Page 25 of The Storybook Hero
Is that what he truly wanted?
He thought for some time, staring up at the cobwebbed ceiling. He used to have hopes and dreams, though it was so long ago in the past he could hardly remember what they were. Silly ones, no doubt, for he had been nothing but a raw youth. Still, perhaps it wasn’t too late to have new ones.
A rueful smile stole to his lips. Perhaps he had a touch of Russian temperament, for the winter seemed to be affecting his own soul as well. He wasn’t usually given to such introspection. In the past he had always managed to keep such disturbing thoughts at bay with whatever excess happened to be at hand. Alex regarded at the bottle in his fist with a grimace of disgust, then slowly let it drop to the floor.
Jack was gone, irrevocably gone, swallowed by the ocean. Perhaps it was time for him to stop drowning in self-pity.
The next morning he arose, his head for once not quite so fuzzed with drink, and his spirits a bit brighter than they had been in some time.
Riasanov’s bushy brow rose at the sight of Alex’s light step and sunny countenance. “Not feeling like a black bear this morning? I had feared you were on the verge of abandoning the journey and leaving the young master to his fate.” He gestured toward the drafty windows. “But look, the snows have stopped and the temperature is rising. We should reach Bereznik by this afternoon.”
“Oh, you’ll find I’m a rather stubborn fellow. I don’t give up so easily.”
Riasanov lowered his voice. “You may need that resolve, Alex. Word is the French have moved much more rapidly than expected. It is said they may even threaten Moscow.” He stopped to cross himself. “Though I pray the rumors are wrong.”
“What of Kutusov and his army?” asked Alex in some surprise.
The other man lifted his shoulders.
Alex bit back an oath. “Well then, let us be off at once.”
“Without my tea?”
“Suffering. Is good for the soul, remember?” he muttered, heading for the door.
The journey proceeded with little conversation, both men preoccupied with their own thoughts. Less snow had fallen in these parts and the way became easier going. After a bit, it thinned to a mere dusting, and the sun broke through the clouds. Riasanov gave a shake of his head at the sudden change. “Russian winter,” was all he murmured.
Rather than feeling buoyedby the passing miles, Alex couldn’t shake a sense of unease. In the past hour, several conveyances piled high with household belongings had passed them, going in the opposite direction. Even more ominous was the fact that the last small village they had passed through looked to be nigh on deserted, no smoke coming from the chimneys, no sign of life in the yards.
Riasanov muttered darkly under his breath. The whip cracked through the air, urging the horses to greater speed.
His lips thinning to a tight line, Alex shifted in impatience under the heavy blanket.Hell and damnation!He certainly hadn’t anticipated that the French would advance as quickly as signs indicated. With a start, he realized that if Moscow was indeed the target, then poor Miss Hadley was in even more danger than he was. He found himself hoping that she would come out of the panic and chaos of war unscathed. Then he forced such thoughts aside. He had enough of his own problems to worry about, and there was precious little he could do for her.
Besides, he thought with a wry smile, she seemed rather good at taking care of herself.
It seemed like an age before his companion slowed the team to a walk and pointed ahead. A number of dwellings, weathered a silvery grey from the elements, came into view, nearly dwarfed by a stand of towering spruce and fir behind them. The steward grunted something unintelligible, then guided the sleigh toward a simple cottage at some distance from the rest of the houses. He slowly dismounted and thumped his mittened fist on the door.
Alex held his breath. There was no sign of reply. Riasanov was just raising his hand to knock again when it opened a crack.
“Yevgeny! Thank God you have come.” The little old woman threw her arms around Riasanov’s neck, a feat made more difficult by the fact that her kerchiefed head came barely level with his chest.
“Of course I have, Svetlana. And I have brought … a friend.”
She stole a glance at the figure in the sleigh, then turned her attention back to the steward, tugging on his arm. “Come inside, both of you. The stove is warm and the samovar is hot. We have much to discuss.”
Alex climbed down from his perch, stiff with cold and followed the others into the cozy kitchen. A boy was curled up in a chair by the large tiled stove reading a book. At the sound of voices, he quickly looked up. He appeared to be rather small for his age, with rather delicate features and a thin nose that would likely be termed aquiline as he grew older. A shock of hair the color of a raven’s wing nearly obscured his large hazel eyes.
He broke into a smile at the sight of Riasanov, then his expression turned wary as he took notice of the tall stranger behind the steward.
Alex noted that the boy’s fingers suddenly tightened on the spine of the book and his gaze darted toward a small door hidden in the shadows behind a large pantry. A welling of sympathycaught in his throat as he remembered that within the space of several months, his young relative had not only lost both parents but had found his very life threatened by the only other family he knew.
Good Lord.And he had the nerve to feel sorry for himself!
Before anyone could speak, Alex stepped forward and stamped the snow from his boots, a tentative smile on his lips.. “I have been looking forward to making your acquaintance, Nicholas,” he said in English as he extended his hand. “I am your cousin Alex and I have come at your Mama’s request to take you back to England.”
The boy stared at him, as if uncomprehending what had been said.
Behind them, a gasp of surprise came as Riasanov whispered a translation to the boy’s old nurse.
