Winter Garden

The small apartment is shabby but spotlessly clean. Her mother has been cooking all day and the sweet, savory scent of boar stew fills the room.

“This is my prince, Mama. ”

Her mother and Olga stand on the other side of the table, pressed together, their hands on the chairs in front of them. Both are dressed in pretty floral blouses with plain cotton skirts. Mama has put on a pair of worn, sagging stockings and heels for this meeting; Olga is in her stockinged feet.

Vera sees them through Sasha’s eyes: her tired, once-beautiful mother, and Olga, who is ready to burst into womanhood. Her sister is smiling so brightly her big, crooked teeth seem ordinary-sized.

Her mother comes around the table. “We have heard much about you, Your Highness. Welcome to our home. ”

Olga giggles. “I’ve really heard a lot about you. She can’t shut up. ”

Sasha smiles. “She talks to me of you also. ”

“That is our Veronika,” Mama says. “She is a talker. ” She shakes Sasha’s hand firmly, gazing up at him. When she seems satisfied, she lets go and moves toward the samovar. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes. Thank you,” he says.

“You attend the cleric’s college, I hear,” Mama says to him. “This must be exciting. ”

“Yes. I’m a good student, too. I will make a good husband. ”

Her mother flinches a little but pours the tea. “And what are you studying?”

“I hope to be a poet someday like your husband. ”

Vera sees it all as if in slow motion: her mother hears the terrible words together—poet and husband—and she stumbles. The fragile glass cup in her hand falls slowly, crashes to the ground. Hot tea sprays Vera’s bare ankles and she cries out in pain.

“A poet?” her mother says quietly, as if none of it has happened, as if a treasured family heirloom does not lie broken at her feet. “I thought a prince was dangerous enough, but this . . . ”

Vera cannot believe that she forgot to warn Sasha of this. “Don’t worry, Mama. You needn’t—”

“You say you love her,” Mama says, ignoring Vera, “and I can see in your eyes that you do, but you will do this to her anyway, this dangerous thing that has been done to our family already. ”

“I wouldn’t endanger Vera for anything,” he says solemnly.

“Her father promised me the same thing,” Mama says bitterly. Simply the use of the word—father —underscores how angry her mother is.

“You can’t stop us from marrying,” Vera says.

This time her mother looks at her, and in those eyes she loves is a nearly unbearable disappointment.

Vera feels her confidence ebbing. Ten minutes ago it would have been inconceivable that she should have to choose between Sasha and her family . . . yet wasn’t that exactly what her mother had done? Mama had chosen her poet and run away with him, only to come back home in shame. And now, though her mother accepts her, there is little love left between them.

Vera places a hand on her stomach, rubbing it absently. In the months to come, she will remember this moment and understand that already his child is growing inside of her, but all she knows then is that she is afraid of

“Stop. ” Meredith pushed the closet door open and stepped out of her hiding place. The bedroom was blue with moonlight and in it, Mom looked exhausted. Her shoulders had begun to round, and her long, pale fingers had started to tremble. Worse than all of that, though, was the sudden pallor of her skin. Meredith walked over to the bed. “Are you okay?”

“You were listening,” Mom said.

“I was listening,” she admitted.

“Why?” Mom asked.

Meredith shrugged. Honestly, she had no answer for that.

“Well. You are right,” Mom said, leaning back into the pillows. “I am tired. ”

It was the first time Mom had ever said she was right about something. “Nina and I will take care of you. Don’t worry. ” She almost reached out to stroke her mother’s hair, as she would have done to a child who looked as worn out as Mom did. Almost.