Heart of Iron (7 page)

That was true enough, I thought. Yet Eugenia had never been subtle, and I suspected that the matter of arrested foreign friends required at least a modicum of subtlety. Unfortunately, I was too much of Eugenia’s niece to think of anything artful. My first inclination was to march to the Winter Palace and shout at the emperor; my second was to spit in his brother’s smug face. Either course of action was unlikely to yield the desired results.

I barely heard the end of the lecture, and nudged Olga when we were dismissed. She woke with a start, rubbed her eyes, and shot me a look of mild irritation. “What did you do that for?”

“Time to go,” I said timidly. I still hadn’t apologized for Saturday; I wasn’t planning to even though I knew she expected it.

Olga rose and followed Dasha Muravieva out, and I lagged behind, angry at myself for feeling guilt even though I had done nothing wrong. I was almost ready to apologize anyway, so as not to feel so shut out.

“Miss Trubetskaya?” I heard a soft male voice behind me. I knew who it was before I turned around.

There was a sly quality to Jack Bartram’s smile, and it made me think that he was always hiding something wonderful, that he held some magical secret in the hands he clasped behind his back.

I couldn’t help but smile in return. “Mr. Bartram. It is a pleasure to see that you are well.”

“As well as your friends.” He followed me out of the auditorium and offered me his arm, which I took with a sense of developing habit.

“What do you know about them?”

He leaned closer, his warm breath tickling the tip of my ear. “A friend of mine was at the train station yesterday, early in the morning. He saw two young men of Chinese origin board the train, and I’d wager they were those fine gentlemen I never got a chance to properly meet. I thought you might like to know that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bartram,” I said, an enormous weight left my shoulders with such alacrity that I stumbled. Only Jack’s arm allowed me to maintain my upright posture. “That is wonderful news. Now, if I could only find out about Wong Jun and where they are keeping him… ”

Jack only shook his head. “I cannot help you there, Miss Trubetskaya.”

“You’ve already accomplished a great deal,” I said. “I am quite grateful. I will now look into the matter using my own resources.”

“I wish you good luck,” he said. Once outside, he put on his hat — not a top hat like most men wore that season, but the wide-brimmed, soft contraption he’d worn the night before. It hid most of his face from view — although not from me, because I walked closely enough to peek under it.

I had forgotten about Olga and Dasha who had gone ahead, quite content to walk along with Jack Bartram in whatever direction he cared to point the tips of his black scuffed boots. Even though his legs were ridiculously long, he took care to match his loping stride to mine, and seemed as pleased to walk along the paths covered in yellow leaves as I was. We breathed the bitter autumn smells and the scent of coal from the river, and I found myself in front of my dormitory quite a bit sooner than I expected.

As much as I found Jack’s attention flattering — especially because, rightly or wrongly, I assumed he was less aware of my impending titles and fortune than my compatriots, and therefore I could ascribe unselfish motives to him. As soon as I was alone in my apartment, I turned my mind to finding out about Wong Jun. It really would be more convenient, I mused, if one had an ability to not worry about people one had just met and seen arrested by the secret police. For better or worse, however, such ability was as beyond my grasp as the clouds now gathering outside of my windows.

Anastasia busied herself in the kitchen, and I sat by the window, resting my chin on folded arms, various possibilities bumping against each other in my mind. I had deferred worry over Lee Bo and Chiang Tse, having decided to trust Jack’s word of their safety. Wong Jun still seemed a natural target for my concern.

I took out my notebook and leafed through the notes, past diagrams of Newtonian and Da Vincian machines, to the meager still-empty section. I settled my lap-desk and snatched up my pen. Uncapping the well, I inhaled the rich smell of ink. I tore a page from my notebook, each page bearing the insignia of St. Petersburg’s University. Of course I had my own stationery, with the Trubetskoy crest, but the use of a page torn from a student’s notebook seemed a better choice. I was not above trying to project an image of artless and studious youth and innocence if it could help Wong Jun.

I addressed my query to Prince Nicholas himself and sealed the letter with the Trubetskoy seal, to ensure that it would be read. With nothing else to pursue as far as Won Jun’s predicament, I turned to studying for my impending exams.

I looked forward to the end of term and the short respite before the next one began — and I fervently hoped I would be able to see Eugenia and my mother during the recess.

Exams had filled me with enough sense of impending doom to chase almost every other thought from my mind. The increasing gulf between Olga and me seemed almost natural considering recent events, and the new friendship with Dasha Muravieva filled what little need for companionship I felt. But Jack Bartram occupied what thoughts I had other than study — quite disproportionately to our short walks between the philosophy class and the dormitory. During these strolls we spoke little, and I wondered about the role these ritual walks were starting to play in my life.

Jack rarely spoke about himself — I only gleaned that philosophy was his main focus and that he hoped to attempt a course of study in Germany, perhaps next year. I asked him about London, but he grew recalcitrant and spoke only in generalities. He complained about the smell from the Thames, and mentioned its gas-lit streets as something he was trying to leave behind, not dwell upon. I was left to imagine the infamous fog and Buckingham Palace by myself.

With October came rains and mists. Jack grew more wistful during our walks. He said a few times that the river and the severe stone city on its banks reminded him of home, but mostly we shared our anxiety about the impending exams. We never mentioned Wong Jun or the fact that there were now no Chinese students left at all. If he ever visited the Crane Club since the night of our first meeting, he never told me about it. I had almost forgotten about the letter I sent to Prince Nicholas — or rather, I assumed it was glanced at and discarded, and I would have to wait for December when my aunt arrived in St. Petersburg and perhaps felt inclined to exercising her influence on my behalf. There was nothing else to do until then.

The exam week started on October 17th, and I was so terrified that I could spare no thought for anyone but myself. Olga and Dasha, Larisa and Elena were also quite agitated. On the morning of the exam in human biology we all could be mistaken for ghosts — we had grown pale, and even though we didn’t moan or clang spectral chains as we walked toward the auditorium, I thought our inner anguish more than made up for lack of outward effects.

We gathered in our usual auditorium; the exam was administered by Professor Ipatiev himself and two of his colleagues, neither of whom I had encountered prior to the day of exam. Their anonymity made them all the more desirable as examiners in my eyes. I said my little prayers and approached the dais covered in green felt, where the examination questions, each written on a long paper strip, were laid out, text facing down. I drew a question and dared a glance at it as I walked to my seat. A mix of relief and gratitude washed over me when I realized that I had to do nothing more complicated than describe the human circulatory system.

The second stroke of luck occurred when it was my turn to present my question — Ipatiev was deeply engaged in interrogating poor Larisa Kulich, and another examiner, a young man with a soft flaxen beard and gentle eyes motioned for me to sit in front of him.

I settled, not quite believing my luck. My heart beat so loudly, I feared the examiner would hear it rather than my voice, but I calmed and began explaining — appropriately, considering my physical reaction — the circulatory system starting with heart and lungs. The examiner smiled encouragingly and nodded along, and I could not quite believe what was happening: it appeared as if I would pass this — the most difficult — exam. The rest of them did not warrant a slightest worry in my mind.

I was almost finished — only the capillaries left to expound upon — and the professor had smiled and reached for my examination booklet, when the doors of the auditorium squealed open, and rough boots pounded the floors. Several uniformed men squinted in the murky air of auditorium. Their attire was not that of the civil police, but indicated they were from the Ministry of Internal Affairs.

Professor Ipatiev looked up, irritation spreading from him in almost palpable waves along with the smell of sweet pipe tobacco. “What do you want?” he called. “Just tell me who you’re looking for, and let us get on with our examinations, if the emperor does not mind.”

One of the men cleared his throat and looked at the sheet of paper crumpled in his large fist overgrown with sparse red hairs. “Alexandra Trubetskaya,” he announced loudly.

All eyes were on me, and I felt as exposed and tiny as I did during my debut, only this time I was the sole cause of everyone in the auditorium turning toward me, and there was no aunt to shield me from their hostility. I stood, gathered my muff and parasol, and walked toward the policemen.

The one who had called my name reached out as if to grab my arm, but I had quite enough humiliation for one day, and being manhandled by his ilk was still fresh in my memory. I whipped my parasol across his knuckles, and he withdrew his hand with a hiss.

“Now,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster, “there seems to be some mistake, for there is absolutely no reason for you to interfere with my schooling. I have done nothing illegal. I will gladly come with you to clear up any misunderstanding, but please do not lay your hands on me. I have heard of a number of unfortunate maiming accidents involving parasols. You would not wish such to befall you.”

He grumbled under his breath but did not attempt further contact. As I exited, surrounded by a cluster of uniformed men and my heart in my stomach — not because I feared them but because I worried that leaving an examination room would count as failure — I noticed Olga looking straight at me, with a brave and encouraging smile on her face. I smiled back, even though my own circulatory system felt as if it was filled with ash instead of blood.

As we headed away from the building, my thoughts took a dark turn; I suspected that Professor Ipatiev would be more than pleased to fail me for not completing the examination. Further, the news of my undignified arrest would soon spread to the palace and the emperor would be glad for an excuse to disassociate himself from our family — what my aunt’s outbursts could not accomplish, my consorting with a dangerous foreign element would. I could already think of all the things they would say about me and the Chinese students, about the hazards of admitting women and Chinamen into hallowed halls… my ears burned just thinking about such indignity.

We approached the Palace Bridge when a familiar swirl of a gray cloak caught my attention. There was no reason for me to expect Jack’s appearance; yet the moment I saw him, I realized I had been holding my breath, hoping he would to come to my aid. When he did, I thought he had an extraordinarily sharp nose for police — secret or uniformed — and could not help but smile.

He approached us in an easy step, his eyes curious and bright. I thought he couldn’t very well attack any of my capturers, since they were in uniform and it was broad daylight. Still, I waited for miracles. Jack did not hesitate to produce one — or rather, he pulled a sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket, and handed it to the apparent officer in charge. After a few whispered words he joined our party. I kept quiet and he did not say a word to me.

We passed the Palace Square and the Decembrists Square, close to the embankment, away from the streets dedicated to the tenements of the mercantile classes and the offices of clerks and minor governmental officials. They took me to Gorokhovaya Street, to a large nice-looking building. All five stories teemed with intense activity — everywhere I could see clerks coming and going, most of them dressed in uniforms of the Ministry of the Internal Affairs. There were other policemen, too. The clerks’ uniforms differed from the officers who surrounded me, and lacked swords, but it was apparent my captors belonged to the ministry — and the ministry was overseen by Prince Nicholas. Evidently Nikolashki could lurk about in civilian clothing or wear uniforms in public: both a secret police and the uniformed gendarmes.

I was led into a roomy office, the parquet floors and tall windows looking out on the silvery gray autumn daylight. Only one of the gendarme officers, his epaulettes golden and red, followed me inside. Jack Bartram remained with us as well, although I still had no idea on whose sufferance he was there.

The officer in the bright epaulettes offered me a seat on a stiff little sofa that rested against white-and-gold striped wallpaper by the door. He himself took a seat behind a massive oak desk, and Jack stood by the door, which he had carefully closed behind him. I got the distinct feeling the two men were keeping some secret from me, and I was about to be scolded. That made me feel slightly better, because a scolding was much preferable to accusations of sedition and treason and a tribunal of some sort, or any of the other such things I had imagined on my way here. I rested my parasol across my lap, took off my gloves, and prepared to listen.

The officer and Jack traded a look, as if each expected the other to speak first. After a short awkward pause, the officer cleared his throat.

“You know why you are here,” he told me.

I gave a one-shouldered shrug, unwilling to commit. I then stared at Jack.

“Mr. Bartram here claims to have some information,” the officer said. “And since Her Majesty’s interests and ours happen to coincide, Mr. Bartram and his colleagues have been quite helpful in our recent investigations of the Asiatic menace with which, I hear, you are involved.”