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Vasilissa moved her trembling hand to her heart.
“We are not going to rob you.” Lada sighed. “We are here to speak with you.”
“Ladislav,” Vasilissa whispered. “My little girl.”
Lada had been prepared to be humiliated by introducing herself. She had not thought about what she would do if her mother knew her. She stepped back as though struck, her vision narrowing to a tunnel. Every muscle tensed, waiting for attack.
Vasilissa leaned down as far as she could from her horse. Her voice was barely discernable over the rush of blood in Lada’s ears.
“Ladislav.” She reached one tiny, gloved hand toward Lada’s hair. Then she cleared her throat, looking Lada up and down in a way that made her feel naked. “Come. We will get you a bath and some new clothes.” Her mother turned the horse back toward the manor and set off at a brisk pace.
“I have men with me!” Lada shouted, finally regaining her voice.
“No,” Vasilissa said, not turning around. “Only you. No men.”
At a loss, Lada gestured to Petru, Nicolae, and Bogdan, who watched her from the cover of the hedge. “Just…stay, for now. I will come back for you.”
“Are you certain you will come to no harm?” Bogdan asked, narrowed eyes tracking Vasilissa’s hasty exit.
Lada was certain of the opposite. But she did not expect the type of harm Bogdan feared. “Wait here.”
When she got to the manor, the front door was closed. Barren ivy climbed over every surface, its tangled brown masses swallowing the angles and shape of the house. In the summer it would be green and lovely, but not now.
The least her mother could have done was wait for her. Lada laughed bitterly. No, her mother was skilled at doing far less than the least she could do for her daughter. Of course she would make Lada knock. Lada pounded her gloved fist against the door. It opened with such speed, the maid behind it must have been waiting there.
The girl curtsied awkwardly. She wore a shapeless brown dress and an ill-fitting black cap. “Welcome, mistress. My lady has prepared a room for you.”
Lada frowned. Who else was her mother expecting? “I only met her just now on the road.”
The girl cleared her throat, keeping her eyes on the floor. “My lady has prepared a room for you. Please come with me.”
“Where is my moth—where is Vasilissa?”
“If you will come with me, I will show you your room and draw a bath for you. Her ladyship receives visitors after supper.”
“But she already knows I am here. And I have my men waiting outside.”
The maid finally looked up. Her eyes pointed in slightly different directions, one drifting to the left. She whispered, “Please, mistress, do not speak of the men to her. We do as she wishes. It is for the best. Allow me to take you to your room, and she will see you after supper.”
Exasperated, Lada flung a hand out. “Fine. Take me to my room.”
The girl flashed a quick, grateful smile, and led Lada into the house. The deeper they got, the more Lada’s stomach clenched in fear.
There was something very wrong here.
CHRIST STARED MOURNFULLY DOWN at Radu. No matter how Radu shifted or where he looked, the round eyes of Jesus followed him.
“Are you well?” Cyprian whispered out the side of his mouth, leaning close.
Radu stopped fidgeting under the giant mosaic. “Yes. Just tired.”
In front of them, standing behind a giant wood postern, a priest ran through liturgy after liturgy. Radu’s Greek was good, but he could barely understand the antiquated phrasings and words. Even if he could, he would not care. Being in this church made him feel like a child again. Radu had not enjoyed his childhood, and it was deeply uncomfortable to be reminded of it.
Everything was larger than life in the church. Though it was not as big or beautiful as the Hagia Sophia, gilt covered all possible surfaces. The priest wore elaborate robes, stitched and embroidered with pounds of history and tradition. A censer filled the room with scented smoke that made Radu’s eyes water and his head spin.
On the raised dais next to the priest, Constantine sat on a throne. Radu envied him a seat. All the other men stood, packed in too tightly, still and listening. Radu yearned for the movement of true prayer, for the simplicity and beauty and companionship of it.
The liturgy continued, as cold and uncaring as the murals of various saints meeting violent ends that decorated the walls. Lada would like those at least. Radu smiled, remembering when they had visited a monastery on the island of Snagov in Wallachia. Lada had been chastised for laughing at the gruesome death scene of Saint Bartholomew. An elaborate painting of him with half his skin already off adorned one of the monastery walls. Radu could never look at that mural without shivering in fear. Lada had told him to think instead of how cold poor Saint Bartholomew must have been without any skin on.
