Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3)

Fifteen Summers

She hadn’t known what it was, at first, when she stepped on it. Some discarded thing that the gardener had dropped. Some trinket or tool. Her ankle twisted when she stepped on it, and she momentarily lost her balance. She cursed, once, quietly.

It was one of those summer days that seemed to stretch on into eternity, and the heat was such that you couldn’t believe that the grass, yellow in patches where the gardener’s watering can had been remiss, didn’t just erupt into flames. She’d been standing in the garden, the chinks in her sun hat dappling her skin with bright, light freckles, weeding the wildflower beds. Or she thought she had. Instead, she’d been taken by her thoughts and her mind had become clouded over by the heat and the light and she’d dropped her spade and swooned. Deciding she needed a glass of water, she’d carefully walked back toward the Mansion, excusing herself to the staff who had stood up from their labors, concerned about their mistress’s health.

“I’m okay,” she’d said. “Just the heat.”

And then she stepped on the thing and cursed and lifted her foot t

o see what it was: It was not some mislaid tool. It was a toy block.

A wooden thing—perhaps the missing crenellation of some battlement or the capstone of a pyramid—it suddenly and shockingly made her realize how quickly time had passed; that this little block, once a beloved and necessary thing to her child, was no more missed now than a piece of clothing that had long outlived the time of its fashion. She picked it up and studied it, turning it over in the light of the bright sun.

Just then, she heard his voice. “Mama!” called her son, the boy who’d, at some point in the distant past, mislaid this crucial block. His voice was deepened now, showing the first sign of his father’s husky baritone, but she found it was still inflected with the tone of a child, a boy. She waited to answer; she wanted to hear it again.

“Mama! Where are you?” A little louder now. It was coming from the other side of the Mansion, where the shade fell and covered the crocuses and the yellowed blossoms of the sunburnt rhododendrons.

“Alexei!” she yelled in response, her gloved hands at her mouth. “Just here!”

And then, her son appeared from the curtain of shadow: a boy of fifteen summers, fourteen winters. He wore a smart suit, newly tailored, which clung to his thin, handsome frame. His hair was a color that only came on in the summer, a kind of reddish brown, which would return to brown once the season had ebbed. She knew him well enough; she’d known him through every season of his life.

And then, her son appeared from the curtain of shadow: a boy of fifteen summers, fourteen winters.

The garlands of ribbon had only just been taken down the day before; a banner, thirty feet wide, had proclaimed HAPPY 15TH BIRTHDAY ALEXEI! and it had stretched between the twin spires of the Mansion’s gabled roof. Gifts had arrived in droves. Emissaries from far-flung provinces had been announced every quarter hour, it seemed, bearing presents of blackberry cordial and hand-carved wooden toys the boy had long outgrown; they came with quiet entreaties as well, which Grigor received stoically, leading the requester away with a patient arm around a shoulder. A parade had been arranged by the townsfolk, and a band played a marshaling tune while the family sat on a raised platform and witnessed it all, an outpouring of love for the heir apparent to the Mansion’s seat. Alexei had sat through it with such resolute patience, with such enduring focus, that Alexandra found herself looking to her son every time she felt the spark of boredom flourish in her gut; his sweet, handsome face with its direct gaze and relaxed brow renewed her. He would make an excellent Governor-Regent. Of this there was no doubt.

And once the parade grounds had been cleared and the July sun had passed its apex and was beginning to arc toward the far, green hills to the west, then came the coup de grâce. Back at the Mansion, the staff all a-tizzy in preparation for the evening’s feast, Grigor had enticed his son to follow him to the carriage house to help, ostensibly, with some trivial chore. Alexei, his voice already betraying a weariness for the day, gamely bore his father’s request, and the two of them exited the front doors. Alexandra had heard her son’s tremendous shout—hadn’t a bit of his childhood shown there? a squeak at the top of his range, despite his age?—and she walked quickly to the window to see Grigor standing proudly while the stable master presented the boy with his own horse, his first horse: a pitch-black mare with a brilliant white diamond between her brown eyes.

And now: Here he was. The fifteen-year-old boy. No longer a child. A boy. A growing boy. Soon to be a grown man. A politician. A statesman. A husband. A father. Her son.

“Mama!” said the boy again. “I wanted to ride Blackie, but Papa said I should ask you first.”

“Oh?” she said, toying with him. The heat had dissipated. The glass of water seemed a distant need. The boy’s arrival had quenched her. “Did he say that?”

Alexei knew the game. “Yes, he did. And I said I would. So here I am.”

“And?”

“And . . . ,” said Alexei, his smile growing. “Can I?”

“Did you speak to Mr. Cooper?” The stable master.

“No, but Papa said I could ask him if he wasn’t too busy.”

“And have you finished your algebra?”

The smile disappeared; he became astute. “Yes, Mama. Miss Brighton said I did well enough.”

“Well enough?”

“That’s what she said.” He paused, searching his mother’s expression. “That’s good, right?”

Alexandra strove to retain her motherly concern. “And your father said it was okay?”

“Yes,” said Alexei, loosening a bit, knowing that the prospects had suddenly turned for the better. “He said it was okay, but I should ask you.”

“Very well,” said Alexandra. “Speak to Mr. Cooper. As long as he’s not too busy.”

The boy beamed. “Yes, Mama!” A sudden energy then overtook him, and he practically leapt from where he stood and bolted for the other side of the Mansion.