Page 107 of My Queendom for a Horse

How did I miss that before? I was an idiot.

I call the barn and talk to Eduards. With a little bit of explanation, he combs through the house and finds that stupid letter. And then he reads me the numbers. It takes a few tries, but I finally get it written on my arm, and then I dial it.

The numbers are weird. Like, to call Latvia, it’s 371, but to call Russia, it’s just one number. Seven. Like calling America. One. Why does England, which is just as fancy as America and Russia, maybe fancier, have two numbers? Forty-four? None of it makes any sense.

But when I get a voicemail—it is the middle of the night, isn’t it? I start to talk.

“Aleksandr! It’s me. You know me. I can change you into a horse. And you gave me an orange rock. With a dead butterfly. Anyway, I’m about to race, and then I’ll be rich, and I’ll come give you your money. Or if I’m not rich, I’ll probably be dead.”

That thought makes me sad, so I start to cry.

And I can’t seem to stop crying.

Because he left me. And now I’m here, but he’s not. “I almost wish you could just stumble again, because now I have to ride Five, and I love him, and I think he’s great, but a lot of horses are great, and there are so many of them in the Grand National, that I could totally get jostled. I mean, I’ve never fallen off a horse before, but everyone does something for the first time.”

Something hits me then.

“Like this. It’s my first time calling you, and from a hotel phone, too. I had to press a lot of things to dial out, and I think the receptionist is mad at me, because she called me room eight-oh-one, and not even by my name.” I swear under my breath. “Oh, no. I think calling from a hotel’s really expensive.” I swear again. “I should have used my cell phone, but it’s roaming maybe so that costs a lot, too. And I have to save my money to pay you back. Bollocks. I should hang up.”

And then I do.

Once I’ve told him how I feel, I realize how tired I am, and I curl up around my phone and go to sleep.

23

The next morning, there’s a tapping at my door.

“Go away,” I mumble. I groggily check my phone to see the time. “I don’t have to be up for another hour.”

The tapping continues.

I’m going to kill whatever housekeeper won’t leave off and let me sleep off my hangover. John and Dad said they’d feed Five. But the tapping’s so bad that I can’t sleep through it.

Actually, it’s transformed into something more like banging at this point. I shove myself up in bed, realize my hair’s sticking out several inches away from my head in multiple directions, and decide I don’t care. Nor does it matter that I’m wearing a ratty old shirt that Aleksandr ripped in one change or another, and that I sewed up again. Very badly. He took all his nice clothes when he left, and it’s all I’ve got to remind me of him.

Well, this shirt and a lump of amber.

Not exactly very impressive mementos of our time together, but you work with what you have.

“I don’t know who you are,” I mutter, “but you’re currently wrecking my morning at seven a.m., and I am not pleased.” I slide the chain off the track and flip the lock. “I haven’t gotten truly drunk in a very, very long time, and if you have a problem with my Frankenstein-inspired nightshirt, you can—” I whip the door open with a snarl, and freeze.

Aleksandr Volkonsky’s standing in front of my door, wearing black pants and a charcoal sweater. His hair’s grown out a little longer again—long enough to fall across his face again—but it doesn’t quite block his flashing golden eyes. “Are you comparing my shirt to Dr. Frankenstein? Or to his monster?” He lifts both his eyebrows. “Because the doctor was just sad, but I feel like the monster was misunderstood.”

I haven’t even read the book, so I have no idea what I was saying. And I have no idea what he’s doing here. Part of me thinks this is all some kind of dream.

“Are you going to invite me in, zaychonuk?”

I think about my trashed hotel room and shake my head. “No. I’m not.”

“That’s pretty rude. An old friend shows up, a friend you haven’t seen in months, and whom you’ve barely called, and—”

“Barely called?” Why is my voice so high-pitched and squeaky? I force it down. “When did I call you?”

Aleksandr’s head tilts sideways. “You called me last night. You don’t remember?”

Last night’s a big old blur. . .but I probe it, hard.

And I vaguely remember crying, and. . . Did I call Eduards? I close my eyes and wonder whether, instead of a dream, this could possibly be a nightmare. I open just one eye.

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