Lara's Gift
Authors: Annemarie O'Brien
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2013 by Annemarie O’Brien
Jacket art copyright © 2013 by Tim Jessell
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the Overlook Press for permission to reprint five lines from “Autumn,” four lines from “Cleopatra,” two lines from “Winter Journey,” and four lines from “Foreboding” from
Collected Narrative and Lyrical Poetry
by Alexander Pushkin, edited and translated by Walter Arndt. Translation copyright © 1984 by Walter Arndt. Published in 2002 by Ardis Publishers/The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc., New York, NY,
overlookpress.com
. All rights reserved.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
O’Brien, Annemarie.
Lara’s gift / Annemarie O’Brien. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In 1914 Russia, Lara is being groomed by her father to be the next kennel steward for the Count’s borzoi dogs unless her mother bears a son, but her visions, although suppressed by her father, seem to suggest she has a special bond with the dogs.
eISBN: 978-0-307-97548-5
[1. Borzoi—Fiction. 2. Dogs—Fiction. 3. Fathers and daughters—Fiction.
4. Sex role—Fiction. 5. Visions—Fiction. 6. Family life—Russia—Fiction.
7. Russia—History—1904–1914—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.O126713Lar 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2012034070
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
For Aubrey and Anjuli
Ta-ra! Ta-ra! the bugles blow
.
Up since dawn, the hunters sit
their horses chafing at the bit;
the borzoi tug the leash to go
.
The master sallies out, surveys
the company: His easy grin
reflects a candid pleasure in
the little world that he purveys
.
His Cossack jacket, patched and frayed
,
is buttoned snug across his chest;
a brandy flask, a Turkish blade
,
and horn equip him for the rest.…
It’s dark, it’s cold, it rains, it snows
,
and wolves are on the prowl. But still
nothing daunts the hunter’s will
.
Up at dawn, he gallops off
to make his way, however rough
,
through brake and brush, uphill and down.…
“C
OUNT
N
ULIN
”
BY
A
LEXANDER
P
USHKIN
T
RANSLATED BY
B
ETSY
H
ULICK
On the eve my beloved Ryczar was born, under a bright full moon, the north wind whistled and howled. Like a forest spirit gone mad with merriment, it ripped through the Woronzova Kennel and sprawling grounds of Count Vorontsov’s grand country estate. All night long, icy flakes of windswept snow drummed against the stable windows until the last pup was born at dawn.
Settled inside the birthing stall on fresh golden straw, Papa and I huddled around Zarya and her newborn pups—in awe of the wondrous miracle that lay before us on plush brown bear hides, for every borzoi birth was a gift from God.
“Lara, it’s time to name the pups,” Papa said. Whenever a new litter of pups was born, the Count gave me the honor of naming each one. His son, Alexander, told
him I had a knack for choosing names the dogs lived up to.
With Zarya’s permission I lifted the pup with a big red spot on her rump and looked her square in the face. “You shall be Umnitza. The firstborn is always clever.”
Papa raised his bushy brows. Hidden behind the long black hairs of his beard, I glimpsed a grin full of pride. Like me, Papa was a firstborn, too. He gently tugged at the long, dark braid that hung down my back. With a nod of his head he motioned toward the rest of the pups. “We’ve no time to dawdle.”
I put Umnitza down and picked up the second and third pups, both champagne in color. They had come out with such force and such quickness. “Your names will be easy,” I told them. “You, little girl, will be called Sila for your strength, and you, sweet boy, will be Bistri, for your speed.”
As I returned them to their mother, Papa interceded and took Bistri from my hands—turning him from front to back and front again. Then Papa ran his finger along Bistri’s spine and grinned from ear to ear. “The Count will be pleased with this pup.”
Like Papa, I, too, ran my finger along Bistri’s spine. “But,
Tyatya
, I don’t feel anything different.”
“Be patient, Lara. You’re only ten. You’ve got plenty of time to learn the art of breeding fine borzoi, so long as
your mama doesn’t give me a son in the meantime.…” Papa’s voice trailed off into a sigh.
There was little chance of Mama giving Papa a son. She couldn’t carry a baby longer than a few months. All of them had been taken away from us before we could even swaddle them.
I put Bistri down and picked up the fourth pup, as gold as the straw she lay on. She squiggled so much her tiny nails scratched me. “Such a sweet little thorn, you shall be called Zanoza.”
“Hmmm.” Papa eyed the little marks on my hands. “That name suits her well.”
The fifth pup, of cream color, looked like he would grow up to be as fast as the north wind. “I will call you Borei.”
Papa took him from my hands and ran his finger along his spine. “I’d wager my lucky hunting horn that this pup becomes the Count’s finest hound one day.”
Before I could run my finger along Borei’s spine, a
swoosh
of wind clapped against the window and rattled the panes. I cupped my ears and listened to the ceaseless wind that clawed along the length of the stable walls in tipsy mirth.
“Your mama would say it’s a sign and not a good one,” Papa said. He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a look—the one that said I could pick another name for the pup.
He didn’t believe in superstitions, and because of it, nor would I. “Borei’s a perfect name for a top dog,” I said with confidence.
Papa patted my head, like he would with one of the dogs. “That’s my girl.”
So pleased was I with Papa’s praise, had I been born a dog, my tail would be wagging.
The sixth pup was the tiniest pup I ever did see and his coat was as white as snow. “You shall be Ryczar—my knight of knights.”
I scooped him up and cradled him in my hands. Just as I nuzzled him to my neck, Papa grabbed him from me.
“Don’t bother giving him a name,” Papa said. “He’ll need to be culled.”
“But he’s the only white pup in the litter.” It was the color His Majesty Tsar Nicholas, ruler of all Russia, favored most of all. I was certain Ryczar would be prized more than the other pups—even if he was small.
“Zarya doesn’t produce much milk. You know that,” Papa said. “White pup or not, with the runt gone the other five will have a better chance.”