CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Under Palace
Something woke her.
“Hello?”
There were squares of moonlight on the floor. Someone laughed and Sophie heard muffled footsteps running, but it was all subdued, as if it were coming from another room.
“Delphine?” she called, sitting up. “Marianne?” Both girls appeared to be fast asleep. “Look, if this is some kind of joke, it’s not that funny.”
The palace fell silent once more. Only her breathing to be heard.
Sophie closed her eyes, but she was wide awake, every nerve tingling.
Scuffling again. Did someone cough? She thought she heard a door open, but it was not the nursery door. More footsteps, and then shallow breathing right next to her pillow.
“Got you!” she said. Her eyes snapped open as she grabbed the hand that was reaching out to her face.
A startled cry. “Atpusti menya pajaluista!”
It was a young girl. Sophie was so surprised she loosened her fingers, and the girl immediately twisted out of her grip and scampered behind a chair. Sophie could see her brown hair over the top. She could see a small foot, too, shod in a felt slipper, sticking out into the room.
Trying to keep her voice as calm as possible, Sophie said, “You don’t have to hide. I won’t hurt you.”
The girl stayed where she was.
“You don’t speak English?”
“Da, I speak Pangeleesky!” The voice was high, musical. “I learn with my brother from book.” She pronounced the word “boooooork.”
Sophie thought about turning on the light, but decided it might scare her.
“I like you,” the voice said. “You pretty face.”
“Thank you,” Sophie answered, craning her neck to try and see the child behind the chair. The foot in the felt slipper was drawn out of sight with a giggle. “But,” Sophie added, “I can’t tell if I like you, because I can’t see you. Why don’t you come out from behind the chair?”
There was no movement, no sound.
“Are you cold?” Sophie asked. “We could share this glass of tea that someone kindly brought me while I was asleep.”
“But that was me, that was me!”
The voice was accompanied by a furious clapping of hands. A thin white face with thick dark eyebrows peeped out from behind the chair. Sophie smiled and the face disappeared again.
“I bring tea … and jam.” She talked as if she was listening to every word she was saying and was fascinated by how those words sounded. “They let me come. I promise go back straight.” A sigh. “Then I see your face!”
“What about my face?” Sophie could now see a slice of embroidered purple skirt.
“I like very much!”
The girl peeped out from behind the chair.
Her brown hair hung in two long, straggling braids.
She unfolded herself slowly and, as if drawn by threads, walked toward the bed.
She came right up to Sophie, as though she couldn’t help herself, and stared hard.
She had long black eyelashes and dark blue eyes.
And then the words of the princess came back to Sophie. What if this girl was … a spirit? What was it she was meant to say?
Sophie whispered, “For good? For bad?” really quickly under her breath.
The girl gasped. “You think I domovoi?” she said. She took a step back from the bed, shaking her head.
“No!” Sophie said too loudly. She dropped her voice again, not wanting to risk waking her friends. “I’m sorry. I’ve never been to Russia before. I get things wrong!” She smiled in apology.
The girl nodded, as if she accepted the explanation. Sophie decided she had a kind face, curious and intelligent. Certainly not the sort of face that belonged to someone who would suffocate her.
The girl carried on staring at her. Sophie picked up the glass of tea. “Why don’t you tell me your name?”
“Masha,” whispered the girl. Her hand crept toward Sophie’s. She was clearly struggling with the temptation of stroking Sophie’s arm.
“I am real,” Sophie laughed. “Look.” And she pinched herself.
The girl laughed as well. And then, as if she still didn’t quite believe her eyes, she put a finger out to Sophie’s arm and prodded it.
“How old are you?” Sophie asked. The girl was staring at her own finger as if it might speak to her.
“Ten!”
“Are you Ivan Ivanovich’s daughter?” Sophie smiled.
“I no from him!” She shook her head vigorously.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
The girl snorted. “I serve Volkonskys!” Her eyes flashed.
“You know the boy? The boy who looks after the horse … the boy who met us with the vozok …”
“Dmitri!” The girl smiled with delight. “He my brother. He see you, talk to you!” She said this as if it was quite the most amazing thing that anyone could have done. “He tell us you arrive.”
“And you both work for the princess?” Sophie asked.
The girl shrugged. “Princess?” She blew air through her lips. “We live too near the woods to be frightened by owls.”
Sophie, to hide her confusion at the girl’s words, took another sip of tea. A horrible thought. The girl might not be an evil spirit, but was she mad? How did she get into the room? Sophie glanced at her over the top of the glass. The girl was picking at the fur pelt that was Sophie’s blanket.
“You tell no one you see me? I not allowed in Over Palace.”
“Over Palace?”
“I live in Under Palace.” Masha was backing away from the bed. “And I have many busy work to do.”
“Watch out,” Sophie called, as Masha was about to bump into the wall. The girl’s hand reached and pressed something. A panel slid away to reveal a shadowy passageway. A sour draft stirred from the unseen depths.
The girl hovered, then, smiling, beckoned to her. “You come?”
Sophie looked across at the sleeping forms of her friends.
Marianne was curled up like a conch shell.
Delphine lay on her back, her hair tumbling over her pillow.
The thought of being in the room on her own with only two sleeping girls for company suddenly seemed unbearable.
Sophie pushed back the heavy quilts and bearskins, swung her legs out of bed, and hopped onto the floor.
The silver sarafan lay on the chair beside her.
She threw it on, ran across the room through the squares of moonlight, and before she could think whether it was a good idea or not, Masha had grabbed her hand and pulled her through the wall.
They ran down a narrow staircase, Masha’s felt-clad feet making no sound. Flickering pinpoints of light illuminated the way. But the speed of the girl! Sophie could scarcely keep up, and she had to keep her head down and her elbows in just to get through the cramped space. Her chest hurt.
“I can’t bear this,” Sophie gasped. “I have to go back.”
“No time!” Masha yanked on Sophie’s arm. She was surprisingly strong. “If feel scared, close eyes. I can see for two!”
“But can’t you slow down?” Sophie could hardly catch her breath.
“Nyet … nyet!” The words came at her out of the cramped darkness. “Never walk in the Under Palace. Always run. Faster! Faster!”
If the Volkonsky Palace had once been magnificent, gilded, and ornate, here — in the space behind the rooms and along service corridors — everything was the exact opposite.
The Under Palace was modest and plain. Even at the speed at which they ran, Sophie could sense the pride taken in the dull shine of the floor and the wrought-iron brackets in which small torches flared.
Not a cobweb or speck of dust to be seen.
Corridors crisscrossed each other, branching off in different directions. There were steps up and down, changing levels just when Sophie didn’t anticipate them. And still Masha ran.
“Please, Masha, stop!” Sophie gasped. “I feel dizzy …”
Masha skidded up to a door covered in green felt.
She turned around to Sophie, her face suddenly apprehensive.
She reached out and pushed a strand of Sophie’s hair out of her face, then spat in her hand and wiped what must have been a smear of jam from Sophie’s chin.
Then she nodded her approval, turned, and knocked twice on the door.
The sound was muffled by the felt, and Sophie wondered if anyone had heard. But a second later, a high, wavery voice answered. Masha opened the door slowly, talking to someone inside. A smell of smoke and vinegar made Sophie’s nostrils itch.
Just as they were about to step through the doorway, Sophie having to bend her head slightly because it was so low, Masha turned and stared hard at Sophie’s face. She grasped Sophie’s hand tightly.
“My family waiting …” she whispered. “They wait to see you.”
A candle burned on a small wooden table, the pale light licking at rough wooden walls.
No furniture to speak of; no possessions, either.
It was as if Masha’s family lived in a forgotten waiting room.
Sophie tried not to sneeze as the smell of vinegar, herbs, and wood smoke clutched tighter at her throat.
A middle-aged woman with bright, round eyes and high, broad cheekbones put down her sewing and looked up. She put her hand to the headscarf, which was tied tightly under her chin, as if to check that it was in place. She pushed back her stool and stood up to greet her guest.
“This my mother,” Masha said.
The woman dipped her head in greeting.
“How do you do?” Sophie said.
Masha’s mother picked up an embroidered hand towel. On top of the neatly folded linen was a loaf of dark bread and, balanced precariously on this, a saltcellar. She held it toward Sophie.
“I’m not very hungry,” Sophie said. And then, not wanting to cause offense, she added, “Although it’s very kind of you to offer.”
The woman looked taken aback. She turned her face eagerly to Masha, nodding rapidly as if wanting Masha to translate Sophie’s words quickly.
Masha shook her head as if she, too, was surprised. “Not food,” she said to Sophie. “This bread, this salt … We greet with blessing.”