Page 17 of The Storybook Hero
“I speak English.”
The man tugged at the corner of his mustache in some indecision. After lengthy consideration he finally gestured to the seat beside him. “I suppose you had better come with me,” came the gruff order. As Alex scrambled up, the man added, “I am Riasanov, steward to the Scherbatov estate.”
He made no offer of his hand, giving only a brisk shake of the reins as soon as Alex’s feet cleared the ground. Further attempts at conversation proved futile as each simple inquiry was rebuffed with no more than a rough grunt. Alex finally gave up, and the journey continued on in an eerie silence, save for the swirl of the wind and the whoosh of the wheels in the drifting snow.
Turning his collar up to ward off the icy gusts, he tried to focus his attention on the countryside and what sort of lands his relative possessed. But even that proved impossible in the fading light and thickening flurries. It was with great relief that he finally heard the crunch of gravel under the lumbering cart and was able to discern the outline of a manor house not too far ahead.
As the horses trotted into the courtyard, a groom emerged from the barn, swathed in such layers of wool and fur that he appeared some strange creature conjured up from one of the fanciful wonder tales of the region. The sound that emerged from where his mouth should be was equally bizarre, bearing no relationship to any words Alex had ever heard. His companion, however, seemed to have no difficulty in understanding the fellow. He barked out a series of orders then gestured for the tutor to follow.
Stiff with cold, Alex managed to dismount and trail after the steward. But any hopes of a respite from the biting cold within the main house were dashed as the heavy wooden front door was thrown open. It was nearly as chilly inside. The other man stamped the snow off his boots, leaving a shower of flakes on the stone floor. Alex did the same, unconsciously pulling the knitted wool scarf tighter around his neck.
Hell’s teeth.He hoped the fellow wouldn’t expect him to remove his coat!
Drawing in a deep breath, Alex darted a glance around the dimly lit entrance hall, taking in the heavy pine furniture, gaily painted with bright colors and swirling motifs that looked very foreign to his English eye. A shaggy bearskin was stretched out in front of a massive sideboard, above which hung two portraits.
With a start, he realized that the man bore a striking resemblance to his uncle.
The father of young Nicholas? he wondered.
He had little chance to see much else, as the steward indicated they were to continue along a dark hallway that led off to the left. Every door they passed was shut tight, no hint of light coming from beneath them. No voices were evident either. In fact, there was no sign of life at all. Nothing but a dark, ominous silence. Alex could feel the knot in his stomach tighten with each step …
Riasanov came to a closed door and shouldered it open. Alex tensed, half expecting some fur-clad giant to swing a cudgel at his head. Instead, it was a long handled cooking spoon that cut through the air.
“Ah, Yevgeny! Thank the Lord.! I was afraid you might be trapped in the blizzard.”
A short, stout, woman, nearly as wide as she was tall, wiped her free hand over a patterned apron. “Warm yourself by the stove while I fetch you a cup of tea.” Catching sight of Alex, her mouth cracked in a smile that revealed several missing teeth. “Who is this with you? By the way he’s dressed, he would soon have been a carcass for the wolves if you hadn’t found him.”
The steward removed his fur hat and stepped over to the huge tiled stove, holding out his stiff fingers to its heat. “A tutor, he says. For young Master Nicholas.”
The woman tucked a wisp of greying hair up under the kerchief knotted around her head. “Tutor,” she repeated, casting an appraising glance at him. “Well, best warm your bones, young man. You look as if you might like a cup of tea as well.” Her glance ran over his lean form. “And a bite of supper.”
Alex nodded gratefully as he unwound the scarf from his neck and shook the drops of melting snow from his hat. The kitchen was blessedly warm, with the smell of fresh baked bread and simmering borscht filling the air. He could feel the heat beginning to seep through his rough garments and the wet leather of his boots. Leaving a puddle on the spotless floor, hedidn’t wait twice to be invited closer to the hissing stove. After several minutes, he finally felt able to remove his coat, though his fingers were still so wooden they let it slip to the floor in a heap.
The old woman thrust a glass of steaming tea in his hands, waving away his halting apology for creating a mess in her domain. “Sit! Sit!” she urged, motioning him to the long trestle table, still flecked with coarse rye flour and caraway seeds.
Alex obeyed. Riasanov was already settled comfortably in a chair, helping himself to a bowl of pickled beets and eggs. After a brief hesitation, the steward took one last morsel and pushed the bowl toward him, still without addressing a word in his direction.
“Where did you come from?” At least the woman was proving less taciturn.
“From Cheboksary,” he mumbled through a mouthful of egg.
She placed a crusty loaf of dark bread on the table and began to saw off generous slabs. Alex could feel his mouth begin to water at the rich scent. “What were you doing there? “
His mouth crooked in a rueful smile as he accepted a piece . “I’m afraid my directions were a bit unclear. The Scherbatov family I encountered there had no person under the age of sixty-five.”
“Hmmph. Bad directions, indeed.” She exchanged looks with the steward. “Who hired you? The Countess?” she continued, her tone growing sharp.
Alex paused in buttering his slice of bread. The mood in the room had become markedly chillier. “I was given the job by, er, an intermediary. I have never met the countess,” he answered slowly, deciding to stick as close to the truth as possible.
“Your accent,” she persisted. “Where are you from?”
He swallowed hard. “From outside of St. Petersburg.”
Suddenly, his head was jerked back and the bread knife pressed up against his throat. “What town, exactly?”
Alex didn’t attempt an answer.
“As I thought,” growled Riasanov, tightening his grip on Alex’s collar. “A stupid mistake, my friend. Did you really think that we would be so stupid as fall for such an obvious ruse? You may tell Vladimir Illich that it will not be quite so easy to steal Polyananovosk from the young master—that is, when you see him in Hell!”
