Page 31 of The Storybook Hero
“Yes. Mr. Fetisov is going to drive us all the way to St. Petersburg, so we will not have to sleep on a sack of grain again. Or spend the night under the stars. No matter how much you enjoyed it, I, for one, do not fancy being out in the open when the snows begin.” She looked up as another flake fell on her cheek. “For it seems that a Russian winter is fast approaching.”
Though loath to go back into the fetid public room, Octavia forced aside any lingering hesitation. They would have to get used to rude remarks and bold stares from now on. It was best to get it over with. Taking Emma’s arm, she walked purposefully through the creaking door and chose a little table in the far corner of the room. The trio of men fell silent when she reappeared, but their attention soon returned to their tumblers of kvass, and their conversation slowly picked up again, to her considerable relief.
The innkeeper quickly brought over two bowls of thick borscht, along with a wedge of dark pumpernickel bread liberally studded with caraway seeds. Chiding herself for being so apprehensive, Octavia let their two valises and her reticule settle to the floor, then slid her coat off onto the back of herchair. They began to eat, Emma peppering her with all manner of questions about the coming journey around mouthfuls of soup. More than once, Octavia had to remind the girl to keep her voice to a low whisper, for to announce that they were foreigners on top of being women traveling unescorted could only bring even more unwanted attention. Still, the hot food and the warm room were a welcome respite from the rigors of the journey so far….
A slurred shout suddenly interrupted their meal.
“Is that man speaking to us?” asked Emma, twisting in her chair to stare across the room.
“Ignore him,” ordered Octavia in a low hiss. “And turn around this instant.”
Startled by the sharp rebuke, the girl did as she was told. “But why is he yelling?” she persisted.
“Pay it no mind. He is saying something … improper.”
“Why?”
“Not now, Emma. I will explain some other time. Put on your coat. We are going to leave.”
“But I haven’t finished—” She stopped in mid-sentence on catching the look on Octavia’s face.
Octavia dropped a coin on the table, not caring that it was considerably more than necessary. “Stay close by my side, Emma,” she said, reaching for their bags. “And pray, do not stop or say a word as we pass by them.”
“You’re a flashy bit of brass, aren’t you?” came another loud taunt. “Coming in here passing out a handful of gold. Care to share your favors with us as well?”
Octavia’s cheeks flushed crimson as she made for the door.
Emboldened by drink, one of them stood up to block her retreat. “Hear now, you hussy, we are talking to you!”
“I am a respectable woman. Kindly let me leave with my daughter.”
“Respectable!” jeered one of the others. “No respectable woman travels alone.” He lurched to his feet as well. “Is the girl included in the fun? She’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she, Dimitri?”
The third one smacked his lips. “A tasty morsel, Ilya. Both of them. And the purse will be even sweeter.”
Laughter echoed through the dark space. The innkeeper, on hearing the drunken exchange, slowly backed toward his kitchen. and crept behind the door. The bolt slid home with a distinct click.
Octavia swallowed her rising fear. “Stand aside, sir.”
The one called Ilya narrowed his eyes, an ugly leer twisting his face. “Shut up! You ain’t given the orders here.”
Behind the men, the door pushed open to admit her hired coachman. “Ma’am, the horses are ready—” He bit off his words and his jovial face paled as he regarded the scene before him.
A knife flashed out from the pocket of one of the ruffians. “Be off if you know what’s good for you,” he snarled. “You’ve got your share of that fat purse. We mean to have ours—and more.”
“Mr. Fetisov …” Octavia tried to keep her voice level. “Perhaps you might assist us to your carriage.”
He bit his lip. “I … I have a wife and child, Ma’am,” he stammered. “I’m … I’m sorry.”
She fell back a step as the door slowly swung shut. Pushing Emma behind her so that she might serve to shield the girl, Octavia reached into her reticule and withdrew the pistol. “I shan’t repeat it again—stand aside!” she said, with considerably more bravado than she felt.
A look of disbelief swept over Ilya’s face, quickly replaced by a surge of anger at the prospect that their plans might be thwarted. ”Pay the wench no heed,” he snarled to his cohorts. Turning back to Octavia, he added, “You probably ain’t never aimed one of those in your life.”
“Perhaps not, but at this distance, I am bound to hit one of you,” she said levelly as she cocked the hammer.
Ilya swore under his breath while the two behind him exchanged uneasy glances. They edged back toward their table.
“We are going to leave now. Any of you who tries to stop us will get a bullet for his troubles.” Octavia whispered for Emma to follow close behind and started forward.
