburg was talking about your mysterious death in prison,” Kirill said, trying to distract her. “Many officials wanted to examine your body—including the governor of the city and the minister of the interior, no less—but by that time the family had already collected it. Your servant Varka delivered you into my care and arranged the funeral before anyone realized what was happening. Little did the mourners know that the coffin being lowered into the ground was filled with bags of sand.” He frowned regretfully. “Your poor mother is grieving, but we can never let her know you are still alive. The truth is, she wouldn't be able to keep herself from telling someone. It's a pity. I wish there were some other way, but…” He lifted his burly shoulders in a resigned shrug.

Tasia ached at the thought of her mother's sorrow. Everyone believed she was dead. It was a strange feeling, knowing that for those she had known and loved all her life, she had ceased to exist.

“You must try to walk a few steps,” Kirill said.

She struggled to slide her legs to the side of the bed. Letting Kirill take most of her weight, she rose to her feet. Her joints ached, causing her eyes to flood with tears of pain. Kirill urged her to take a step. “We'll move around for a bit to waken your blood.”

“Yes,” she gasped, forcing herself to obey. It hurt to breathe, to be touched, to bear her own weight. She was cold—she had never been so cold in her life.

Kirill spoke quietly as he coaxed her to shuffle across the floor. His long arm was locked across her trembling body, lending her balance. “Your father must be scowling at me from heaven for allowing his only child to come to this. When I think of the last time I saw you…” Kirill shook his head. “You were dancing the mazurka at the Winter Palace. The tsar himself stopped to watch you. Such fire and beauty. Your feet touched the floor so lightly. Every man there wished to be your partner. It wasn't much more than a year ago…A lifetime, it seems.”

She was hardly so agile now. Every step was agony, every breath a burst of cold fire in her lungs.

“A tricky enterprise, crossing the Baltic in spring,” Kirill said. “Drift ice all around. We'll stop at Stockholm to load up with iron, and then it's off to London. You have someone there who'll provide refuge?” He had to repeat the question before she was able to answer.

“Ashbourne,” Tasia gasped.

“Your mother's cousin? Hmm. I can't say I'm pleased to hear that. I don't think much of your mother's family. And I think even less of the English.”

“Wh-why?”

“Imperialist snobs, not to mention hypocrites. Englishmen consider themselves the most civilized race on earth, when their true nature is coarse and quite cruel. Innocence doesn't last long there—remember that. Don't trust any of them.” Kirill paused, as if realizing his assessment might not prove comforting to a young woman who was about to make a new life there. He struggled to think of something nice to say about the English. “On the other hand, they build very fine ships.”

A wry smile pulled at Tasia's lips. She stopped walking and tightened her hand on his heavy arm. “Spaséeba,” she whispered in thanks.

His face turned grim as he heard the heartfelt note in her voice. “Nyet, I don't deserve your gratitude, little niece. I should have done more for you. I should have killed Angelovsky myself, before he ever put his filthy hands on you. To think your foolish mother would betroth her daughter to such a man. Oh, I heard all the rumors about him…his appearances in public dressed as a woman, and smoking opium for days at a time, and all his perversities—” He stopped at the sound of protest from Tasia. “Well, no need to speak of it now.” He urged her forward again. “After our walk, I'll have the cabin boy bring a glass of tea. You must drink every drop.”

Tasia made a croaking sound and nodded. She longed to rest, but the tortuous walk continued until Kirill was satisfied that it had been enough. Carefully he helped her ease into a chair. She sat like an arthritic old woman, folded in a miserable heap. Kirill covered her with a blanket. “Little firebird,” he said in a kindly way, holding her hand for a moment.

“Papa…” she said in a muffled voice.

“Dah, I remember that he used to call you that. To Ivan you were all the light and beauty in the world. The firebird is the symbol of happiness.” He smiled thoughtfully. “As the story goes, the firebird falls into deathlike sleep at sunset, and later awakens to new life.” He brought a handful of objects to her, setting them on a nearby shelf where she could view them. “Your mother wanted these to be buried with you,” he said gruffly. “You can keep them with you in England. They are little bits of your past, to help you remember.”