***
Inga hurried through the halls with an armload of skins. Yehvah reported that Lord Taras had returned. She remembered him from her childhood. With him being ten years older than she and a boyar, they hadn’t exactly kept the same company. He did walk through several specific memories, though, the most vivid being the snowball incident.
She remembered being disappointed that he'd been part of it. Not that he'd been particularly partial to her as a child, but he always smiled at her and seemed kind. When she realized he'd gone along with Sergei and his friends, she’d felt utterly cold. As a child, she'd been unable to put her finger on why. Now she knew it was betrayal. She’d been naïve to expect anything different. All boyars and their sons were the same.
Even so, she found herself curious to find out what sort of man Taras had grown into. Apparently, he’d taken a vacant room and would be presented to the tsar in the morning.
Ducking under the arms of two manservants carrying a large chest, Inga flattened herself against the wall to avoid being run down by a teenage courier. She opened her mouth to yell at him to watch where he was going. He disappeared around the next corner before the thought fully formed.
At length, she made it to the room without being trampled. She rapped on the door before poking her head in. Taras Demidov stood by the window. He'd grown tall—head and shoulders above her, to be sure. He glanced up as she came in.
“Bedding for you, my lord.”
Looking back out the window, he nodded and motioned her to come in. “Of course.”
She crossed to the bed, dropping her pile onto it with relief. As she spread out the thick animal skins, she studied him in her periphery.
His hair remained an amazingly white shade of blond. She also remembered those piercing blue eyes from her childhood. He wore a week’s worth of stubble on his face, and his clothes were dirty and travel-worn. He stood perfectly still, staring out toward the orchards, and she wondered what his thoughts dwelled on.
“Miss?”
The sound of his voice startled her and she jumped. He still faced away from her and didn’t notice.
“My lord?”
"I’m quite covered with dust from travel. Can I trouble you for a basin of water to make myself more presentable?” He turned from the window to look at her.
She smiled. “Of course, my lord. I’ll have the manservants bring in a pitcher and some rags for you.” Inga ducked her head and went back to making up the bed. He stayed silent for several minutes while she spread out the skins, but she felt his eyes on her. It made her nervous. She told herself concentrate on her task. If he wanted anything else, he would ask.
The bed finished at last, Inga felt glad to have an excuse to leave. She took care to keep her eyes down as she turned toward the door. “If my lord needs anything else—“
His hand closed firmly around her forearm and she gasped. She hadn’t heard him cross the room. Forgetting to avert her gaze, she gazed straight up into his eyes. He stood beside her, looking down at her from under furrowed brows.
Inga didn’t know what to do. His stare was unnerving.
Finally, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. You look familiar to me. Have we met?”
Inga smiled. She didn’t know why his remembering her made her happy.
“We were children together in the palace, my lord.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “We played together?”
Inga’s smile widened. “No, my lord. You were the son of a boyar, and I a servant. But we did cross paths from time to time.”
He stared at her for several seconds, face unreadable, then shook himself and smiled sheepishly. “Forgive me. I remember your face, but can’t place you. What’s your name?”
“Inga, my lord.”
After a moment, he nodded. “So,” he gave her a more genuine smile, “will you be my personal servant, then?”
Inga opened her mouth to say no. Another voice behind spoke first.
“She will not, my lord.” Yehvah came sweeping into the room, a pile of men’s clothes in her arms.
Taras’s smile broadened. “Yehvah. You, I remember!”
Yehvah plopped the pile down on the bed. “Of course you do, my lord. I whipped you more than once for getting into trouble, especially in the kitchens.”
Inga ducked her head, trying to hold in a laugh. She found the thought of Yehvah slapping the hands of a much younger Taras hilarious.
Taras chuckled. “Come, now. Can you fault a growing boy for being hungry?”
Yehvah smiled. “I suppose not, my lord. Boys are boys.” She gave Inga a mischievous look. “But then, men are men, as well.” Yehah said the second part quietly, but Inga was certain Taras heard, as his eyebrows raised slightly. Inga felt equally certain that Yehvah meant for him to hear, and Taras didn’t take offense.
“Inga will not be your servant, my lord,” Yehvah went on. “A man servant will be assigned to you, as is appropriate. His name is Anatoly, and he should be here momentarily. He will take care of any further needs you have. Of course, if you need anything else right now, my lord—"
“Actually . . .”
Inga and Yehvah waited. Taras rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. He was being sheepish again.
“Yes, my lord?” Yehvah prodded.
“I understand I am expected to attend the feast tomorrow night.”
“Yes, my lord.” As Yehvah ranked higher than Inga as a servant, it fell to her to answer.
“Will I be expected to dance?”
Yehvah’s smile turned mischievous. “Everyone’s expected to dance, my lord.”
Taras let out an exasperated breath. He ran his fingers through his hair and smiled timidly at them. “Wonderful,” he muttered.
“Come, Lord Taras,” Yehvah laughed. “I know your father taught you the dances as a child. You were quite good; better than most of the other boys.”
“Perhaps once, but I haven’t done the dances of the Russian court in years.”
“I suppose that will end tonight,” Yehvah said quietly.
Taras raised his head to look at her. “What do you mean?”
She smiled again, but without mirth. “Everyone dances for the court of the imperial tsar, my lord.” It was close to what she’d said in answer to his earlier question, but where the earlier statement had been made with mirth, Yehvah now sounded utterly seriousness.
Inga felt a chill.
Taras must have too, because he frowned at Yehvah. “I’m sure with some of practice, I would pick it up again. Could you perhaps spare one of your servants to practice with me?”
Yehvah frowned.
“Perhaps one of the stable hands or clerk’s apprentices can teach me,” he pressed.
Yehvah’s smile returned. “I can’t promise anything, my lord. The palace is in a whirlwind, but perhaps I can find one of the courtier’s sons to help you.”
Taras smiled. “Thank you, Yehvah. I am most appreciative.”
Yehvah’s smile deepened. “We’ll see. Teenaged boyars can be . . . less than pleasant, or don’t you remember?”
Taras grinned again. “I think I can handle it.”
“Will there be anything else, my lord?”
Taras heaved a deep breath. “No, Yehvah, I don’t think so. I will wait for my servant—Anatoly, is it?—and ask him to bring in some water for me.”
“Very good, my lord. Have a pleasant evening. Sleep well. You’ll want to be well-rested for the tsar tomorrow.”
“I will, Yehvah. Thank you.”
Yehvah swept out the door. Inga risked another look at Taras before following. He smiled warmly at her.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Inga returned his smile. Liking a boyar could mean danger, but she couldn’t help herself. She remembered meeting him as a child, while cleaning with Natalya. She’d thought he was unlike any boyar she’d ever met. That, it seemed, had not changed. Most boyars would not lower themselves to converse so openly with servan
ts, yet Taras had a warm, friendly manner. He’d treated Yehvah like an old friend, though they'd not been close when he was a child.
He even looked different than the other boyars. He wore a traveler’s beard, but it was short enough to show that he usually kept his face clean-shaven. The men in Russia never shaved their beards; superstition forbid it. And of course Taras’s travel-worn clothes were of English fashion, quite different from what the courtiers wore here.
Inga was intrigued.