Page 7 of Tormented Heir

“What are they doing?” Papa asks. “My wife and that old crone.”

“Nothing. Talking about Dimitri’s father, I think,” she says.

She’s very naughty. Doing this thing with Father, and then listening at doors. I should tell Mama, but then Papa speaks again.

“If you ever let my wife find out about this, not only will you lose your job, but I’ll have you killed and buried on the mountains in the snow where no one will find you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the servant says, her voice shaking.

She has wisps of straw-colored hair sticking out of her cap that weren’t there before. She looks messy now, not neat.

Father writes something in his checkbook and tears it off, handing it to her. She shoves it down her shirt. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh,” she says. “Before I forget, Signora wanted me to ask about the wines, remember?”

Father pinches his nose and lists wines, and I take my chance to sneak down the stairs.

Once I’m in my room, I sit on my bed and think about what I’ve just seen. I don’t know what it all means, but it’s bad. Father was doing the thing I’ve seen animals do. The thing Mama says is bad, and he was doing it with the servant girl.

If I tell Mama, he might kill me and leave me in the snow, the way he threatened the girl. I stare out of my bedroom window at the mountains beyond. They look cold and lonely. I’d hate to be there all alone and no one would ever find me. I can’t tell Mama.

I must keep it a secret. I don’t want to. I tell Mamma nearly everything. One more glance at those cold, desolate peaks, and I swallow down what I’ve seen. I’ll never tell.

The rest of the day passes slowly. We eat the food, and the grown-ups drink the wine. I’m allowed a sip of Mama’s but it tastes like vinegar. I prefer my lemonade.

Then Russian Nonna says she has a special present for me that I haven’t opened yet. We did the presents yesterday, and today is the day we eat and relax. We are sitting in the big informal room. The fire is roaring, and the two cats are sleeping by it.

I get excited. “Is it a puppy?” I ask.

I’ve wanted a puppy for ages.

She shakes her head. “Child, how could I bring a puppy from Russia?” she asks in English.

Here, in front of Papa, we speak in English.

“How did you even mange to bring yourself?” Papa says, his words slurred. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

“Anton,” Mama says with a warning in her tone. She uses that same tone with me, when I’m being naughty.

“I just meant that it isn’t that easy to travel to and from Russia.” Papa waves his hand in the air.

“It is easier now. We are freer.” Russian Nonna takes her large bag and rummages in it.

“Free to starve,” Papa mutters.

“Not with your help.” Mama gives Papa a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make her eyes crinkle the way they do when she smiles at me.

Papa merely dips his head.

Nonna comes to me and hands me a package. It is tissue paper wrapped around a box, and carefully, I unwrap it. I open the box and stare inside.

There’s a wooden shield in the box, and it is covered with pictures. I brush my thumb over it, liking the paintings. There is a unicorn, and next to it a flower, and then on the top there is a sword, and next to that a bird.

“It’s pretty,” I say.

“This, dear boy, is the Baranov family crest.”

My stepfather snorts, and Mama shoots him an angry glare.

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