Page 24 of The Storybook Hero
“Oh, very well.” An exaggerated sigh filled the air as she reluctantly took up her pen and set back to work.
Octavia made a show of studying the book in her lap in order to hide her smile. Her young charge was proving to be both a challenge and a delight. The girl showed intelligence and spirit, which spoke volumes about her character, considering what she had been through. And even though the wall she had erected around herself had not completely crumbled, the touching need for real affection was more and more evident through the chinks. There were still times of rebellion and childish sulks, but a genuine rapport was growing between them with each passing day. The smiles were beginning to match the scowls, and the eagerness for learning usually overcame any fit of pique.
The scratching of the quill suddenly stopped and there was a giggle.
Octavia’s brow raised in question.
“I have just figured it out.”
“I am glad to hear it, since you have been dawdling over this particular problem for?—”
“Not just the answer. The occasion”
Octavia’s expression remained one of puzzlement.
“When I might need geometry,” explained Emma. She gave a mischievous grin. “Why, if I was to build a structure as magnificent as St. Basil’s Cathedral, I imagine it would be useful in figuring out the diameter of the onion domes and the height of the spires.”
“Quite right.” Octavia’s lips twitched upward. “If you become a famous architect, you would certainly have to have a knowledge of geometry.”
“But of course I wouldn’t admit it, so Tsar Alexander could not put out my eyes.” She pushed the paper back to Octavia with a triumphant flourish. “There, it’s done.”
“And done correctly this time,” said Octavia. “I’m quite proud of you, It was a difficult problem.”
Emma flushed with pleasure at the praise. “If I can see a reason for doing something, then the task always becomes easier.”
It was a perceptive comment, especially from a child, and one with which she most heartily agreed. It was, however, time for another lesson. “Well, unfortunately we all must at times do things that we do not see the reason for.”
Emma scrunched up her face. “Even adults?”
“Most definitely adults. Especially female adults.”
The girl’s face took on a mulish expression. “I thought you believed many of the strictures unfair and unreasonable.”
“Some of them are,” conceded Octavia, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t accept that I must live with them. I do. Why, look at the characters in Miss Austen’s book. They all must conform to certain rules, though they may not like it. In truth, they sometimes discover it was their own misconceptions that makethings look unreasonable. However, in the end, her heroines usually manage to satisfy both the conventions of Society and their own sense of what is right.” She gave a slight smile. “You see, we females just need to be a bit … creative within the boundaries set for us.”
Emma looked thoughtful as she brushed the tip of her quill against her cheek.
“Come, shall we see how Elinor and Edward Ferrars are going to resolve their problems?”
The girl’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes.“ She jumped up from her chair to fetch the book. “Perhaps Elinor will finally coax some sense into her flighty sister.”
Six
Alex pulled the fur blanket up a bit higher. His feet felt like blocks of ice and his cheeks were so stiff with cold that he could barely speak. “How much farther? Or are we meant to turn into snow statues, like some cursed characters in one of your wonder tales?” At least the interminable hours of travel had allowed him to improve his command of the language to the point where he was conversing quite easily in Russian.
Riasanov grinned, crackling the tiny icicles on his mustache and beard. “Russian winter, Alex.” He thumped his chest. “Suffering! Hardship! Is good for the soul.” He then slapped the reins against the traces. Bells jangled as the sleigh crept through the snowdrifts. “It makes us poets.”
“It makes you madmen,” grumbled Alex. He slapped his mittens together and thought longingly of the cracking fires in his favorite haunts in London, the bottles of brandy and the willing warmth of some voluptuous beauty. Hell’s teeth, what had he been thinking! He was as mad as any Russian to have set out on such a harebrained adventure.
“Another few miles and there is an inn. We shall stop for the night.”
Recalling the last two nights, with the abysmal food and flea-ridden bedchambers, he was not sure the news would serve to improve his mood. As if to further dampen his spirits, the wind picked up and snow began to fall once again. With a muffled oath, he buried his chin deeper into the upturned collar of his coat, and watched the ghostly white fir trees drift by.
The inn was even worse than he had imagined. It was a wretched affair of rough logs and loose shingles, the common room nearly as frigid as the outdoors, despite the fire. Alex pushed aside the rancid stew after several bites. Even the vodka was nearly unpalatable, harsh and greasy as it burned down his gullet. But at least it created a semblance of warmth in his insides. Lapsing into a brooding silence, he poured another glass for himself, ignoring the sidelong glances from his companion. He drained it with a grimace, then picked up the bottle and bade Riasanov a curt good night.
With nary a thought to removing more than his overcoat and boots, Alex slipped under the dirty blankets. Repressing a shiver, he took a long pull at the bottle for good measure. Slowly the vodka began to dull the worst of the cold. It could not, however, dull the feeling of emptiness inside him. Good Lord, was this what his life was coming to—day after day of nothing to look forward to but an endless night, with nought but a bottle of spirits to drown his loneliness and despair.
His eyes pressed closed. Of late, he had begun to realize that the copious amounts of brandy, the reckless gambling, the blatant risks and the frequent bedding of virtual strangers were no longer allowing him to hide from himself. Quite simply, he was getting tired of such behavior. If he wanted to put a period to his existence, mayhap he should put a pistol to his head. It would be faster, and, in some ways, cleaner.
