Winter Garden

Vera sighs at the romance of it. Now she knows she must sneak out tonight to meet the prince. She even knows that her mother will understand if she finds out.

“All right,” her mother says, sounding tired again. “Let’s get back to work, and Veronika, be careful with that goose fat. It is precious. ”

As the hours pass, Vera finds her mind more and more distracted. While she prepares the beans and cucumbers, she imagines an entire love story for her and Sasha. They will walk along the edge of the magic river, where images of the future can sometimes be seen in the blue waves, and they will pause under one of the streetlamps, as she has often seen lovers do. It will not matter that he is a prince and she a poor tutor’s daughter.

“Vera. ”

She hears her name being called out and the sound of it is impatient. She can tell that it is not the first time she had been spoken to. Her father is standing in the room, frowning at her.

“Papa,” she says. He looks tired, and a little nervous. His black hair, usually so neatly combed, stands out in all directions, as if he has been rubbing his head repeatedly, and his leather jerkin is buttoned crookedly. His fingers, stained blue with ink, move anxiously.

“Where is Zoya?” he asks, looking around.

“She and Olga went for more vinegar. ”

“By themselves?” Her father nods distractedly and chews on his lower lip.

“Papa? Is something wrong?”

“No. No. Nothing. ” Taking her in his arms, he pulls her into an embrace so tight that she has to wiggle out of it or gasp for breath.

In the years to come, Vera will replay that embrace a thousand times in her mind. She will see the jewel-tone jars in the candlelight, smell the dusty, sun-baked leather of her father’s jerkin, and feel the scratch of his stubbly jaw against her cheek. She’ll imagine herself saying, I love you, Papa.

But the truth is that she has romance and sneaking out on her mind, so she says nothing to her father and goes back to work.

That night, Vera cannot lie still.

Every nerve ending in her body seems to be dancing. Sounds float in through her open window: people talking, the distant patter of hooves on cobblestoned streets, music from the park. Someone is playing a violin on this warm, light night, probably to woo a lover, and upstairs, someone is moving around—maybe dancing. The floorboards creak with every step.

“Are you scared?” Olga asks for at least the fifth time.

Vera rolls over onto her side. Olga does the same. In their narrow bed, they are face-to-face. “When you are older, you’ll see, Olga. There is a feeling in your heart when you meet the boy you’ll love. It’s like . . . drowning and then coming up for air. ”

Vera hugs her sister and plants a kiss on her plump cheek. Then she throws back the covers and springs out of bed. With a small hand mirror, she tries to check her appearance, but she can see herself only in pieces—long black hair held away from her face with leather strings, ivory skin, pink lips. She is wearing a plain blue gown with a lace collar—a girl’s costume, but it is the best she has. If only she had a beret or a pin or, best of all, some perfume.

“Oh, well,” she says, and turns to her sister. “How do I look?”

“Perfect. ”

Vera smiles broadly. She knows it is true. She is a pretty girl, some even say beautiful.

She goes to her bedroom door and listens. No sound reaches her ear. “They are in bed,” she says. Moving cautiously, she tiptoes over to her window, which is always left open in the summer. She blows her sister a kiss and climbs out onto the tiny ironwork grate. With every careful step, she is sure that someone from the street below will look her way and point and shout out that a girl is sneaking out to meet a boy.

But the people on the street are drunk on light and mead and they barely notice her climbing down from the building’s second floor. When she jumps the last few feet and lands on the small patch of grass, she cannot contain her excitement. It spills over in a giggle, which she stifles with her hand as she runs across the cobblestoned street.

There he is. Standing by the streetlamp at this end of the Fontanka Bridge. From here, everything about him is golden: his hair, his jerkin, his skin.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.

She cannot seem to talk. The words, like her breath, are trapped in her chest. She looks at his handsome lips and it is a mistake. In a flash, she is closing her eyes, leaning toward him, and still it is a surprise when he kisses her. She gasps a little, feels herself start to cry, and though her tears turn into tiny stars and embarrass her, there is nothing she can do to stop them from falling.

Now he will know that she is a silly peasant girl who has fallen in love over nothing and cried at her first kiss.

She starts to make an excuse—she is not even sure what it will be, but before she can speak, Sasha pulls her down into a crouch and says, “Be quiet,” in a voice so sharp she feels stung by it. “Look. ”

A shiny black carriage, drawn by six black dragons, is moving slowly down the street. Silence falls all at once. People freeze in their tracks, retreat into shadows. It is the Black Knight. . . .

The carriage moves like a hunting animal, the dragons breathing fire. When it stops, Vera feels a chill move through her. “That is where I live,” she says.