On the first day of autumn, my father closed the shop for good. He explained his next plan to me and Rodya and our stepmother that night over supper.
We sat in front of the fire, sipping tea and eating lentil soup flavored with a bit of ham, and Rodya looked more worried than I’d ever seen him. His apprenticeship would be over by the end of the year; he’d be free to open his own shop in another village, unless the clockmaker decided to hire him on. But most likely he’d be leaving us.
“I’ve decided to take my collection of rare manuscripts and illuminated maps into the city,” my father said. “If I can find the right buyer, our worries will be forestalled a long while.”
Donia pursed her lips. “Why didn’t you think of this before, Peter dear?”
My father studied her. “Because it is our very last hope. If it fails, my darling, there is nothing left.”
Rodya and I spent a few minutes trying to persuade him to let one of us take his place, but he would not be shaken. He promised to post a letter to Donia if he thought his inquiries would take more than three weeks.
We stayed up late into the night, talking together and sipping tea in front of the fire, and for the first time, it felt like the four of us were a true family. I didn’t want it to ever end.
But at last Rodya rose and took his leave, and my father and Donia went to bed. I dozed on the floor by the fire, hanging on to the feeling of peace and togetherness.
In the morning, my father came downstairs, laid a blanket over top of me, and kissed my forehead. “I’ll see you in three weeks, little lamb.”
I fell back asleep and dreamed of the wolf.
BUT MY FATHER DID NOT return in three weeks.
He sent no letter—we had no word from him at all, and by the time a month had expired, Donia was falling to pieces and fear stabbed sharp in my mind.
Another fortnight passed. I went to see Rodya at the clockmaker’s, perched on a stool across from his worktable. I watched him repair the workings of a table clock in the rosy glow of his lamp, soldering a new piece of brass onto a broken gear, then filing it down into teeth to replace the missing ones. He blew the shavings from the gear and fitted it into the movement. “The roads have been bad because of the rain, Echo. His letter could have gone astray.”
Rodya flicked his gaze to mine, then back down to the clock movement.
Suddenly I heard the worry in his voice.
He lay down the clock and took the loupe from his eye. “If there’s still no word from him by the end of the week, I’ll send inquiries into the city. But I’m sure he’s fine.”
There was no word by the end of the week, and Rodya’s inquiries came up empty—none of the city booksellers had spoken with or seen my father.
Autumn faded and the first winter snows came, thick and heavy, making the roads impassable. There was nothing for it but to keep our heads down and wait for spring.
Donia took to her bed, complaining constantly of a fluttering heart and immobilizing headaches. I brought her tea and assumed the responsibility of cooking, which meant more and more water in our already-thin soup, and less and less sugar for our tea.
I cleaned the house from bottom to top and then back down again. I organized the shelves in my father’s study. One evening, fresh snow swirling white at the windows, I had a bout of generosity and decided to organize Donia’s writing desk—it was drowning in paper, envelopes and dried-up bottles of ink. I methodically emptied the drawers and began sorting through everything, deciding what to keep and what ought to be discarded.
I didn’t mean to snoop into Donia’s personal correspondence. But one of the letters in her drawer fell out onto the carpet, and when I snatched it up I saw the first line by accident.
I read the rest in a blaze of shock and anger.
Dear Mrs. Donia Alkaev,
Suzdal Bank has made the requested deposit on your behalf in the amount of 30,000 roubles, with interest to be paid quarterly into your account. For withdrawal requests or any further assistance regarding the sale of your late husband’s property, please write to the address below.
Thank you for choosing Suzdal Bank for your financial requirements.
Yours very sincerely,
Fedor Novak
Enclosed were several lists of figures with cramped notes written next to them. It was dated a month past the wedding.
As far as I could tell, the sale of the bakery had more than canceled Donia’s late husband’s debts—if he’d had any at all—and she was sitting on a sum of money that staggered me. Why had she not told my father? Why had she let him go off to the city with his precious manuscripts, allowing him to think it was our only hope?
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” came a sudden voice behind me.
I wheeled to see Donia, in all her menacing arctic-bear size, glowering down at me. She was wrapped in a brocade dressing gown, her hair hanging in limp curls on her shoulders. Her eyes were red like she’d been crying, and that made me more angry than anything.
“You viper,” I spat, jabbing the letter into her face. “You plunged us into debt when you could have paid for everything! Why did you keep it from us? Why did you keep it from Papa?”
She glanced at the paper impassively. “What I do with my money is not your concern.”
“If you’ve killed him—” My voice pitched unstable and high. “Donia, if you’ve killed him I will never forgive you.”
“Fortunately for me I give little thought to your forgiveness. His death is not on my hands, nor my conscience.”
I crumpled the letter and let it fall to the floor. “Why did you even marry him?”
“I wanted a comfortable life—I knew your father would provide that for me. And there are rewards in heaven, I think, for becoming stepmother to the Devil’s child.” Danger lurked behind her gaze. “Which reminds me. This came for you today.” She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her dressing gown and held it up: it was postmarked from the city, addressed to me, with the seal already broken.
Hope and horror rushed into me. I grabbed for the envelope but Donia snatched it back, crossing the room and holding it over the roaring fire.
“Give me the letter, Donia.”
She smirked. “It’s only fair that I read your mail since you took it upon yourself to read mine. Would you like to know what it says? Of course you would.” She unfolded the letter. “‘Dear Miss Alkaev, We would be happy to receive you at the university in the spring, provided you have with you upon your arrival three references from persons of note in your chosen field and the fee—in part or total—for your initial term …’”
I shrieked and lunged for the letter, which Donia thrust suddenly into the fire.
She caught my arms to keep me from scrambling after it, and I was forced to watch as the paper crackled and curled and fell away to ash.
“You didn’t think I would let you attend the university, did you?” said Donia calmly. “Even if you managed to come up with the fee, they would take one look at your monstrous face and shove you back into the gutter where you belong.”
I stared at her, breathless and numb and hot. “The only monster in this place is you.”
I turned from my stepmother without another word, stopping only to grab the lamp from the desk, my shoulder bag and furs from their hooks on the wall before stepping out into the frigid night.
CHAPTER FIVE
I TRUDGED INTO THE FOREST, the lamp banging against my knee, snow blowing thick and wet into my face. It was bitterly cold, but across the boundary of the wood the wind blew less sharp. I wandered on, fighting back anger and tears and a blinding sense of helplessness. I couldn’t stop seeing the letter from the university devoured by the fire, ashes falling white in the hearth. Donia’s words repeated endlessly through my mind: They would take one look at your monstrous face and shove you back into the gutter where you belong.
One look at your monstrous face.