Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
GWENNA
When I wake up, I don't know where I am at first. First thing I see is dim light through a frosted window. Is it dawn? Noon? I can't tell. I stir in bed and hear voices from somewhere, chanting.
Deep, male, something liturgical. It's strange, hypnotic, sort of like Gregorian chant, but with.
.. melodic twists that sound almost alien.
I swallow, my throat dry, and sit up. Everything aches from travel, from cold, from the fact that I appear to have slept in my coat and all my clothes from yesterday.
Above me, the almond brown eyes of the Virgin Mary stare down.
"Gwenna!" There's a rapid series of knocks at the door. "Breakfast! Come, come!"
Before I can react, before I can even move, the door bursts open, and it's the three girls from yesterday. Dasha, once again, beaming with delight. Sveta, sweeping in after her, and little Katyenka, tiptoeing in last.
"Good morning," Dasha says. "You sleep well?" She says, nodding eagerly.
"Um," my voice feels froggy in my throat. "Yes, fine, thank you."
"We have food," Sveta says. "In the hall. You come?"
"Sure," I say, blinking slowly. Do Russians drink coffee? I shudder to think of what awaits me on the caffeine front. I push the blankets off of me and get up, shedding my coat.
It's a little warmer, at least, and I desperately need to change my base layer.
"Just give me a..." I trail off, going to my suitcase, rummaging around.
A skirt, I guess. They're all wearing them, it seems respectful.
A long-sleeve thermal, a sweater. If I layer fleece tights and wool socks, I probably won't freeze to death.
I pick them out, throw them over my hand, and when I turn around, the girls are all still there.
"Here," Dasha says, rushing forward, "please." She takes the clothes, sets them on my bed. I squint my eyes shut and shake my head.
"I'm just going to…get dressed."
"Yes, yes," says Sveta.
None of them moves.
"Could you wait…outside?” I say, tentatively.
"Oh," Dasha cries, putting a hand to her mouth. "We just want to help, but yes." She bows her head, nodding, and they slip out.
Finally. I change as quickly as I can. Tight skirt, shirt, sweater, socks, and splash my face with ice-cold water from the pitcher.
Glancing at myself in the mirror over the dresser, I look…
terrible. I have no idea what time my body thinks it is, my skin feels tight and dry, and I haven't eaten a proper meal in at least 24 hours.
I locate my hairbrush, pull it through my hair, smear on some moisturizer, and add a double layer to my lips.
Where are they?, I wonder. Are they awake? Training? Practicing? Eating?
Suddenly, I can't wait to get out of the room.
The sooner I'm out, the sooner the day goes on, the sooner we're gone.
The St. Ignaty Refectory is around another corner, a long communal hall with a high ceiling and long tables, more icons on the walls—they're everywhere, I suppose—and arrow-loop windows on one side that look out at a gray morning.
Finally, I can see this place, although there's not much to see: sparse grass and mud, a pewter-colored sky.
Slow rises of hills, concealed behind low clouds.
It looks dead.
"Come," Dasha says, leading me by the small of the back, "this way."
It's then I notice that the hall is divided. One side is men: young men, presumably students, older men in robes. And the other is sparser, a handful of women, mostly older, with weathered faces and scarves. And that's the side I'm looking at.
The food is cafeteria-style, metal trays from a small buffet, kasha, black bread, hard-boiled eggs, pickles, more tea. I take a little of each, not especially hungry, despite the fact that I've barely eaten. But my three compatriots stack theirs high, like they're each eating for three.
When we sit, I pick around my offerings. Half an egg, a few bites of black bread. My stomach feels like a brick.
"No," Sveta says sternly, looking at my plate. "You must eat." She shoves half the food on her plate onto mine.
I am taken aback. She's being polite, I assume, but it's almost forceful. "Thank you," I say, a bit bewildered.
Next to her, Dasha widens her eyes, gives her a look, mutters something in Russian.
I tune them out and peer across the room.
I can see them. Kingston, Kai, Lanz, Callahan.
They're all together at one table, hunched over, eating, discussing.
I ache to be next to them, to hear what they're talking about, to just be around them and not overhear.
A few tables away, I see Luther with Father Maksim and a few more monks, plus some other men who must be officials.
I look back to the four of them, and Kingston sees me, his golden eyes locking on mine.
I'm okay, I try to communicate telepathically.
I'm fine. I'm good. It's not exactly the truth, but it's what I want him to think.
Stop worrying about me and worry more about being poisoned or having your throat slit in your sleep.
For his part, he doesn't look convinced.
Next to him, Kai is scowling at his food, not eating, but looks up when he sees Kingston stare.
His face softens a little, and he starts to get up, but Kingston pushes him back down, whispers something into his ear.
Kai's scowl gets bigger. Lanz and Callahan turn too, Lanz chewing his lip, and Callahan looking tense.
When they do that, they catch someone else's attention. A table away, with the Russian fencers, Moroslav gets to his feet. He walks slowly, sauntering across the room, crossing the invisible line, which doesn't seem to give anybody pause, and heads right for our table.
Seeing him, Dasha's eyes go wide, and she claps a hand to her mouth. "Lyoshka!" She chides him. "What are you doing here?"
"I do what I want, trying to be a good host." He looks at me. "These girls take care of you?"
"Yes," I say, a bit firmly, feeling suddenly defensive of my three overzealous caretakers. "They've been lovely."
"Yes, of course." He chews his lip, lifts his eyebrows at Sveta.
She rolls her eyes, but I can see her blush.
He slides his eyes back to me. "You sleep well, I hope?"
"Fine," I say, a bit more cautiously. "Thank you."
"You three." He eyes the other girls. "You take care of her today. Show her something interesting. The gentleman will be busy, and we can't let her be bored."
"Da," says Katyenka. "Yes." She smiles at me, an eerie, moony little smile.
"I hope you find much to explore," he says, pressing his palms together and bowing his head slightly. "And we shall see you in the evening, then."
Before I can answer, he's gone back to his table. I take a sip of tea to clear my throat. Of course he's being friendly. That's the whole thing with fencing, isn't it? A gentleman's sport. Lots of manners involved.
And yet, on my other side, Katyenka giggles. Dasha leans in conspiratorially. "He is handsome, yes. Lyoshka? Alexei?" She presses her lips together.
Sveta stabs a pickle with her fork. "He is just a flirt," she says flatly.
Dasha huffs. "I like boy with sword. Like a storybook." She picks up her knife, mimes waving it around, catches my eye, and grins.
"Gwenechka, she knows what I mean."
My gaze drifts across the hall again, to where four American fencers are holding me firm in their gaze. "I do," I say absently.
After breakfast, the girls want to show me around. I try to beg off, but they're in, assistant, and with the boys in the cloister warming up and practicing, I don't really have any excuse not to.
So I bundle up in my coat and scarf and submit to following them around.
We tour the whole compound, the dormitories and the refectory we've already been to, the library, which is locked, the paths to the old church ruins, not much to see there, and end.
The second, smaller courtyard in front of the church.
For a space so small, it's almost labyrinthine. And every time they take me through another corridor or passage, I'm convinced we'll come out somewhere entirely different than where we end up. Like, I can't keep track of where things are.
I try to memorize the layout, but it's confusing. And I haven't had any coffee, which makes my heart ache with longing to be home.
They explain more about what they're doing here. St. Ignaty was single-sex for most of its history, but now they let a few women in from time to time.
“What are you studying, then?” I ask politely.
Dasha laughs, cheeks pink in the cold. “Us? We do not study,” she says. “The girls here, we work.”
“We tend to the church,” Sveta says, her eyes downcast. “That is for women.”
There’s a note of sadness in her voice, and as they describe their days it really sounds more like they’re chambermaids more than coeds: this room they clean, this one they freshen with dried flowers, this one they scald with lye and soap—see how white the walls are now?
And all the while, as we tour, I try to catch glimpses of the four of them. I see them in what serves as the St. Ignaty salle: adjusting their weapons, assembling their gear, drilling, sparring, warming up.
I don't want them to see me when I pass, don't want them to get distracted, don’t want to give Moroslav or any of them even the slightest opening to strike, but it's like they can't help it.
Heads turning like we're magnetized together.
And every time one of them glances my way, I see the tension in their shoulders, the hypervigilance.
Like they're preparing for a battle, not a fencing tournament.
And maybe they are.
After lunch, more pickles, more bread, soup.
The girls finally leave me alone, when I insist I'm tired.
I retreat to my room and lie on my bed, trying to rest, but I can't. I get back up and pace the narrow length of the room.
I look out the window, where the frost has receded, at the distant gray edge of the sea, churning and frothing.