no sign of abating. Prince Shevchenko shot a knowing glance around the table with a dark eye brow arched at the improbability of their quest. They were supposed to return a princess with no memories to Kuban and place her in power. They were gathered together tonight to discuss the risk analysis behind such an action. One by one, each of the men assembled looked away, gathering his own thoughts about the revelation and what it meant. All except Prince Pisarev. He smiled, unconcerned.
‘It’s far too early to decide either way and far too much is unknown. Anything could happen. The Princess may not want to go back. Her memories may yet return. The doctor suggested some memory aids. We are not without tools and resources.’ There was comfort in the Prince’s words, reminding her of his words earlier, that she was not alone no matter what she decided.
Men shifted uneasily in their chairs, restless with her presence. It was her cue to leave. They needed to talk amongst themselves. Dasha rose. ‘Princess Baklanova, if you would care to join me in the drawing room, we can let these gentlemen get on with their port.’ And their gossip. She was well aware she’d be the main topic of conversation with only Varvakis and Prince Pisarev to defend her. The others were likely to be merciless.
* * *
Sleep was mercilessly elusive. Long after the guests were gone, murmuring polite goodbyes while scepticism lurked in their eyes, Dasha was wide awake. At least awake, she wouldn’t dream. That was something to be thankful for. Lamp in hand, she made her way to the library. She didn’t dare indulge in any more brandy-laced milk. Maybe a book would help take her mind off the events of the day, which had not gone as well as hoped.
Perhaps she’d been overly optimistic. She’d hoped Prince Pisarev would recognise her. She’d hoped the doctor would give her a magical cure. Those things had not happened.
Dasha ran her hand over the spines of books. They were new, their spines stiff. Everything in this home was new. She’d noticed that today: the carpets, their bright hues not yet dulled from generations of boots; the curtains with their rich colours. It was all tastefully understated, but it was still new. Everything lacked the truly aristocratic patina of age and successions.
She selected a book of Russian fairy tales and took it to the sofa by the fire. The pages had been cut, but the book still gave a crackle of newness when she opened it. She ran a finger down the table of contents: Ivan and the Firebird, Father Winter, Ruslan and Ludmila... Her finger stopped on that one. Ruslan the Knight. She’d forgotten. It had been a long time since she’d read fairy tales. Pushkin had published a poem by that name as well a couple of years ago. She turned to the page, letting the story come back to her in pieces—the beautiful Ludmila stolen from home on her wedding day, the gallant Ruslan riding to her rescue and facing down a series of foes while Ludmila lay unconscious and unknowing. Dasha looked into the fire. She might enjoy the tale more tonight if the parallels weren’t so obvious, right down to the very name of her own gallant knight.
‘Ah, so you’ve discovered the library. Have you found anything good to read? I haven’t had time to explore the offerings yet.’
Dasha jumped, casting about for a weapon. Her eyes lit on the poker. Could she reach it? How could she have been so careless to sit down defenceless?
‘I don’t think you’d reach the poker in time.’ Prince Pisarev stepped forward, dressed only in a shirt and waistcoat. His jacket and cravat had been discarded. Without the jacket, his lean body was on full display, elegant and urbane even in moderate dishabille. ‘If it’s any consolation, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He took the chair on her left, a glass in his hand. She felt silly and self-conscious. Who had she thought it would be? Who could it be but Prince Pisarev or Captain Varvakis?
‘Old habits, I suppose.’ Maybe. Who knew if she made a practice of beating people over the head with pokers, or even if she had need for such a skill? She tugged at the light blanket she’d thrown around her shoulders before coming down, reminded suddenly of how underdressed she was for meeting a man at midnight, even if that hadn’t been her intention when she’d left her room.
‘Nothing wrong with old habits.’ Ruslan smiled and took a swallow. ‘Can’t sleep? Would you like something?’
‘No.’ Dasha played with the folds of her nightrail, pleating them between her fingers.
‘I confess I’m glad you’re still awake. I’d like to discuss a few things, if you’re up to it.’
She nodded her permission. Did this man never sleep? It was after midnight, approaching twenty-four hours since her ignominious arrival on his doorstep, and he was still working.
‘Thank you. The doctor suggested it may help prompt some memories if you surrounded yourself with reminders of your old life, if you lived and acted as if you knew yourself to be a princess. To that end, I’ve engaged a few individuals who can help with that: a dancing master, a dressmaker, a French tutor since everyone at the Kubanian court speaks French, an etiquette coach. At the very least, the skills will help you feel more at home among the English aristocracy.’
‘And at the best?’ Dasha asked sharply, not entirely liking where this proposal was headed and what it might signify.
‘It may prompt your memories. You might discover you are already fluent in French, or that you can already dance. It might be all you need to break through your mental block.’
‘Or perhaps it is all you need to convince people I am truly capable.’ Did he think she was naïve enough to not see what this was? She was to be trained. If she could not remember being the Princess, she could be transformed into one effectively enough to convince anyone who needed convincing. It made the option of becoming an anonymous émigrée moot. London society would not let a Kubanian princess with a right to the throne fade into anonymity. Anonymity required a new name, a new history.
Dasha rose and paced before the fire, her mind racing. ‘So it’s already been decided, has it? I left the room and your war counsel decided I am to go back, as if I am a pawn without any say in the matter.’ She speared him with a hard stare. ‘I hoped for more from you, Prince Pisarev. Your promise to me was merely hours old before you broke it.’
* * *
Broke his word? How dare she imply such a thing, especially to a man who had nothing but his word? The Princess went too far when she impugned his honour after all he’d done for her today, without question, and there were plenty of far less pleasant questions he could have asked. Ruslan narrowed his eyes, letting his gaze suggest his displeasure, his tone cool. ‘Nothing has been decided. I meant every word. I will not force you to go back. But should you decide to return, you will need certain skills, certain pieces of knowledge. What you can’t remember can be taught, but it will take time and we don’t know how much of that we have. We have to start now. We have to be prepared.’
‘We?’ Dasha snapped. ‘The last time I checked, there was just me. Just one Princess.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. The moment you entered my house you made this my concern. I thought I had made that clear.’ If anyone needed safeguarding, it was she. Dasha was brave, but she was entirely vulnerable even among those who meant to help her. He’d seen just how vulnerable at dinner, listening to Varvakis discuss her political views because she couldn’t, and later, listening to the men take her apart in her absence, bandying about words like ‘puppet princess’—a clear indication that she would be the front for those who would run the government on her behalf. Such an assumption would have led to a duel had she been a man. Despite the practical objectivity required of such analysis, something fierce and protective
