Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
GWENNA
I hardly know what to make of this place.
The truck hits a bump in the dark. Next to me, Lanz grips my leg to steady me--hardly necessary, given that I’m wedged between him and Callahan so tightly I can barely breathe. Behind us, in the flatbed, the gear and our luggage gives a muted rattle.
It’s entirely dark around us. I can sense the landscape more than see it—vague lines of black hills that meet the blacker sky, the faint smell of salt. Before us, the headlights illuminate only dirt and gravel, a light fringe of gray-green grass on either side of the narrow road.
“Beautiful here in summer,” Moroslav says from the driver’s seat. “Now…” He laughs. “Now it is more honest.”
“We are indebted to your hospitality,” Luther says, terse but polite.
He and Kingston are up front on the bench seat, with the four of us in the back.
It’s cold in here, unheated, but humid from all of our breathing, and I vaguely wonder what time it is—if it even matters.
The drive feels endless, even though we can’t have gotten that far at this speed, and I find myself antsy despite my exhaustion, longing to see something.
And then, before us, the headlights catch something.
Towers. Stark white and domed. Thin spires with crosses gleaming against the starless sky.
The church.
Then the rest materializes before us: a low stone wall, broad wooden gates. The blaze of light catches a black-robed figure who waves and pulls open the gates as Moroslav downshifts and trundles us in.
“And there we are.” He kills the engine, and we disembark: a courtyard, everything stone and shadow.
I take Callahan’s hand to clamber down while Moroslav shouts something in Russian and more figures appear from side doors—the other St. Ignaty fencers, whom I vaguely recognize from however many weeks ago at the meet.
He gestures to them, pointing at gear bags and murmuring, and they nod, climbing to the flatbed to unload.
Kai sidles up to me, flipping up the collar of his jacket. “If this place is Finnish, I’m the King of fuckin’ England,” he mutters.
“Kai.” Lanz glares at him. He looks…nervous.
Callahan, meanwhile, is looking at me. “Are you all right, Gwenna?”
“Just tired,” I say. I scan around us, taking in the surroundings.
Sturdy, square stone halls surround a courtyard—a cloister.
But instead of open to the sky, the cloister is covered over us, glassed over in iron-framed panes and lit with harsh white electric lights.
The floor is hard-packed, dirt, but marked: long white rectangles, with two lines in the middle, drawn as if with chalk.
They’re…strips, I realize. It’s a fencing salle.
Sure enough, Moroslav’s grin is back.
“Here,” he says, “we will fight. But for now—come.”
He nods to the side, gesturing for us to follow to a side door in what must be the main hall.
Inside, it’s whitewashed walls, a vaulted ceiling, murals of flat-faced saints faded with age. A cluster of monks are awaiting, bearded and black-robed, shaking hands with Luther and Kingston. One of them—the youngest, it looks like, and the only one clean-shaven—bows to us.
“Welcome to St. Ignaty Monastery,” he says. “You honor us with your presence. I am Father Maksim, and on behalf of myself and my brothers, I extend our warmest greetings.”
Lanz, Kai, and Callahan nod in greeting, and I follow suit, feeling someone clasp my hand.
Kai.
“The archmandrite wishes to welcome you himself,” Father Maksim goes on, “but he is unwell.”
Something about the way he says the word—unwell—makes my skin prickle.
“He will bless you tomorrow at Vespers, God willing,” Maksim concludes. “But for now—please.”
Tea is offered—strong, dark, in metal-wreathed glasses—and some kind of small, dense cake. Not bad, but I don’t have much appetite.
I don’t want to eat and I don’t want to chat. I want to stay as close to the four of them as I can. Then I want to sleep. Then I want this all to be over so we can leave.
From the side of the room, Moroslav spies me and smiles. “This one—she likes Russian food,” he says, pointing at me. “I know she does.” He winks.
Kai’s grip on my hand tightens. Kingston looks like he wants to kill him. Meanwhile, Father Maksim has started going over the schedule.
“Tomorrow, rest,” he says. “Adjustment, preparation. Whatever you may need—the facilities are yours to use as you please. Until sunset—we gather for Vespers, then dinner. And then, the day following…our tournament.” He smiles.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Luther listening intently, nodding.
Like he’s taking mental notes—and maybe he is, I realize. For the White Brothers.
That’s why he’s here. Of course.
“Now, we show you to your quarters.” Father Maksim gestures, and Moroslav steps forward, eyebrows raised. “You will show the gentlemen to the dormitory, Aloysha?”
“Da.” Moroslav sweeps an arm to a door in the corner. “Fellows, please.”
Kingston, Lanz, and Callahan nod, stepping to the side. So does Kai—with me.
“Ah…” Moroslav blinks, smiles, throws a look at Father Maksim.
“She stays with us,” says Kingston.
Father Maksim’s eyebrows rise. "I beg your pardon?" He glances at Moroslav, muttering something in rapid Russian. Moroslav shrugs, gesturing and firing back. Father Maksim shakes his head ruefully, then turns back to us.
“I apologize for this confusion, but we must insist. This is a monastery, sacred ground. The separation of the sexes is absolute.”
“But—”
“The lady will follow their rules, Kingston.” Luther cuts in. “We are guests here.”
Kingston’s jaw tenses. Kai’s grip tightens almost painfully on me.
“I assure you, she is perfectly safe here," Maksim says smoothly. "This is house of God."
As if on cue, voices and footsteps sound outside the door—but not monks, this time. Three girls, maybe around my age, all with long, long hair in braids, all in long, modest skirts. The first one, with blonde braids and dimples, rushes forward.
“You are Gwenna!” It comes out more like Gvenna. She grabs for my hands, pulling me out of Kai’s grasp, and clasps them in hers. “We are so happy you come!”
“We will show you your room,” says the tall, dark-haired one behind her. “Please.”
The third one just giggles behind her hand.
I smile uneasily. “Um. Thank you.” I don’t want to be rude, and I suppose—judging from their appearance and the sheer remoteness of this place—that maybe a red-blooded American girl in their midst is a huge, exciting novelty.
But their enthusiasm is…a lot. Especially when I am jetlagged and my muscles are starting to lock up from the cold.
I glance back at the four of them.
Kingston’s face is tight. Kai is scowling, arms crossed. Lanz’s eyes are wide with obvious worry, and Callahan’s fists are clenched at his sides.
I try to send them a signal with my eyes: I’m fine. Don’t worry. Just focus on what you need to here.
And I try to make myself believe it, too.
The girls are pulling on my arms, chattering rapidly in a mix of Russian and English, touching the sleeves of my coat, peering down at my boots, staring at my—relatively—short hair. Kingston takes a step forward, almost automatic, but Luther’s hand on his shoulder stops him.
As the girls pull me down the corridor, I can just make out the words he mouths to me.
Be careful.
The hallway is cold. Narrow, stone walls, electric bulbs that flicker and still what feels like no heating. Every so often we pass an Orthodox icon on the wall: a sad-eyed saint, ornately framed and weathered-looking.
And all the while, the girls are talking.
“We never have American girl visit before,” gushes the blonde one. “You are so pretty!”
“Thank you,” I say, almost robotically.
“Yes.” She nods, looping her arm through mine. “I am Dasha. She is Sveta”—she indicates the tall, dark-haired one—“and that little one, Katyenka. Say her hi, Katyenka!”
Katyenka peers up at me with gray eyes so pale they’re almost white. “Hi,” she says reverently.
“We hope we make you comfortable,” Sveta says, briskly taking the lead and striding to hold open a door. “Please.”
I duck my head a little to enter. The room is small, austere: a narrow bed, a small desk and wooden chair, a little three-drawer dresser with my black suitcase standing nearby and a water pitcher and basin on top.
The sole window is small, with frost curling on the inside of the glass, and the walls are hung with more icons: the Virgin Mary, Christ Pantocrator.
When I exhale, I swear I can see my breath.
“Is nice, yes?” Dasha clings to my arm. “We give you Katyenka’s room. Is best one. Very peaceful.”
I force a smile. “Yes. Thank you. Thanks,” I add, specifically to Katyenka, who says nothing, but twists the end of one braid modestly.
“She speaks not English,” Sveta says sharply, as if this is somehow a grievous sin. “Apology.”
“That’s fine,” I say quickly.
“Water closet is down the hall,” Dasha says, nodding to indicate.
“Okay,” I say. “Um, excuse me.” I extract myself from Dasha’s hold and go for my suitcase, hoping that will trigger some kind of “we’ll just let you get settled,” but no such luck.
Sveta busies herself straightening the blankets, while Katyenka peers over my shoulder as if I might have something fascinating in my suitcase, and Dasha plops right on the bed.
"You have boyfriend, Gwenna?”
"Why you come with them? You fence also?"
"Which one you like best? The tall one? The dark one?"
“You live where? New York?”
I tense my shoulders, staring into my small array of folded clothes, smashed flat from miles and miles of travel. It feels like starting at Renfrew all over again—the questions, the observation, the absolute lack of privacy.
And the other girls who are desperately lonely.
I feel a pang in my chest. I am so, so exhausted, and if I can’t be with any of the boys, I just want to be left alone.
“I’m sorry.” I turn to Dasha and Sveta, who perk up with eyes wide. “I’m just…really tired. Jet lag.”
“Oh!” Dasha springs to her feet, nodding energetically. “Yes, yes, you must rest.” She switches to Russian, ordering out something to the other two, who file out a little reluctantly.
“Thank you,” I say after them. “Um, good night.”
“Yes, good night! Sladkikh snov!”
The door shuts, but I can hear them still: giggling, whispering. Like they’re standing right in the hallway.
But I’m alone. Technically.
I sink onto the bed, still in my coat.
Tired. Cold—I can see my breath in the orange of the overhead light.
Alone.
And I wish I weren’t.
I close my eyes. They can’t be far. Another floor, another hall—the place isn’t that big.
Three days, I remind myself. We only have to be here for three days.
They only have to make it through three days.
Slowly, I kick off my boots, and then, still in my coat, crawl under the blankets.
Be careful, Gwenna.