Lara's Gift (2 page)

Zarya’s limited supply of milk was her only failing as a mother.

“Tyatya, nyet—”

“Enough.” Papa’s ruddy cheeks reddened a shade darker. “You know what must be done.”

I did know. But knowing did not mean I agreed. As much as I dreamed of one day walking in Papa’s boots to breed borzoi worthy of His Majesty Tsar Nicholas, I shunned culling any pup.

But what I thought didn’t matter. Papa was the Count’s kennel steward. Not I.

“Let me hold Ryczar one last time,” I braved, for I knew what awaited the pup. A drowning in a deep bed of snow.

“You’re only making it harder on yourself,” Papa griped.

On tiptoes I reached up for the pup with outstretched arms, and a twinge of headache pulsed across my forehead. “Please, dear
Tyatya
. Just one last time.”

“All right, all right,” Papa said.

With a grumpy frown, Papa handed Ryczar back to me.

I smothered his soft, little rump with kisses and coddled him against my cheek. If only given a chance, this pudgy white ball of skin with knobby legs and a squished-in face might grow into a sleek, silky-coated borzoi with long, graceful legs, and an elegant muzzle to match. As I rubbed noses with Ryczar and took in the sweet smell of puppy breath, I counted my blessings that I had been born into a long line of kennel stewards and not into a family that harvested crops, for the borzoi wasn’t just any dog. Borzoi were a national treasure, gifted among
nobility like Fabergé eggs. A peasant girl like me might never get an opportunity to lay her eyes on a borzoi and I had dozens around me.

My twanging headache suddenly turned into throbbing pain at my temples. Quickly I put Ryczar down alongside his mother, Zarya. With my fingers pressed against my forehead, I tried to rub away the pain—a pain I had never experienced before.

“Larochka, are you all right?” Papa’s voice carried a haunted tone.

“I’m scared,
Tyatya
.” I pressed harder against my temples, yet the pain didn’t subside.

I closed my eyes.

In the darkness behind my eyelids—as if in a dream—stood an older-looking Ryczar. He was smaller than most male borzoi and his coat was thick with wavy white curls. He held his head high and his chest puffed out with pride. Below him lay a dead wolf with silvery-red-tipped fur in blood-soaked snow.

Ryczar’s image was as crisp as a photo and as real to me as my love for the dogs.

In complete awe and wonder, I willed myself to see more and squeezed my eyes shut until it hurt.

Despite my will, the image faded away along with the throbbing pain.

I opened my eyes and tugged at Papa’s sleeve.

“We must keep this pup. I think I saw his future.” The
words raced off my tongue like a borzoi in pursuit of its prey.

A hundred tiny lines creased Papa’s forehead. “What do you mean?”

“Ryczar won’t be the runt forever. He’ll catch wolves just like borzoi are bred to do,” I said.

Papa covered my mouth with his hand. “Not another word,” he whispered.

“But—”

“Bad things will follow from a vision, if given credence.” To scare me even more, Papa added, “You know how the Count feels about psychics like Rasputin. Do you want to lead a life like his?”

I shuddered at the thought. Whenever his name cropped up, harsh, ugly words flew through the air like a raging blizzard. “Of course not,” I answered. “My place is here with you and the dogs.”

“Then speak of this to no one,” Papa said. “Not even to Alexander.”

“Why,
Tyatya
? I don’t understand.” I shared everything about the dogs with Alexander. Nobody loved them more than we did.

Papa’s ruddy cheeks paled and that scared me. Nothing ever shook his nerves. “Promise me.”

Just then, Mama entered the birthing room, carrying our morning basket of black bread. With her black eyebrows, thick like a sable’s tail, almond-shaped amber
eyes, and pitch-dark plaited hair, I resembled Mama more than I did Papa. Unlike the stable clothing I wore, she was dressed in reds and golds and always looked like an iconic angel whenever she lighted prayer candles in the chapel.

No doubt for a second child.

“Promise what?” Mama looked from me to Papa.

“Evil courses through Lara’s veins,” Papa whispered.

Mama’s eyes filled with worry. She knelt down beside me and placed the back of her hand on my forehead. “There’s no fever,” she said with relief in her voice. “What kind of evil do you speak of?”

“Lara had a vision,” Papa answered, as if that one word would explain it all to Mama.

His stone-tight hands clutched my shoulders like a steel trap. He stared deeply into my eyes and looked like he had a thousand secrets hidden underneath his sheepskin hat. “If you have another one, you
must
ignore it, Lara.”

I couldn’t bear to disappoint Papa even if I didn’t understand. “Forgive me. I’ll never do it again. I promise.”

“A promise is a promise,” Papa stressed.

“Yes,
Tyatya
—Golden Rule Number One.”

The lines on Papa’s forehead softened. “To be a great kennel steward, you must live by your word, as well as by the Rules that govern us.”

“When the Rules make sense, dear husband.”

Mama and Papa exchanged looks that puzzled me. I didn’t dare interrupt.

“Visions, whatever they might bring, are a gift from God—a gift we must embrace.” Mama folded her arms. “Don’t go filling our daughter’s head with your nonsense.”

Papa shook his head. “Only a fool in the guise of a devil makes decisions based on a vision.” He grabbed his sheepskin coat and laced his felt boots. “I don’t have time to bicker. I’ve got to ring the stable bells to announce the birth.”

Papa snatched Ryczar from his littermates by the scruff of his neck, dropped him into an empty sack, and tied it shut with some hemp.

“
Tyatya
, let
me
care for the little white pup,” I proposed.

“You’ll be awake all night for weeks until he’s big enough to eat on his own,” Papa said. “Assuming he makes it past the first few days.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” I insisted. “He’s small, that’s all.”

“I don’t have extra kopecks to bottle-feed every runt,” Papa barked.

“I’ll take on more kennel chores to earn his keep.”

“Splendid,” Papa said, crossing his arms. “Like you have time to spare. You already spend every waking moment working in the kennel.”

“Please,”
I begged.

Mama placed her hand on Papa’s shoulder. “What harm is there in letting Lara try, dear husband? If the runt is not meant to live, as you say, surely he will die, regardless of her efforts. Give her the chance to learn this for herself.”

Papa twisted the long black hairs of his beard, just as he always did when he struggled with a decision.

“This isn’t the lesson I intended to teach you,” Papa grunted, handing me the sack. “But your mama’s right that you’ll learn this for yourself, if you experience it firsthand. Your runt can have one final feeding with Zarya, and then his fate falls on you.”

“Spasibo!”
I thought I’d jump out of myself, I was so thankful.

“Don’t come crying to me when the pup drops dead. Culling him now would save us all a lot of trouble,” Papa said.

I unfastened the hemp and freed Ryczar as quickly as a dog licks his bowl clean. I wrapped my hands around him, brought him to my lips, and kissed his little face. And then I hurried him back to the warmth of his litter and placed him on one of Zarya’s nipples. “Drink up, little boy. It’ll be goat’s milk after this.”

Ryczar squirmed into place between his littermates Sila and Bistri and suckled. Gently, I stroked his back. “You’ll remain Ryczar, for the knight you’ll one day
become, but I’ll call you Zar in honor of your mother, Zarya, for bringing you into this world—and to me.”

“
Korotyshka
would be a better name for the runt he’ll always be,” Papa said.

“Pay him no heed.” Mama lovingly poked Papa’s round belly.

Although he swatted at her hand, a slight smile crept onto his face.

“It doesn’t matter what Papa thinks right now,” I told Zar. “One day he’ll see that it was right to let you live.”

The wind whistled in beautiful song, as if it heard me and echoed after it.

“Curse that wind,” Papa complained. He gathered three birch logs and tossed them into the wood-burning stove. With a poker he pushed the logs into place until they popped and hissed and a red-orange flame roared around them. Then he wagged his finger at me. “Remember, Lara. Not a word of your vision to anyone.”

Even though it would kill me to keep it from Alexander, I answered, “Of course not. I wouldn’t dare break my promise.”

With a pleased look on his face, Papa left to ring the bells.

“Be careful what you promise,” Mama said to me. She peeled away the cloth towel covering the black bread. From it she cut a thick slice, slathered butter on it, and then handed it to me. “Eat,
dorogusha
. You’ll need your
strength to prove your papa wrong about Zar and to help him find the truth.”

“What truth?” I asked.

Mama took a deep breath. “The truth behind your visions. He’s afraid of them.”

Afraid? Papa didn’t fear anything.

“Don’t you see?” Mama’s face brightened with hope. “God has chosen you. Accept his gift and learn to trust it.”

As the
zvon
of stable bells, decorated in legendary borzoi images, clanged—
ding ding dong, ding ding dong
—the inside of my head felt like two mismatched pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Mama held one piece called Gift, and Papa held the other called Evil.

Neither piece interlocked with the other.

“I’m confused,
Matushka
. None of this makes sense,” I said.

“Patience,
dorogusha
. One day it’ll become clear to you which path to take.”

While the crackling fire warmed my back, I peered down at Zarya and stroked her fine, lean head. Everything about it was pure borzoi, down to her long, straight nose, her dark, almond-shaped eyes, and her well-placed ears—tucked and hidden among soft, wavy curls. And just as Zarya had inherited these traits from a long borzoi ancestry, Zar would inherit them, too, as well as beauty and grace, speed and strength, and a keen eye to hunt.

A life without these splendid dogs I could not bear. Nor could I imagine living my life any differently than the way Papa lived his. Just as Grandfather had once served as the kennel steward for the late Count Roman Vorontsov, and just as Papa now served the current Count Vorontsov, I would one day serve as kennel steward to Alexander when he became the next Count. I’d be the first girl in my family to become kennel steward.

I would never risk losing that.

It became clear which path I had to choose.

I must keep my promise to Papa and get rid of the evil inside of me.

Suddenly the wind died down and the tug-of-war battle in my head ended. It became eerily quiet, as if … God had heard me.

Mama placed her hand on my shoulder. “It’s a sign, Larochka.”

I pushed that notion away. I couldn’t let myself get sucked in by Mama’s silly signs.

CHAPTER ONE
 

The Hunting Horn

Like the moon, far from my reach, Papa’s hunting horn hung high up on the tack wall in the stable, just above the birch-bark scroll inscribed with the Eight Golden Rules for breeding borzoi. Still, I could imagine holding the horn in my hands with its decorative gold pieces along the side. My favorite image was one of a borzoi running. It reminded me of Zar.

I could also imagine putting the horn to my lips, taking a deep breath, and blowing through it to signal the start of a hunt. Just as Papa always did, right before the hunters set off into the woods and open fields, led by
Kyrgyz stallions dragging long, open sledges filled with dogs and hunters.

More than anything, Papa cherished his hunting horn and forbade anyone to touch it—including me, for it wasn’t just any horn. It had been in our family for generations—passed down from one kennel steward to the next.

“One day that horn will be mine,” I said to Zar, patting him on the head.

“Not if our prayers are answered.” Papa stepped into the tack room, with the Count’s Gold Medal team of borzoi—Borei, Bistri, and Sila—prancing at his heels. The Woronzova trio were the strongest and swiftest hunting dogs on the estate.

“But you’ve been grooming me to take over.”

Papa twisted the long, dark hairs of his beard. “It’s clear you love the dogs. And it’s true I’ve been grooming you to become the next kennel steward. All of that will have to change, if your mama gives birth to a boy. Trust me, Lara, I’m thinking of your future.”

Up until now, I had never thought Papa would really take away my dream.

He turned away from me to dote on his favorite dog. While he checked Borei’s paws for cracks, I tried to muster up my most respectful voice.

Instead, frustration poured out. “Everything I’ve learned will be wasted.”