Chapter Text
“Pardon the interruption, Elena Grigorievna,” Veronika said as politely as she could. Years of living under Vecheslav's tyranny had taught Veronika not to interrupt a dance-master unless she had no other options. “Would you have a few minutes? I’ve a few questions.”
“Come inside then,” Elena Grigorievna replied, already turning away from the door. “What are you after?”
Veronika took two hesitant steps over the threshold of Elena Grigorievna’s office and slid the door shut behind her. The space looked more like a store room than an office. Racks of costumes took up half the room, while wooden crates and an assortment of bulky props threatened to consume the rest. The small secretary’s desk propped up against the window was all Elena Grigorievna had carved out for herself.
“What was it you wanted?” Elena Grigorievna pressed, but her voice was milder this time.
Veronika clenched the seam of her skirt between her fingers. “It’s not so much about what I want, but what I don’t. Well, in short, I don’t want to be a serf. I only have one life to live; I’d rather live it as I see fit, not pulled in every which direction on another person’s whim. Someone mentioned to me that you were born a serf and found a way out, and I was wondering if you’d tell me how. If you had any advice really.”
No immediate reply came, which left Veronika desperate to sink onto the ground, never to see the face of another living being again. She had bared her most sincere wish to this woman, whom she barely knew, and silence was the answer.
With an elegant flick of her hand, Elena Grigorievna gathered her skirt and took a seat on the stool by her desk. Reluctance was palpable in her voice as she said, “You heard it right. I was born a serf and I’m not one now. As to the particulars of it, there’s little to tell. I saved up and gathered up the courage to ask Andrej Radmilov if he’d take my money. He wasn’t happy about it; the Radmilovs aren’t in the habit of freeing serfs. But he did agree at the end.”
Veronika’s heart pounded in exhilaration. So the story wasn’t a fairy tale. It is possible.
“How did you save up what you needed?” she asked. “Masha and Oksana told me you danced outside the palace, but while I’ve been here, I haven’t heard anyone talk about company dancers performing elsewhere. Is…is that not done anymore?”
Her voice began to thin as she spoke and it struck her that her elation had been premature. Just because Elena Grigorievna managed it, didn’t mean Veronika would be able to do the same. Years had passed and a different man now controlled the Radmilov wealth.
“Not so often, no. The public theatre is out of fashion with the Chernisej nobility and more travelling groups are available for hire for a night’s entertainment. Besides, performances at the Arlovka will keep everyone at the company preoccupied through the summer. Perhaps things’ll change in the autumn; it’s too early to tell.”
“Ah. I see.”
“I wouldn’t permit you to dance out of my sight in any case.” Elena Grigorievna’s gaze lingered on Veronika’s clenched hands. “You’re too new, to the company and to the city. You do have a certain innate flair that catches the eye and that got you this far, but it won’t be enough. Work hard, impress me, start coming up with your own repertoire. Let’s talk again in a few months.”
Veronika grinned. “Thank you!”
“Don’t get over-excited. I said only that we’d talk. Even if I do give my permission, it’s a slow trek to get you what you want.”
“I understand that.”
“Good. Understand too — this conversation stays between us. I won’t be seen as trying to help you. You’re a soul on the Radmilovs’ account books and I won’t risk my position here by being seen to be meddling with their matters. Especially, not when I don’t know what our young duke has in mind for you.”
“I don’t rightly know what he wants with me either.” Veronika replied. She pried her hands away from her skirt, only to clench her hands together behind her back. Duke Radmilov was another set of questions in need of asking, but Veronika already tried her dance-master’s patience today. “Thank you again, Elena Grigorievna. I promise I won’t say a word to anyone.”
She offered Elena Grigorievna a more sedate version of the curtsy the dancers were expected to offer their dance-master at the end of every rehearsal and was about to head for the door, when Elena Grigorievna cleared her throat. “Since you wanted advice, I ought to mention one more thing. If you insist on wearing a headscarf that looks like you draped a blanket over your head, could you at least find one more fitting to this century? I think my great-grandmother had the same gaudy dandelions embroidered on her skirts.”
Veronika stifled a wince. She received new clothing when she formally joined the Arlovka household. One set was a standard servant’s uniform — a charcoal-grey, Amadieri-style dress. The other, intended for rehearsal, looked little different, but was of a thinner fabric and cut to give the skirt more movement. Headwear, however, was only handed out to servants who routinely interacted with the Radmilovs and their guests. The rest of the household could choose their head-covering. There was decidedly a preferred style, however. Headscarves in Chernisej were sheer, often monochrome, and folded in such a way that they barely covered the wearer’s hair.
“Do you think I should cut this one down? And maybe I can pick out the embroidery.” She was fond of the scarf; she and Natasha had spent weeks on the embroidery, but if it had to be done, so be it.
“Buy a new one. That one is faded and too thick for the season’s heat. Save it for our delightful winters. I can give you an address of a tailor who keeps a selection of scarves in his shop.”
“I’m trying to save money?”
Between what Veronika had saved up in Kubaja and what remained of her pay in Chernisej after food, board and the new uniforms were taken out, she had a few coins already. Enough for a scarf, if the prices in Chernisej weren’t too outrageous. But it seemed a waste to spend what little she had.
Elena Grigorievna smiled in sympathy. “Yes, but if you don’t want to be a serf, you need to look and act the part. No one will take you seriously if you walk about Chernisej looking like you belong out in the fields. The scarf is an investment into your future; you won’t be sorry for it.”
Veronika frowned. “You’re right, I suppose.”
After a hurried lunch, Veronika rushed for the servants’ entry. A delivery cart had just arrived and the kitchen boys were trying to unload the cart as quickly as they could while manoeuvring around the people coming in and out. Veronika skirted the commotion, then followed the flow of the people streaming out of the palace to the wrought-iron gate that led to the street.
She let the flow of the people about her take her through the gate, which was flung wide open, but then shuffled off to the side. She had left the Arlovka twice since her arrival. The first time, to visit the temple. The second, for a costume fitting. On both occasions, she had been with a group of dancers. Now that she was by herself, the street seemed very long and the carriages rushed by far too fast.
“Veronika!” came a husky voice behind her. Timur, she realised, when she whipped around. He stood on the other side of the fence, a stack of paper in one hand and a half-eaten pirozhok in the other. “You look rather lost.”
“Elena Grigorievna said I should visit a tailor and I was going to take the suggestion, but I don’t know now. Rehearsal starts at three and I’m not sure I have enough time,” she replied. She had also forgotten the first two steps of the directions Elena Grigorievna gave her, but that was more than she wanted to confess to Timur.
“Which tailor?”
“He’s on Raskolovskij Prospect?”
“You’ve plenty of time. I can show you the way if you like.”
Veronika jerked to the side as a messenger boy sprinted past her, seemingly without noticing that he had nearly run into her. “Don’t you have to get back? The trainees have their lessons, no?”
“I’m on break for lunch now and after, I’ll make some excuse. Elena can say what she likes to the dancers and trainees, but she knows to watch her tongue with me. One moment.”
Before she could think up another objection, Timur headed for the gate. He came around to meet her on the outer side of the fence, by which time he finished his pirozhok and was wiping the left-over grease on his fingers against the inside of his jacket. As his hand withdrew, he glanced up at the cloudless sky and seemed to make up his mind. He stripped off his jacket, leaving him in a thin linen shirt and grey breeches.
He nudged his head to the right. “This way.”
“Thank you, but —”
“Come along, Vika.”
The road to the tailor took them past the palace’s main entrance, where there was no less commotion than at the servants’ entry. It was impossible to see the front doors behind all the carriages and carts lined up in front of the palace. Well-dressed men and women were emerging from the carriages, while liveried footmen swarmed about, calling out clipped instructions to each other.
“Who are these people?” Veronika asked.
“Guests. We’ll mostly have the dowager duchess’ guests and extended relations. The tsarevich’s wedding is approaching fast; nobles are streaming into the capital to gawk at the bride,” Timur answered, although his gaze was on the water and the little boats being rowed down the length of the canal. “Brun’s balls, the water level’s receding fast in this heat.”
She glanced down at the water but didn’t have any frame of reference for what the canal should look like this time of the year. “Why the dowager duchess’ and not the duke’s?”
“As far as I know, he has little to do with his mother’s family and there are few living relatives on his father’s side. Not a surprise, really. How many children are you going to have when you’re always leaving your wife at home while you march off to war? But it hardly matters who exactly each rich snot is, right? Before long, the palace’ll be packed so badly half the servants will have to sleep out in the garden.”
“It might be cooler out in the garden,” Veronika replied with a shrug. She had heard plenty of grumbling about the wedding already, but she couldn’t help to be excited about the celebrations promised in honour of the tsarevich’s marriage.
Past the Arlovka, the street grew more crowded. Finely-dressed young ladies strolled and waved about the silk fans in their hands, servants hurried to complete their assigned tasks, war veterans still donning their tattered uniforms hobbled along on crutches.
“Timur, you’ve worked at the Arlovka for a while, right? Am I the first woman Duke Radmilov has dragged across the country like this?”
Since her first performance at the Arlovka, he requested the dance company to perform most nights of the week, always insisting that Veronika be featured in some way. His applause and compliments flowed. But she also caught his lingering looks and was sure now her initial instinct back in Kubaja had been correct — dancing was only a part of the story. Yet it wasn’t about the physical attraction alone either; a man with only lust on his mind wouldn’t talk nearly as much as Nikolaj Radmilov did. Was he lonely? Bored? More than once now, Veronika had lain awake late into the night trying to puzzle it out and got nowhere.
Timur nudged her to the edge of the footpath, then took her arm and pulled her across the street during a rare gap in the road traffic. “This is the first time he dragged a girl with him as far as I know. But, no, you’re not the first common-born he’s shown an interest in. It’s no great surprise. He’s young and women of his own kind are untouchable until marriage.”
From what he’s said, he’s not particularly fond of these women anyways.
They walked a few dozen feet along the narrow strip between the road and the steep wall of the canal. Veronika didn’t dare to distract herself by talking. There was no barrier — one false step and she’d slide down the reinforced stone bank. When they reached the narrow bridge that linked the two banks of the White Arlovka, however, she pressed the question weighing on her mind. “What do you mean by shown an interest in?”
“Let’s just say, she claimed to be pregnant when he tried to dismiss her.”
Veronika snorted. “And, I guess, he had cause to think what she said was true? What happened then?”
Timur ran the knuckles of his hand against the stubble across the side of his jaw. “That was in Savograd; we didn’t get much in the way of details about it up here. But apparently, it turned out she’d lied. That’s when Radmilov got proper angry. He’s not one to shout, so that was a shock to everyone. Apparently, she got sent off somewhere.”
“She’s lucky I suppose, she wasn’t actually pregnant. Better to start a new life elsewhere on your own than with a bastard to weigh you down.”
“I wouldn’t call it luck,” Timur replied. “Had we been lucky, we’d have been born dukes or barons, or, Baru’ willing, emperors. But no, we are the common scum of the earth and we just have to make what we can of the crap given to us.”