When they do that, they catch someone else's attention. A table away, with the Russian fencers, Moroslav gets to his feet. He walks slowly, sauntering across the room, crossing the invisible line, which doesn't seem to give anybody pause, and heads right for our table.
Seeing him, Dasha's eyes go wide, and she claps a hand to her mouth. "Lyoshka!" She chides him. "What are you doing here?"
"I do what I want, trying to be a good host." He looks at me. "These girls take care of you?"
"Yes," I say, a bit firmly, feeling suddenly defensive of my three overzealous caretakers. "They've been lovely."
"Yes, of course." He chews his lip, lifts his eyebrows at Sveta.
She rolls her eyes, but I can see her blush.
He slides his eyes back to me. "You sleep well, I hope?"
"Fine," I say, a bit more cautiously. "Thank you."
"You three." He eyes the other girls. "You take care of her today. Show her something interesting. The gentleman will be busy, and we can't let her be bored."
"Da," says Katyenka. "Yes." She smiles at me, an eerie, moony little smile.
"I hope you find much to explore," he says, pressing his palms together and bowing his head slightly. "And we shall see you in the evening, then."
Before I can answer, he's gone back to his table. I take a sip of tea to clear my throat. Of course he's being friendly. That's the whole thing with fencing, isn't it? A gentleman's sport. Lots of manners involved.
And yet, on my other side, Katyenka giggles. Dasha leans in conspiratorially. "He is handsome, yes. Lyoshka? Alexei?" She presses her lips together.
Sveta stabs a pickle with her fork. "He is just a flirt," she says flatly.
Dasha huffs. "I like boy with sword. Like a storybook." She picks up her knife, mimes waving it around, catches my eye, and grins.
"Gwenechka, she knows what I mean."
My gaze drifts across the hall again, to where four American fencers are holding me firm in their gaze. "I do," I say absently.
After breakfast, the girls want to show me around. I try to beg off, but they're in, assistant, and with the boys in the cloister warming up and practicing, I don't really have any excuse not to.
So I bundle up in my coat and scarf and submit to following them around. We tour the whole compound, the dormitories and the refectory we've already been to, the library, which is locked, the paths to the old church ruins, not much to see there, and end. The second, smaller courtyard in front of the church.
For a space so small, it's almost labyrinthine. And every time they take me through another corridor or passage, I'm convinced we'll come out somewhere entirely different than where we end up. Like, I can't keep track of where things are.
I try to memorize the layout, but it's confusing. And I haven't had any coffee, which makes my heart ache with longing to be home.
They explain more about what they're doing here. St. Ignaty was single-sex for most of its history, but now they let a few women in from time to time.
“What are you studying, then?” I ask politely.
Dasha laughs, cheeks pink in the cold. “Us? We do not study,” she says. “The girls here, we work.”
“We tend to the church,” Sveta says, her eyes downcast. “That is for women.”
There’s a note of sadness in her voice, and as they describe their days it really sounds more like they’re chambermaids more than coeds: this room they clean, this one they freshen with dried flowers, this one they scald with lye and soap—see how white the walls are now?
And all the while, as we tour, I try to catch glimpses of the four of them. I see them in what serves as the St. Ignaty salle: adjusting their weapons, assembling their gear, drilling, sparring, warming up.
I don't want them to see me when I pass, don't want them to get distracted, don’t want to give Moroslav or any of them even the slightest opening to strike, but it's like they can't help it. Heads turning like we're magnetized together. And every time one of them glances my way, I see the tension in their shoulders, the hypervigilance. Like they're preparing for a battle, not a fencing tournament.
And maybe they are.
After lunch, more pickles, more bread, soup. The girls finally leave me alone, when I insist I'm tired. I retreat to my room and lie on my bed, trying to rest, but I can't. I get back up and pace the narrow length of the room. I look out the window, where the frost has receded, at the distant gray edge of the sea, churning and frothing.
