The wind picked up a bit, frisking the torrent of snowflakes about the air.
"You are making the best of a bad situation," Saint-Germain suggested.
"Hardly a workable excuse." He fiddled with the ruffles of his cuffs. "If we're able to enlarge our mission here, then we may have more success with the Russians." He closed his eyes, a frown deepening on his forehead.
"You are tired," Saint-Germain said.
"Regretfully, I must concur," said Carruther. "I apologize for my--"
Saint-Germain waved this away. "Anyone in your position earns his exhaustion." He inclined his head as a signal of departure. "I thank you for a festive entertainment. Is there anything more I might do for you before I leave?"
"No, I think not. I appreciate your willingness to listen."
Saint-Germain gave a slight bow. "You provided a most enjoyable evening, and I thank you for including me."
"I have Colonel Broughton if I need him," said Carruther. "That is, if he isn't too drunk to respond."
"My point exactly," said Saint-Germain.
"Captain Fet came by three hours ago, to see if we might need one of his men posted here. I asked him to send someone �round later tonight, just as a precaution. He said one of his men would be here, and reasonably sober." Carruther held Saint-Germain's Persian-lamb hat out to him. "You'll need this tonight, even with your hood."
Saint-Germain took the hat and set it on his head before raising the hood. "I will call back in two or three days, to see how the Resident is doing."
"A pity your wife didn't join us," said Carruther.
"Yes; but she elected to attend the Midnight Mass at the Cathedral after dining at the Prussian Residence. She asked me to join her at the Cathedral. After all she has heard about Orthodox rituals, she wanted to see a Mass for herself. She promised her brother she would Confess it when she returned to Poland, because while she is here, she is sure it cannot be a sin. I plan to meet her there in half an hour." He bowed and stepped out into the flying snow, accompanied by
Carruther's chuckle. He followed the lanterns down the street toward the Cathedral and the rich harmonies that rode with the snow; as he walked, he thought back to his breathing life: he had been born at the dark of the year, and took an odd satisfaction in these later celebrations, which served as a reminder of his own provisional mortality.
The Cathedral smelled of incense and wet fur; at least three hundred people stood to hear the Midnight Mass, most of them Orthodox, and following the liturgy. At the rear of the Cathedral, and near the door, a small group of foreigners was gathered, most of them watching the celebration attentively, a few clearly baffled and bored: Zozia was one of those who had no interest in the Mass, and had begun to flirt with the Hessian courier next to her.
Saint-Germain stepped to her side, lifted her hand, and kissed it. "Ksiezna. A joyous Christmas to you."
Speaking just above a whisper, she said, "So far, Hercegek, it is a tedious one. I had no idea how soon this would pall on me." She sighed. "Lugubrious music, with far too much incense, and too many candles. And those
icons!"
Remembering his time in Moscow over a century ago, when every home had its own iconostasis, and every door was guarded by an icon, Saint-Germain thought this Cathedral was austere by Russian Orthodox standards, but he knew better than to say so. "Some Catholic churches are as grandly ornamented as this one."
Zozia paid no attention to his remark. "And look at all that gold, and the seed-pearls on the vestments, and the rough-cut jewels. The Metropolitan has an amethyst the size of a baby's fist in his head-dress. Too gaudy for an Emperor, and not even the Pope goes to such excess." She realized she had raised her voice, and put her hand to her lips. "We had best get out of here before I do something truly unwise."
"As you like," he said, with an elegant inclination of his head, following her out into the writhing snow. "Is your sleigh waiting, or are we going to walk?"
"I told Vincenty to come for me when Mass was over, and there's almost an hour and a half to go--I fear we will have to walk. I cannot remain here any longer." To emphasize her determination, she donned
her high-crowned fur hat, took hold of his arm, and moved him along toward the Foreign Quarter. "I don't know how you can stand that music. Just voices, no instruments, and all men. Give me a lively little consort with singers or a splendid organ, at least, and things become bearable. But this drone, drone, drone and Byzantine texts no one understands!" She found a slight rut under the snow and began to follow it.
"Where is your brother tonight, that you came to Mass alone?" Saint-Germain asked as they managed to establish a walking pattern together.
"Oh, he and Nyland went off to the Four Frigates, along with a dozen other men. They say the tavern will be enlarged next summer, and given direct access to the docks. For tonight, it will be crowded and the men will roister. I doubt I'll see him before sunrise, given how late sunrise comes." She cracked an angry laugh. "Those two spend hours and hours together. Nyland has come to the Polish house often and often. Not that there's anything much to do here. They go to the taverns, and other houses. I know they play cards, and drink, but I don't know what else they do." Then with an engaging look she changed her tone. "I have missed seeing you of late. I apologize for Benedykt's rudeness, but he believes that he must have final say in all I do. He has heard gossip about us from the servants, and he is afraid you will yet compromise me."
"That would be impossible," said Saint-Germain.
"I've told him so, but he is always thinking the worst of me. He claims that he is sure we have done the act, though I have denied it on the cross." She steadied herself through an uneven patch of ice and snow. "How little it takes to lose his good opinion."
"Probably not very much," said Saint-Germain. "Especially now, with everyone remaining indoors for days on end."
"He has nothing to do but play cards, drink, and brood, since there are few wives and no whores to be had. At home he might have amused himself with a chambermaid or a goose-girl, but here? The servants cannot be compelled to grant their favors; the Czar has said so. What else is there to do? He isn't a man to read."
"Then I suppose you have the sum of it," said Saint-Germain. "Unless he has the Czar's aptitude for working wood."
"Oh, spare me," exclaimed Zozia. "A lathe in the house would be all we'd need. Noise and shavings all day long."
"Well, the days will be lengthening soon, and the people will move about more," Saint-Germain reminded her as he guided her around a suspicious hillock in the snow. "The ice will start to thin at the end of March and will break up in April."
"Not nearly long enough days, and not nearly soon enough thaw." She would not permit him to cheer her. "I will be glad when the two years are up and I may return to Poland. I miss real fields, and the look of hills and mountains. This place is so
flat!
And it smells. Say what you will, it is no place for a city. If Piotyr wants a Baltic port, let him build up Kronstadt, or take Vyborg and shape it to his will. This place is unbearable."
"Everything you say is true," said Saint-Germain, "but it is Piotyr's decision, not yours or mine. This is his own, personal dream, and he will have it, the cost in treasure and lives unreckoned and insignificant compared to Piotyr's vision."
"You know they're going to tear down a dozen houses in the spring and rebuild them elsewhere, because the Czar has modified his design for the place." She slipped and sagged against him. As she righted herself, she panted as much from her aggravation as from the shock of a twisted ankle. "Oh, the Devil take it!"
"What is it?" Saint-Germain asked, steadying her.
"My ankle. It's not going to hold me up. It may start to swell if I try to walk on it." She gave a ferocious smile. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to carry me home? Or at the least, let me lean on your arm."
"Whichever you like," said Saint-Germain, and prepared to scoop her up into his arms. "I am yours to command."
She backed up a step, teetering on her left leg. "The snow is deep, and I'm no featherweight, nor is my cloak; I doubt you can carry me so far." She smoothed the ermine, her smile wide and filled with invitation and challenge. "It is some distance to the Polish house."
"No matter. I've carried more much farther." He closed the distance
between them, curious now as to why she was paying such determined attention to him, and what the ploy was intended to accomplish. "Put your arm on my shoulder, Ksiezna."
"If we both fall down, what then?" She glared at him.
"Until that happens, at least you will be getting closer to the Polish house." He waited a bit, and then said, "If you remain standing here, you will risk frostbite, and I cannot believe you would want that."
Her eyes narrowed. "All right. We can try it." She laid her arm on his shoulder. "There."
With little effort, he swung her off her feet, and with one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees, he began to wade through the snow.
"You're very strong," she whispered, her eyes shining speculatively. "I didn't know. You have good shoulders and a deep chest, but this is remarkable."
"Those of my blood have some strength." He continued on, taking care to make it obvious that he was making an effort far beyond what he was--not unlike her protestation of a damaged ankle, he thought. He could hear the merry-making in the Guards' barrack, and he thought the streets would not be as safe as they had been given to expect. After about ten minutes, he said, "I am going to stop and put you down for a little while, so I can catch my breath." It was not true, but he knew it was what Zozia expected of him.
She laughed in approval. "I like this way of going home."
He let her down, and took advantage of the moment to brush away the snow on his hood and his arms and shoulders. "If you will come a bit nearer?" He got the snow off her hat and the folds of her cloak. "The drifts will be higher than my waist by morning."
"They'll have work-gangs out with shovels and barrows in the morning, Christmas or not," said Zozia. "They can't let the roads become impassable."
"That would immobilize the city until spring, and no one is prepared for that," Saint-Germain agreed. He took her hand and slipped it onto his shoulder. "Are you ready?"
"Oh, yes, please," she said, making the simple request provocative.
As he took her up into his arms again, she managed to give a quick kiss to his cheek, and she rested her head under his chin as they went on to the Polish house.
Antek admitted them disapprovingly to the vestibule. "Joyous Christmas," he intoned as if announcing a death in the family.
Saint-Germain set Zozia down once more, and told the dour servant, "And to you."
Zozia gave a mischievous wink to Saint-Germain, and said to Antek as she slipped out of her ermine wrapper, "My husband and I are going to my room for a while. He won't stay the night, of course--he must return to the care-house--but it is time we had a little privacy together. It's been far too long." She reached up and tossed back Saint-Germain's hood. "Take off your cloak. Antek will hang it on the peg over there, and you and I can adjourn to my room. You know the way."
Antek took Saint-Germain's cloak and his hat, hung them up, and ducked his head. "Do you require anything more of me, Ksiezna?"
"Nothing just at present," she said lightly. "I would like to think that I can rely upon you to do all that is necessary while the Hercegek and I retire." She was almost skipping as she urged Saint-Germain to follow her to the room.
He allowed himself to be drawn after her, although he was apprehensive about her state of mind, which seemed more volatile than usual: he was, he reminded himself, far from home at the most difficult time of year. As she enticed him into her part of the bedroom, the first thing he noticed was that there were now draperies over the window and a second armoire for her clothes. "You've made it very nice here."
"I wish we could have more mirrors, for brightness," she said, taking off her Ottoman shawl and tossing it on the end of her bed. "But the Russians don't approve, thinking them dangerous and filled with temptation and vanity, so we close or cover them except when we're dressing, and the Russians are satisfied." She went and patted the stack of pillows at the head of her bed. "Three of these are new, as well."
"Very nice," said Saint-Germain.
"I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to help me to undress, Hercegek," said Zozia, still playfully tantalizing. "Salomea is at Catholic Mass, and
she won't return until later, since the Hessians are holding a supper for those who attend the Mass. I can't manage all the lacings and such, and I must rely on you."
"How do your Russian servants feel about that--your Polish servants attending Catholic services?" Saint-Germain inquired, although he supposed they were generally displeased. "Heer van Hoek will attend Protestant services in the morning, to give thanks for his returning health, and the assistants and nurses at the care-house are not well-disposed toward him for doing it. They fear it will cause God to punish them for allowing him to attend Protestant worship."
"Russian servants think God will punish them for
everything."
Zozia went on as if the notion had just occurred to her. "I didn't see Madame Svarinskaya at the Cathedral."
"She may not have attended; she's been looking after a boy with a shattered hand, which he is probably going to lose." His face was grave and he considered Zozia with steady, enigmatic eyes.
"I don't know how she stands it," said Zozia. "Or how any of you stand it, for that matter. So many men injured, sick, and dying. What a terrible way to spend one's days." She turned her back to him. "If you'll unfasten my laces? And my necklace?"
