The girl, looking eager and frightened, sank onto the indicated stool with a loose-limbed grace.
Olga took the girl by the chin and turned her face into the light. Could this really be Vasya? Her sister had been an ugly child. This woman was not ugly—though she had features too stark for beauty: wide mouth, vast eyes, long fingers. She looked far too like the witch-girl Konstantin described.
Her green eyes spilled over with sorrow and courage and terrible fragility. Olga had never forgotten her little sister’s eyes.
Vasya said, tentatively, “Olya?”
Olga Vladimirova found herself smiling. “It is good to see you, Vasya.”
Vasya fell to her knees, crying like a child into Olga’s lap. “I m-missed you,” she stammered. “I missed you so.”
“Hush,” Olga said. “Hush. I missed you, too, little sister.” She stroked her sister’s hair, and realized she was crying as well.
At last Vasya raised her head. Her mouth quivered; she wiped her streaming eyes, drew breath, and took her sister’s hands. “Olya,” she said. “Olya, Father is dead.”
Olya felt a little cold place form and grow inside her: anger at this rash girl, mixed with her love. She did not say anything.
“Olya,” Vasya said. “Didn’t you hear? Father is dead.”
“I know,” Olga said. She crossed herself, and could not keep that coldness from her voice. Sasha glanced at her, frowning. “God give him peace. Father Konstantin told me all. He said you had run away. He thought you had died. I thought you had died. I wept for you. How came you here? And dressed—so?” She eyed her sister in some despair, taking in anew the disheveled shining plait, the boots and leggings and jacket, the disturbing grace of a wild thing.
“Tell her, Vasya,” said her brother.
Vasya ignored both question and order. She had shot stiff-legged to her feet. “He is here? Where? What is he doing? What did Father Konstantin tell you?”
Olga measured out the words. “That our father died saving your life. From a bear. That you— Oh, Vasya, better not to speak of it. Answer the question: How came you here?”
A pause, and all the ferocity seemed to rush out of her. Vasya dropped back onto her stool. “It should have been me,” she said low. “But it was him. Olya, I didn’t mean…” She swallowed. “Don’t listen to the priest; he is—”
“Enough, Vasya,” said her sister firmly. Then she added, with an edge, “Child, what possessed you to run away from home?”
“CAN THAT BE ALL THE TRUTH?” Olga demanded of her brother sometime later. They had gone to her little chapel, where whispered conversations were not so strange and there was less chance of being overheard. Vasya had been sent off, in Varvara’s care, and in great secrecy, to bathe. “The priest told nearly the same story—but not exactly—and I hardly believed him then. What would drive a girl to act so? Is she mad?”
“No,” said Sasha, wearily. Above him, Christ and the saints reared in glorious panoply: Olga’s iconostasis was very fine. “Something happened to her—and I think there is more to this tale than either of us knows. She will not tell me. But I cannot believe her mad. Reckless she is, and immodest, and sometimes I fear for her soul. But she is only herself; she is not mad.”
Olga nodded, biting her lips. “If it weren’t for her, Father would not have died,” she said, before she could stop herself. “And Mother, too—”
“Now that,” Sasha said sharply, “is cruel. We must wait to judge, sister. I will ask this priest. Perhaps he can say what she will not.”
Olga looked up at the icons. “What are we to do with her now? Am I to dress her in a sarafan and find her a husband?” A new thought struck her. “Did our sister ride all the way here dressed as a boy? How did you explain that to Dmitrii Ivanovich?”
Awkward silence.
Olga narrowed her eyes.
“I—well—” Olga’s brother said sheepishly, “Dmitrii Ivanovich thinks she’s my brother, Vasilii.”
“He what?” Olga hissed, in tones completely unsuited for prayer.
Sasha said, determinedly calm, “She told him that her name was Vasilii. I judged it better to agree.”
“Why, in God’s name?” Olga retorted, controlling her voice. “You should have told Dmitrii that she was a poor mad child—a holy fool, her wits deranged—and brought her instantly and in secret to me.”
“A holy fool who came galloping into the Lavra with three rescued children on her horse,” returned Sasha. “She ferreted out bandits that we’d not found in two weeks’ searching. After all that, was I supposed to apologize for her and huddle her out of sight?”
These were Sergei’s questions, Sasha realized with some discomfiture, coming out of his own mouth.
“Yes,” Olga told him wearily. “You are not enough in Moscow; you don’t understand— Never mind. It is done. Your brother Vasilii must be sent away at once. I will keep Vasya quiet in the terem long enough for folk to forget. Then I will arrange a wedding for her. No great match—she must not catch the Grand Prince’s eye—but that can hardly be helped.”
Sasha found he could not stay still: another thing strange for him. He paced through the pools of light and darkness thrown by the many candles, and the light fretted his black hair—like Olga’s and Vasya’s—a gift from their dead mother. “You can’t confine her to the terem yet,” he said, coming to a halt with an effort.
Olga crossed her arms over her belly. “Why not?”
“Dmitrii Ivanovich took a liking to her, on the road,” Sasha said carefully. “She did him a great service, finding those raiders. He has promised her honors, horses, a place in his household. Vasya cannot disappear before Maslenitsa, not without insulting the Grand Prince.”
“Insulting?” hissed Olga. The measured tone suitable for the chapel had deserted her once more. She leaned forward. “How do you think he will take it when he finds out that this brave boy is a girl?”
“Badly,” said Sasha, drily. “We will not tell him.”
“And I am supposed to—to perpetuate this, to watch my maiden sister race about Moscow in the company of Dmitrii’s carousing boyars?”
“Don’t watch,” advised Sasha.
Olga said nothing. She had been playing games of politics every day since her marriage at fifteen, longer even than Sasha. She had to: her children’s lives depended on the whims of princes. Neither she nor her brother could afford to anger Dmitrii Ivanovich. But if Vasya were discovered—
More gently, Sasha added, “There is no choice now. You and I must both do what we can to keep Vasya’s secret through the festival.”
“I should have sent for Vasya when she was a child,” Olga said, with feeling. “I should have sent for her long ago. Our stepmother did not raise her properly.”
Sasha said wryly, “I am beginning to think that no one could have done any better. Now, I have tarried too long; I must go to the monastery and get news. I will speak to this priest. Let Vasya rest; it will not be strange if young Vasilii Petrovich spends the day with his sister. But in the evenings he must go to the Grand Prince’s palace.”