Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(27)
“I got it.”
“And?”
He released an exaggerated sigh. “I do not understand why you thought I would enjoy that novel. The only good part is when Beth dies.”
She threw the comb at him, but he caught it, laughing raucously as he shot to his feet and whirled to face her. “Did you think I was serious?”
“I know you’re serious, and that’s why I want to strangle you!”
Dimitri slanted her a chiding grin. “Come, we both know it is a maudlin and sentimental novel. You must forgive me for not wishing to drown in sugary syrup.”
“I haven’t forgiven you for making me read War and Peace, and I never shall.”
“It is an honest portrayal of the human condition,” he retorted.
“So is Little Women.”
He looked heavenward as though pained. “It is a boring portrayal of mundane domesticity. Novels should be written on an epic scale to explore and celebrate the depth of human suffering. Don’t subject me to women chatting beside the fireplace. Little Women is nothing more than a sleeping draught. That is not the purpose of literature.”
She stood up to face him. “You arrogant Russian snob! What gives you the right to decide the purpose of literature?”
A wickedly taunting grin lit his face. “Centuries of literary tradition agree that tragedy is more worthy than cozy domestic stories. Even though you are wrong about Tolstoy, I find your defense of sappy literature strangely appealing. Please continue.”
She smothered a laugh. It was fun being able to tease him without fear of offense, and it appeared he felt equally at ease returning fire. She really ought to defend her favorite novel more, but her eyes were still watering, and they had work to do.
“Sit back down and let me finish your hair.”
He complied and continued finding fault with Little Women, but she quit listening when she came across something odd on Dimitri’s scalp. Near the base of his neck, a lump of raised skin. She ran her thumb across it.
“Be careful of that spot, please.”
His hair was short enough to see a scar about the size and shape of a nickel. “What is it?”
“A memento of my time in Chita,” he said. “Perhaps the only wise move I made before my trial was to hide things of value on my person. Sadly, the items I sewed into my clothes were stolen before I could use them, but I hid a diamond beneath that scar you have just discovered. It survived long enough for it to be useful.”
She pulled her fingers away, aghast. “You hid a diamond beneath your own skin?”
“A good hiding place, yes?”
She felt dizzy as she absorbed the news. “Does it still hurt?”
“Not usually, but please be gentle with the comb on that spot. The eucalyptus oil will not be kind if the skin breaks open again.”
She leaned in closer, no longer caring about the eye-watering sting of the oil. She needed to inspect his scalp without hurting the scar tissue. “I sense there is quite a story behind this scar,” she said, hoping he would share it with her.
Fortunately, he was in a chatty mood. “I spent many months with a friend who needed to escape as badly as I did.” He went on to describe his improbable friendship with a Buryat outlaw who had escaped from a penal colony. Together, they traveled thousands of miles before going their separate ways in a remote city called Chita.
What sort of man cut a diamond out of his own skin for an outlaw? Who navigated for months on end through a brutal wilderness in his quest for freedom? All her life she had admired brave, daring men who weren’t afraid of a challenge.
It looked like she had found one, but Dimitri was hiding something from her, and she feared it did not bode well.
13
Dimitri was beginning to feel like a man again, restored both in body and spirit. His first few hours in San Francisco had been a hectic experience. The sudden onslaught of noise and crowds, the fear of being alone and penniless, then the joy of falling into Natalia’s welcoming friendship. The mortification of telling her about the lice faded when she rolled up her sleeves to help him with the disagreeable problem.
After the lice treatment, Natalia noticed the disastrous shape of his hands and insisted on soaking them in warmed oil to soften the calluses he’d earned driving the sledge for months on end. He would probably go to his grave with those calluses, but he gladly accepted her ministrations.
Now they dined at a rooftop restaurant called the Oyster House, situated on a terrace overlooking the harbor on one side and the glittering lights of the city on the other. Few people chose to dine outside on such a chilly night, but it didn’t feel cold to him, and Natalia wore an elegantly tailored wool coat with a charming hat cocked at a saucy angle. She looked like a Russian princess in the clear, cold night.
He rotated a crystal goblet, staring at the remnants of a steak dinner and the votive candles that lit their table with a warm glow. Once again, he was on top of the world, dining with a beautiful woman, his belly full.
And somewhere in the cold, windswept land not far from the Trans-Siberian railroad lay thousands of people in unmarked graves. They called out to him for justice. The czar and his allies had done their best to silence him, but now he was in America, and the tables had just turned. It was time to embark on his next mission.
“I need to tell you what I witnessed in Siberia,” he said.