Scarlet in the Snow Page 2

  ‘You are my princesses,’ replied Mama when I said this. She kissed us all in turn. ‘You are my princesses, more precious than any jewel, and dearer to me than anything in the world.’ Then she sighed, and I knew what she was thinking.

  ‘Oh, Mama,’ I cried, ‘I wish I could make magic – real magic – not like that of Grandmother Dove!’ She was the village enchantress and a good old soul, but her spells were small, her magic little. She could make warts go away, improve a squint and weave a simple love-spell, but that was as far as it went. The kinds of things you heard the great enchanters and enchantresses could do – bend time and shapeshift and change destinies – well, they were as far beyond Grandmother Dove as the moon.

  ‘You do have real magic, my darling, each of us does; we only need to find it,’ said my mother gently. But that did not satisfy me, for it sounded to me like the kind of thing a parent says to stop you from dreaming of impossible things. ‘Mama, if I could find magic to change things for us, I’d do anything to get it, even hire myself as a servant to Old Bony if I had to!’

  ‘Don’t say things like that, little one,’ cried Sveta, overhearing me. ‘Old Bony has long ears, and if she should chance to hear you . . .’ Crossing herself, she glanced fearfully at the darkened window, as if expecting at any moment to see the grey-skinned skull-face of the fearsome forest witch grinning at us with all her sharp teeth.

  ‘Yes, if she hears you, Natasha,’ said Liza, grinning, ‘that old witch will have your heartstrings for her hair-ribbons, so watch out!’

  The thing is, Liza does not believe in Old Bony or great enchanters or even the poor little spells of Grandmother Dove. The only kind of magic she believes in is the spell of riches – the magic dust of money, the glamour of wealth – and truth to say sometimes I think she is right. If we had money, poof! All our troubles would disappear, swept away in the whirlwind of good fortune. As for Anya, she does believe in magic, but only in the sort that will somehow bring a prince to her door and take her off into a world of cloth, gold and purple velvet – a world where there’d be a beautiful new gown for every day of the year. If Grandmother Dove could work that spell, Anya would long since have beaten a path to her door, and I’ll wager she too would go into service with Old Bony for it. Not that there’s any danger of that for either of us. For who has seen Old Bony these days? Not a single soul. Not once in a hundred years has she shown her long thin nose and sharp teeth to people anywhere. Who knows, maybe her brand of magic, the magic you hear of from the old stories, cannot survive in our modern world of telegraphs and trains and typewriters.

  It’s said that Christmas has its own magic and perhaps that’s true, for only a week later came some good news, in the shape of a messenger from Count Igor Bolotovsky, a wealthy landowner who lived two or three hours’ drive from us. In a note, the Count said that he had just remarried for the second time, to a woman much younger than himself. It was her birthday very soon and he had decided that he wished to give his new bride a portrait of herself as a present, and he wanted Mama to paint it. Clearly, he had not heard Captain Peskov’s rumours, or if he had he didn’t care. He would pay well for it, he said. But there were two conditions: first, it was to be a surprise, so Mama could not go to his house to paint a likeness from life, but must take it from the photograph he had enclosed. And second, as the Countess’s birthday was in a week’s time, the painting must be ready and delivered to his mansion within the week.

  Normally, it takes Mama anything from two weeks to two months to complete a portrait. To do one in just a few days, without even the subject there for sittings, would be a hard undertaking, especially as she had come down with a bad cold. But equally there was no way Mama could refuse the Count’s imperious request, not with things being the way they were. Besides, this was the first time he’d ever commissioned her, and it might be the start of something good. So she began work immediately, shutting herself up in her studio all day and much of the night, with Sveta and I running in and out keeping the little stove in the studio well fed with wood so she could stay as warm as possible.

  Mama would occasionally let me stay a while and I’d watch her painting, marvelling at the transformation from blank canvas to living scene. She painted the young Countess in a beribboned hat and pale blue dress, holding a basket of peaches against a background of summer flowers, the kind of flowers Mama herself loves so much. Every time I looked at the painting, I felt as though winter was no longer with us. I could smell the flowers, taste the juicy peaches on my tongue. Mama made the Countess look beautiful, much more beautiful than the pretty but bland little face in the photograph, and I knew that the Count would love it.

  She painted and painted and in just three days, it was finished. But the effort had been too great for her, and the cold that she’d managed to hold at bay during the painting frenzy came back with a vengeance. Weak, coughing, eyes streaming, limbs aching, Mama was so sick that there was no way in the world she could possibly keep her promise and deliver the painting in time. And if she didn’t, there’d be no fee, for the Count had made it quite clear he would not pay if his conditions weren’t met to the letter. Somebody else would have to go, and not Oleg or Vanya either, for Mama was sure the Count would not be happy if the painting was delivered by a servant. One of us would have to go, she said.

  ‘Oh, but, Mama, you know I’m a nervous driver,’ said Anya fretfully.

  ‘And I’ve got a sore throat,’ said Liza, coughing for good effect.

  Now, I knew very well that those were just excuses, and that actually neither of my sisters felt like leaving the nice warm house for a tedious errand through the snowy fields. But who cared? It gave me a chance to help. ‘I’ll go, Mama,’ I offered. ‘I’m perfectly well, and I love to drive.’

  ‘Oh, but you are so young, and you’ve never driven so far . . .’

  ‘Well, it’s time I started then,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Besides, it’s a bright morning and the snow’s tight-packed; I’ll go swiftly and will be back long before nightfall, before you even know it!’

  Mama protested a little more, but I could see she was relieved, and very soon she gave in. She made me promise I’d wear my very warmest fur coat and take with me several blankets and two flasks of hot tea, which I’d refill at the Count’s. The horses were hitched to the sleigh, the painting, carefully packed in blankets, was wedged in beside me and, bundled into my furs, I cracked the whip and we set off.

  It was indeed a lovely morning; the air was clear as a crystal bell, the snow sparkling, and the winter sun shone out of a pale blue sky. I stopped once briefly for a good long swallow of hot tea, but otherwise kept going. It was very cold but in my fur coat and hat and gloves I was beautifully warm. The horses went like the wind and I was so enjoying the long drive on my own over the whispery snow that it came as something of a surprise when I saw the tall gilt gates of Count Bolotovsky’s estate loom into view.

  I was there less than an hour. I did not see the Countess at all, but on stating my errand was whisked straight into the Count’s presence. A big bear of a man with huge shoulders and a kind, craggy face, Count Bolotovsky was delighted with the prompt delivery of his painting, and even more delighted with the look of it. So delighted was he in fact that he gave a large bonus over and above the agreed fee, slipping it into an envelope, along with an invitation to all our family to attend a dinner-party he was giving in a few weeks’ time, in honour of the visit to our region of his new wife’s second cousin, Duke Nikolai Koronov, who was a relative of the King himself. I thanked the Count profusely, thinking of how excited Anya and Liza would be when they heard about the dinner-party. I couldn’t wait to see their faces when I told them, and I couldn’t wait to see Mama’s when she opened that envelope and saw how much money was there!

  He would have asked me to lunch but I said I must get back, so I was given a quick snack of a large delicious chicken pie in the kitchens, and my tea-flasks were refilled. As I was finishing the last crumbs of the pie, on
e of the servants leaned over to me and asked, ‘Where does your way lie, child?’

  I described it as best I could. She nodded gravely. ‘Mind you go well,’ she said, ‘for strange things have been glimpsed thereabouts at night. Some say Old Bony herself keeps house in the forest there and lures folk in to destroy them.’ I smiled and thanked her and said she must not worry, I would be sure to be home before dark, and I set off again, my heart light and my belly warm with the good food I’d just eaten. I was singing to myself as we started our journey home, somewhat slower than on the way there, for the horses were a little tired. But it didn’t matter; we had several hours of daylight ahead of us, and we’d easily reach the village long before nightfall. And the servant’s warning I did not worry about at all.

  But we were only about halfway home when a wind sprang up and the sky began to fill with a mass of bruise-coloured clouds. Anxiously, I cracked the whip, urging the horses to go faster, faster, faster, trying to outrun the storm that I knew must be coming. And coming so fast that there was no hope of arriving at the village before it hit. I had to reach the shelter of the woods, for to be caught out in open ground when a blizzard hit was a sure recipe for disaster. Shouting desperately at the horses over the mounting shriek of the wind, I turned them in the direction of the line of woods I could see in the near distance. The poor beasts strained and strained, running as fast as they could, for they, too, instinctively knew the danger we faced.

  Then the blizzard was upon us in a blinding, stinging whirl of ice and snow and howling wind. Within seconds everything had disappeared into a terrible white blankness and I could literally see no further than the rumps of the horses. In an instant, I had completely lost my bearings; I had no idea what direction the woods were in, but kept frantically urging the horses onwards, hoping against hope it was still the right way and that soon we’d be under the shelter of the trees. But as the snow fell faster and faster, the going became heavier for the horses, and I could feel them struggling. They slowed, stuck in the drifts that were piling up quicker than they could pull themselves and the sleigh out of them, and soon we were almost at a standstill.

  What was that, in the distance? A sound – a sound that made my heart clench. A long howl, and then another, and another, and another. Wolves!

  The horses heard it too and, whinnying in terror, they redoubled their efforts, pulling so hard that they broke their hitches, jerking the sleigh so that it tumbled over and I with it. Almost out of their minds with fear, the horses scattered in all directions, leaving me alone in the snow amongst the remains of the broken sleigh. I was done for now; I knew that I would die. Oh God, I prayed wildly, please be merciful. If I am to die, please let it be of cold. Let me fall asleep in the snow; don’t let me be torn apart by ravening beasts . . .

  And then quite suddenly, through the snow-mist, there it was – a light, not far ahead. Not just one light, but several. It was a miracle – for there was a house, a big house, only a short distance away. I could just make out its shape through the white. Scrambling to my feet and clasping my coat around me, I set off at a stumbling run towards the light.

  I had no idea whose house it was, for I had gone so far out of my way in the blizzard that my small knowledge of the great houses on the way to the Count’s estate would not serve me at all. As I got closer, I saw that the house was surrounded not by a solid wall of stone or brick, as would have been usual in these parts, but by a massive hedge, skeletal at this time of the year. It looked both flimsy yet formidable, like a cross between a tangled ball of hairy string and a bunch of bristling spears, and I couldn’t see any opening in it and no way of getting through without serious scratches. But one look over my shoulder showed me the black shapes of the wolf pack racing towards me through the storm. Scratches be blowed. There was no time to waste. Throwing myself bodily at the hedge, I cried out in surprise as it parted suddenly, like a stage curtain, and I was through.

  Behind me, the hedge closed again with a rustling, shivering sound. I didn’t stop to wonder what it might mean, but ran like the wind down the long tree-lined path that led to the front steps of the house, expecting at any moment to hear the wolf pack in full cry behind me. Closer and closer the house loomed, several storeys high, painted sky-blue, edged and decorated with fine white marble. A grand and beautiful house, but I had little time then to admire it. Reaching the flight of marble steps without mishap, I hurried up. At the top I came to a massive oak door. It was ajar, and through the gap I glimpsed light and warmth. Yet there was no-one around, and for a moment I hesitated.

  But not for long, as a blood-freezing howl ripped at the air. The wolves had got through the hedge! With a squeak of fear, I pushed open the door and plunged into the house. As I did so, the door swung shut with a crash that made my ears ring. Then all went quiet again, the howl of the wolves and the fury of the storm cut off as suddenly as if I’d been pulled into another world.

  It took me a moment to catch my breath. My heart was racing, my hands shook, my throat was dry. But in a little while I recovered and looked around me. I was in an elegant hall, with grey and white marble floors, pale blue walls touched with gilt, and a couple of tall-backed chairs upholstered in dark blue velvet. A sweeping marble staircase led up to the next floor, and the whole area was lit by an immense, magnificent crystal chandelier which threw out a steady golden light of a far richer colour than the gas lamps of Byeloka streets yet that had neither the flicker nor the smell of candle-flame. It was as warm as a balmy spring day, too, though I could see no stove which might explain the heat. But it wasn’t either of those things, strange as they were, that made the hair on the back of my neck prickle. It was the sight of the pictures that hung on those walls. Or rather, the large picture-frames, elegant in carved gilt – but containing only blank space.

  There were six or seven of them, each picture-frame slightly different in style yet each exactly the same, for they were quite empty, enclosing not even a slice of pale blue wall but a white nothingness. As the daughter of an artist, I was used to all kinds of pictures. But I’d never seen anything like this. What kind of person hangs non-pictures on the walls, empty frames with nothing in them but a white blank, repeated over and over?

  But it was too late to be asking questions. Outside were the blizzard and the wolves. Inside, it was warm, beautiful, well-lit, and appetising smells from somewhere were wafting to my nose. I was hungry and cold. For nothing in the world, not even fear of what might lie here, would I have poked my nose out of that door again. Yes, I did not know what dangers might lie in here. But I knew for certain the dangers that were out there.

  ‘Hello? Is anyone home?’ I called out nervously, not sure whether I hoped someone would answer or not. Silence. I called again, ‘Thank you for the shelter, I am very grateful.’ As I finished speaking, I caught my breath. Was I imagining it, or had I heard a rustling sound, like someone moving somewhere above me, someone who’d been watching me? With a little shiver, I looked up the great staircase, but could see only a shadowy darkness. I most certainly didn’t want to go up there to investigate. I wanted to stay in the light and warmth. And the good smells were getting stronger, making me feel faint with hunger. So, casting a nervous look around, and repeating, ‘Thank you, I am so very grateful,’ I edged out of the hall and down a corridor that soon led me to a cosy wood-panelled dining-room.

  There too were empty picture-frames hanging on the walls, only I gave them a mere glance this time, for there was something much better to look at: a long table, set with three places in crystal and silver and fine porcelain, groaning under the weight of dishes that would have made even a saint’s mouth water. There was red and black caviar in little glass dishes, fresh bread, golden-crusted roast chicken, mushrooms in butter sauce, jewel-bright tomatoes, plump berries, a tall meringue cake layered with cream, fragrant tea steaming in a samovar, and I don’t know what else. As I hungrily gazed at it my stomach felt emptier and emptier and my throat more and more parched. I kept lo
oking at the three place-settings, wishing that my hosts, whoever they were, would manifest themselves so we could start on the food – for somehow I knew that one of those place-settings was for me.

  I sat down on one of the velvet-upholstered chairs and waited. Long minutes ticked by and still no-one came. The sight of the food tormented me. My stomach growled that everything would be getting cold, that it would be spoiled, that I must not wait. A longing grew in me to reach out a hand and just try a little of that caviar, just a tiny slice of the chicken, just one tomato. But instinct kept me back. I’d never been in an enchanted place before. I’d never known anyone, personally, who had. But I knew they existed. Occasionally you saw reports in the newspapers of somebody who had stumbled across some such place, and lived to tell the tale. But sometimes they disappeared without trace, never to be seen again. Although such reports weren’t common these days, I knew from my reading that these experiences were always connected to crossing feya lines, the invisible web of magic that is woven through the everyday world and which is particularly strong at certain spots where a feya or some other magic-maker, human or non-human, might reside. The servant at the Count’s had warned me about Old Bony and her enchanted realm in the forest. But this place clearly wasn’t Old Bony’s doing. She most certainly didn’t go in for mansions or fashionable furniture or blank pictures. She was of much rougher tastes, and her enchanted cottage, it was said, was protected by fences made of skulls and bones rather than a magical hedge. Yet I must have somehow crossed a feya line and found myself in an enchanted place. I knew such places had rules. And one of them was to not eat the food. At least, not when uninvited.