Winter Garden

“She’ll be mad. ”

“I know,” Vera says. “But what can I do? I love him, Olga. ”

At the corner, Olga stops. “You will be home, though?”

“I promise. ”

“Okay, then. ” Olga gives her a kiss on each cheek and heads down the street toward her own job at the museum.

Vera catches a trolley on the next street and rides it for several blocks. She is busy thinking of ways to sneak out of work early when she enters the library.

The librarian is standing in the magnificent foyer, with her arms crossed and her right foot tapping on the marble floor impatiently.

Vera skids to a stop. “Madam Plotkin. I am sorry to be late. ”

The librarian looks at the clock on the wall. “Seven minutes, to be precise. ”

“Yes, ma’am. ” Vera tries to appear contrite.

“You were seen yesterday in the park. ”

“Oh, no. Madam Plotkin, please—”

“Do you value this employment?”

“Yes, ma’am. Very much. And I need it. For my family. ”

“If I were the child of a criminal of the kingdom, I would be careful. ”

“Yes, ma’am. Of course. ”

The librarian brushes her hands together, as if they’d gathered dirt somehow during this conversation and now she wants to be clean. “Good. Now go to the storeroom and unpack the boxes there. ”

“Yes, ma’am. ”

“I trust you will not be sick again. ”

Trapped all day in the dark, dusty storage room, Vera feels like a bird banging against a glass window. She imagines Sasha on the bridge, waiting first with a smile and then with a frown.

She is desperate to run out of this oppressive quiet, but her fear is greater than her love, it seems, and that shames her even more. She is the daughter of a criminal of the kingdom, and she cannot draw attention to herself. Her family is barely making it as things are. The loss of this employment would ruin them. And so she stays, moving so erratically sometimes that her fellow workers snap at her to be careful and pay attention.

Hour after hour she stares at the clock, willing the black hand to move . . . to move . . . to click forward, and when her shift is finally over, she drops what she is doing and races for the door, emerging into the bright light of the stairwell. She hurries down the wide marble steps. In the lobby, she forces herself to slow down and moves as casually as she can across the marble floor.

Outside, she runs: down the steps, across the street to the trolley stop. When the car jangles to a halt in front of her, she squeezes into the crowd; there are so many people on board, she doesn’t need to hold on to the brass pole.

At her stop, she jumps off and runs for the corner.

The street is empty.

Then she sees the black carriages. Two of them, parked in front of the moat bridge.

Vera does not move. It is as if her knees have forgotten how to bend, and it takes all her courage just to breathe. They know she is a peasant girl, sneaking out to meet a royal, and they have come for her. Or maybe they came for him. Even a prince is not safe from the Black Knight’s reach.

“You shouldn’t be here. ”

She hears the words as if from far away, and then someone is grabbing her, forcing her to turn.

A man is beside her. “They’ve taken him away. You shouldn’t be here. ”