"It need not be so, not always," he said, getting to his feet and drawing her out of the chair to be close to him.
"For our sins we must endure pain and sadness, despair and loneliness, though the Savior died on the Cross to spare us. It is sin that often brings us down." She made the sign of the cross, more out of habit than piety. "No one can know grace but through embracing the agony of life."
"Life has pain and life has joy, and sin has nothing to do with it unless one makes it so," he said, trying to provide some consolation that would diminish her anguish.
"We are weak, and we fail God," she said, wadding the handkerchief into a ball. "The priests tell us every day, and we don't understand what they say."
"You have not failed, Ludmilla Borisevna," he said more compassionately. "You have done your utmost to ease misery and sickness. You have devoted yourself to alleviating pain. If your God expects more, who could satisfy His demands?"
"But that child--"
"It was a difficult loss," said Saint-Germain quietly, feeling her tremble against him.
"And Ivan Ivanovich Zacharov. He is alive, but his mind has gone. In the spring he will have to be sent to Moscow, to the monks who care for such men." Her shaking got worse. "If we had treated him properly, he would be restored."
"No, Ludmilla, he would not," said Saint-Germain. "Zacharov was struck in the head two times with an iron bar, which would have killed
most men, and that has left a permanent injury. Nothing you or I or anyone could do would change this."
"Why was he spared, then?" Horrified at her own question, she pressed the handkerchief to her mouth.
"I wish I knew," he said. "If I understood why--"
"Don't say that! There must be a reason!" she interrupted.
"If there is, it has eluded me for a long, long time." He took her nearest hand, lifted it, and kissed it. "We must make our reasons for ourselves."
"No," said Ludmilla. "There must be reason beyond our own, or the world would never change, and we would live as our ancestors did."
"The world is always changing, and we, perforce, change with it," said Saint-Germain. "No change is for good or ill, it is for the necessity of the world. Good or ill is what we make of it." He put her hand down. "You have only yourself to answer to, Ludmilla, as we all must answer to ourselves." He felt her wince at this thought. "You are capable of all things, and you have decided to aid your fellow-beings. This speaks honorably of you."
She crossed herself again. "If I can't manage here, if I am condemned by the Metropolitan for permitting helpless children to die, I will have to return to my husband, in disgrace and an embarrassment to him. He would be allowed to dispose of me for bringing disgrace upon him. He will send me to a convent, or kill me." This last was said in flat certainty.
"Any man who would think you an embarrassment diminishes himself." He helped her to stand, and remained next to her. "I have no fear that you would be compelled to go back to your husband. The Czar would not want to lose such an accomplished woman as you are to the vanity of a boyar, given that you have done so much to benefit his new city."
"Let me lose another child, and I may be sent away," she said harshly. "It is not as if my skills are sufficient to sustain this care-house; I am not essential here. Heer van Hoek is a trained man with experience. I am little more than his assistant."
"One he could not manage without," said Saint-Germain, aware of the depth of her worry. "If there should be any doubt as to how essential you are, I will gladly tell Piotyr Alexeievich that you are as necessary to this care-house as Heer van Hoek is."
"You are a Hungarian. Why should he listen to you?"
"Because I know something of medical treatments, and my opinion is disinterested; I have nothing to lose or gain in speaking my mind. I think he would be willing to hear me out." Saying this, he had to admit he had doubts, but he was fairly sure that the Czar would want to keep Ludmilla here for the sake of the patients in the care-house.
"You have more faith in the Czar than I do," she said slowly as she wrapped her arms around him. "But it is good of you to make such an offer, and to permit me to give voice to my sadness and my fears. I'm grateful to you."
"I have no wish for your gratitude."
She stared at him. "Why?"
He answered her obliquely. "Long ago there was a merchant who traveled in the lands of Hind, and when he learned of a coming attack, he sent the woman he loved across the Arabian Sea to Egypt, providing her with the means to live comfortably until he should be able to join her. Unlike most of the women of Hind, the woman was spared penury and worse. But the barbarians took him captive and years passed until they were able to meet again, when it became apparent that the woman had come to resent him for caring for her." He kissed her forehead, the image of Avasa Dani fading from his thoughts. "I have learned from that man, and I distrust gratitude. Thank me if you like: that will discharge any obligation you may have to me."
"But ..." She hesitated. "You've done so much for me--why shouldn't I be grateful?"
"I have done what I have done out of my own inclination, not to favor you," he said, with such tenderness that she blinked and hoped she would not cry again. "That I have pleased you is an added satisfaction for me."
Tentatively, Ludmilla asked, "Does your wife mind what you do here?"
Saint-Germain turned his enigmatic eyes on hers, then answered, "If my assisting here pleases the Czar, it pleases her, and her brother approves it, as well."
"And if she commanded you to stop your work here, would you?" Her question was breathless, and she remained still as she waited to hear what he would say.
"It would depend upon why she had commanded me," said Saint-Germain, a wry smile touching his mouth. "She is one of the representatives here for Poland, and I am pledged to assist her, but if she ordered me away in a fit of pique or because she dislikes some of the ills we treat, then I would not leave; my King would expect me to remain."
Ludmilla thought about this for several seconds. "And if you become ill, what then?"
"Those of my blood do not become ill," he said levelly.
"You say that after you were set upon in May? And those old scars you have?" Her incredulity turned to hard laughter.
"I did not say I could not be injured," he told her steadily, "I said I do not become ill; they are two different matters."
Her laughing stopped abruptly. "You are right," she allowed. "They are different." Once more tears welled in her eyes. "Not again."
"Weep as long and as often as you need to, Ludmilla," said Saint-Germain.
"I don't want to need to," she said, opening the handkerchief once more. "I've ruined this, I think," she added before she wiped her eyes.
"I have more," he assured her as she stepped into his arms.
They stood together for some little time, Ludmilla leaning on him as the accumulated despair and fatigue went slowly out of her and she began to feel purged of her exhaustion; with it came a distancing from their closeness. She lifted her head from his shoulder and took a step back. "Is Hroger here?"
"He is at the Polish Residence," said Saint-Germain. "I sent him to deliver a message to the Ksiezna and to my coachman." He did not add that he had included instructions for Saari as well.
"How long will he be gone?"
"He will return after he has eaten."
"Should we try for a lesson tomorrow night as well as the night after?" She put the handkerchief down on the table beside the chair. "I should be more attentive then."
"If you would like it," he said, releasing his hold on her.
"Then we can do the lessons you planned for tonight." She picked up the teacup and drank the last of the black raspberry cordial, though the water with which it was mixed had gone cold.
"Would you like some more?" he offered, aware that she had a secondary reason for her inquiries.
"No, not now. If you are awake when I've finished my watch tonight, then I'd welcome it." The smile she gave was more secure than any other he had seen that night, and her voice more caressing than he had ever heard it. "You are often awake far into the night, aren't you?"
"I require little sleep," he said.
"Might I come up then? For your cordial in hot water?" There was a promise of something more in her request; she confirmed his supposition by suddenly closing the distance between them and kissing him on the lips. "Will you let me visit you then?"
He nodded. "You are welcome here at any time."
"No matter what your wife may think?"
He held her eyes with his. "Until the end of your watch, Ludmilla."
"Yes, Hercegek Gyor, until then," she said before she let herself out of his quarters.
Text of a letter to Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, from Johannes Walther Oertel Stiffelmund, Graf von Altenburg, Prussian Envoy to Sankt Piterburkh, carried by messenger.
To the esteemed Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, from the Graf von Altenburg, his apologies for the cancellation of the fete tomorrow night, and the brevity of this note.
My dear Arco-Tolvay,
It is inconvenient, I know, to postpone the entertainment I had planned to offer to the diplomats and other important figures of the Foreign Quarter tomorrow, but as I have become ill, as has Theophilius Schaft, I am reluctant to expose others to this inconvenient fever, which I fear I contracted while I was supervising the unloading of the
Koenigen Frika.
She has become mired in ice, as you know, and will remain at her moorings until the thaw releases her in spring. All her cargo and many of her ship's appointments have been removed to our assigned warehouse for the winter, in case there should be trouble out in the river, and the ship be damaged because of it. Four of the sailors were suffering from this sickness, and I have assumed that I have had the disease from them. As soon as the illness has run its course, I will once again set a time for the fete. I am only sorry that it will mean that the Czar will not be here to lend his presence to our amusements.
We have arranged with the Guard for one of the Watchmen groups to visit the ship twice a day in order to ascertain its condition and to protect it from some of the robbers from the mainland who have taken to plundering unmanned ships caught in the ice. That should at least spare us the loss of goods that so many others have experienced. The Watchmen we have been assigned are from Novgorod, and have sworn to keep our ship protected. We are paying them well for their protection, and we have secured the services of a pair of sailors who will spend time on the ship during the daylight hours. They have been given a signal-horn to sound in case of trouble, as have the Watchmen. Under the circumstances, this is the best we can do to protect the
Koenigen Frika.
I dislike having to impose upon your good-will still further, but I would like to ask you, since the care-house where you work has agreed to take in Schaft tonight, that you will deign to visit me with your case of medicaments, as I must, of necessity, remain here at the Residence. The ship's physician, who is staying at the Residence along with the rest of the
Koenigen Frika's
officers, has bled me, but I have felt no reduction in symptoms--in fact, my cough is worse. You are said to possess an array of treatments, some of which might serve to
lessen my fever and my cough. You will be welcome whenever it is convenient for you to call; you need not send a messenger to announce your coming.
Anticipating your arrival,
I remain most sincerely,
J. W. O. Stiffelmund
Graf von Altenburg
Prussian Envoy at Sankt Piterburkh
November 9th, 1704
5
Through the thickening fog the Czar's four-room house blazed with lights, making it a fuzzily luminous beacon to all those summoned to his gala of farewell; Watchmen on the streets carried extra lanterns to help guide the sleighs and horses to the splendid occasion that was to mark Piotyr's departure to rejoin his troops.
Huddled in her enclosed Polish sleigh, Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, snuggled into her long sable coat and glared at Saint-Germain. "You should have told me before now, and you know it," she complained, her breath adding to the fog; she had been argumentative since he had arrived at her house an hour before, and that acrimony continued as they cut along the icy street. "If you are withholding this deliberately--"
"That Graf von Altenburg is very ill? I thought it was generally known already. The Prussians have certainly made no secret of it, and the Foreign Quarter has few secrets. Is there something you would like to know in regard to his case?" His courtly garb was covered by a long cloak lined and hooded in wolf's-fur, and his gloves were elk-leather lined in silk.
She answered obliquely. "Benedykt said he was ailing, but not that it was anything more than a winter fever. Now you tell me that he may have putrid lungs. Putrid lungs, in this place! How can he expect to recover? And what I am to do to keep on good terms with the Prussians while he is unavailable to me? Hugo Weissenkraft won't provide me the information that von Altenburg has." She held a small heated stone in her gloved hands to keep them warm, but she balanced it now as if she intended to throw it at him. "This is important, Grofok. The Prussians and the Poles have many interests in common, and if von Altenburg dies, then my position could become more perilous, and with it, your own."
"In what way?" Saint-Germain asked with great cordiality. "I am willing to do what I can to ensure our mutual security, but until this evening, you have said nothing about von Altenburg's relationship to your mission, or what it has to do with his illness, since I went to the care-house. I may no longer be directly included in your duties here, Zozia, but I do not grasp how von Altenburg's sickness endangers you, or me. I do see his present incapacity may be an inconvenience, but--"