Citadels of Fire

  ***

  Bogdan looked surprised when Inga entered the kitchen. He hadn’t asked for her. It had simply been Yehvah’s excuse to get her away from Taras. Frowning, Bogdan set her to peeling potatoes.

  Not long after she began, Inga became aware of another presence in the kitchen. Several of Bogdan’s apprentices were there, as well as the usual complement of servants passing through, but this felt different. This presence was a strong, intimidating. Putting down her paring knife, Inga turned slowly toward the door.

  Yehvah stood there glaring at her. Bogdan’s gaze shifted back and forth between the two women.

  “Bogdan, I need to borrow Inga for a while.”

  “Of course, Yehvah, whatever you want. We can do without her for . . . however long you need her.”

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Inga walked toward Yehvah, who turned and led the way out. The farther they walked, the more Inga dreaded the stopping point. Yehvah obviously did not want to be overheard. The distance would be directly proportional to how loudly Yehvah planned to shout.

  They reached a vacant room. She held the door open, letting Inga enter first, then slammed it.

  “Inga, what is going through your head?”

  Inga turned, shrugging helplessly.

  “You told me this . . . arrangement wasn’t physical.”

  “It’s not. It hasn’t been—”

  “You can’t let it be.”

  Inga averted her eyes in frustration. She had no idea how to say what she wanted Yehvah to understand.

  Yehvah took a few steps toward her. “Is he going back on his word? Is he forcing this on you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Good. He told you before he wouldn’t force you. Do you think he still stands by that now?”

  “I have no reason to believe he won’t—”

  “Then you must discourage him. Tell him you don’t want him. And let that be the end of it.” She spun toward the door.

  “Yehvah, wait.”

  Yehvah turned back, a dangerous look in her eyes.

  “I’m not sure I want to . . . discourage him.”

  “Inga—”

  “No. Listen. Is it such a bad thing to want?”

  Yehvah’s eyes softened. A little. “Of course not. It is human to want companionship. That does not give you license to become involved with this man.”

  “Why not?” The question sounded childish, but Inga refused drop this without a fight.

  “He’s a boyar, Inga.”

  “I know.”

  “He will hurt you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Eyes wide with awe, Yehvah threw her hands up. “Inga! I would think after all these years of spying and gossiping, you would understand by now how the court works. What exactly are you expecting to happen?”

  Inga shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think he’ll fall in love with you? Want to marry you?”

  Inga sat on the edge of the vacant bed and kept her gaze on the floor. She didn’t want to admit to Yehvah she'd not thought that far ahead. She liked Taras, and it was nice to have a man’s attentions. She was an invisible maid, but he saw her.

  Yehvah came forward to kneel in front of Inga, taking her hands. “I love you, and you know this is not meant as a statement against you. We are maids. He is a boyar. Men like him . . . they may take us as mistresses, but they don’t marry us. He’ll be required to form an alliance. He’ll have to produce an heir to increase wealth and power for his wife’s family. When that happens, you’ll be the one with the lonely heart, not him.”

  Inga studied her hands, thinking. After a time, she raised her gaze again.

  “I’m sure you are right. Perhaps that will happen. No one can tell the future, Yehvah. There is something about him—about Taras. I feel . . . right when I’m with him. You can’t know for sure what he’ll do. He might truly come to feel for me—”

  “I don’t doubt he will. I’m telling you it won’t matter. Love does not figure in the politics of the Russian court. He will end up hurting you.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes,” Yehvah shouted, straightening up, “I do! Trust me, Inga, it is not a heartache you want to feel.”

  Inga stared at Yehvah for a long time. She’d thought she knew everything about Yehvah. Perhaps she did not.

  “This happened to you.”

  Yehvah turned away, rubbing her forehead. “Yes.” She turned back.

  “When?”

  “When I was your age. He was a boyar. I went to him. We were . . . together. I fell in love with him.”

  “What happened?”

  “Life happened, Inga, as I said before. His family forced him to marry a rich Ukrainian woman. He could have kept me as a mistress, but his father saw our strong attachment and thought it dangerous and forced his son to let me go. He abandoned me like a sack of moldy grain.”

  “Then what happened?” Inga’s voice sounded small. She could not make it stronger.

  “Nothing. For a long time, I existed with my loneliness.” Suddenly Yehvah smiled. She crossed the room to cup Inga’s face in her hand. “Then one night I found you, half-alive in a dark alley. You became my all, Inga. You were what I lived for. You filled so much of the emptiness when he was gone.” A tear escaped and raced down Yehvah’s cheek, and Inga found she had no more arguments.

  Yehvah wiped the tear away with the back of her hand. “Inga, I cannot begin to describe the heartache. I don’t know how I survived it. Surviving is not living. I don’t want that for you. Promise me you will end this.”

  Inga blinked away tears of her own. When Yehvah touched her, Inga felt the other woman’s pain coming through her fingertips. She nodded.

  “All right.”