And he had another idea.
Back out in the night, he examined his options. The buildings in Constantinople were old and built close together. He hurried down the alley, looking for what he needed. Three buildings over, he found it: a ladder. The first drops of rain hit him as he climbed onto the building’s roof. Taking a deep breath, he ran as fast as he could and jumped over the alley, slamming into the next roof so hard he nearly slid off. Lada would be so much better at this. But she also would not have bothered. Everything would already be burning.
Steeling himself against thoughts of his far more capable sister, Radu ran for the next roof and sailed over the alley. Landing softly this time, he collapsed onto his back and laughed as rain pattered down around him. Beneath him, warm and dusty and dry, was the city’s food.
He clambered to the peak of the shallowly angled roof. The key was to pry enough shingles and thatch free to make small holes, but not so many that the damage would be noticed until it was too late. The shingles were heavy and tightly nailed down. He used his lever to pry them up. He focused on areas where it was obvious water had pooled in the many years of the roof’s life.
The rain began pouring in earnest. The shingles were slick; Radu clung to them carefully. He could afford neither discovery nor injury. He allowed himself a few moments of quiet triumph as he watched water stream from the sky onto the roof and through the holes he had created.
Tearing up as many shingles on his way as he could, he crawled to the far end of the building. But he had a new problem.
He could not run to gather momentum. With the roof this slick, he would certainly slip and fall to his death. The drop to the ground was far—three times his height—and if he crashed down with any speed he did not like his chances.
There was a narrow ledge along the edge of the roof. Rain poured around him; the storm was picking up speed and force. He left the lever on the roof and grasped the ledge. Then he lowered himself, hanging on by only his fingertips. Praying silently, he dropped. When he hit the ground, he collapsed, trying not to let any one part of his body absorb too much of the impact. It was a trick he had learned long ago, running and hiding from his cruel older brother, Mircea. He had had to jump from many windows and walls in his childhood.
Mircea was dead now, and Radu did not mourn him. But as he stood, checking his body for injuries, he was momentarily grateful for the lessons. One ankle was complaining and would be sore in the morning. It was a small price to pay. Radu pulled his hood up over his head.
“Hey! You!”
Radu turned in surprise. It was too dark for them to see his face, but Orhan’s men had circled back on their patrol. And Radu was standing right next to the door of the storage warehouse. If they looked inside, all his work would be for nothing.
He quickly pulled a flint from his pocket and dropped it. Then, cursing loudly in Turkish, he ran.
“He was trying to burn the food! Spy! Sabotage!” The cry went up behind him, followed by the pounding of footsteps.
Radu ran for his life.
Bells began clanging the warning, chasing him with their peals. Radu cut through alleys and streets. He jumped over walls and kept to the darkest parts of the city. Soon he was in an abandoned area. But still he heard the sounds of pursuit. It was like a nightmare: running through a dead city, pursued in the darkness with nowhere to hide.
Desperate, Radu considered the outer wall. If he could make it to the wall, he could make it outside. He could find Mehmed.
But if he disappeared the same night a saboteur had been spotted in the city, it would not take much thought to connect the events. Nazira would be left in harm’s way. Radu turned and ran into an empty stable. Rain poured in from the collapsed roof. He huddled in the corner of a stall.
Once, he had hidden with Lada in a stable. She had promised no one would kill him but her. Please, Radu thought, please let that be prophetic.
After he had waited for so long that his heart no longer pounded and he shivered with cold rather than fear, Radu stood and crept through the night. The rain was tapering off as he slowly found his way from the abandoned section of the city back to a part with life. He left his long black cloak on a washing line and combed his hair into a neat ponytail. Then he walked, unhurried, hunched against the rain.
His hand was on the doorknob when someone grabbed his shoulder roughly from behind. He was spun around—and embraced.
“Radu!” Cyprian said, holding him tightly. “I have been looking everywhere for you. There is a saboteur in the city. They caught him trying to light a fire. I was so worried about you.”
Radu took a deep breath, trying to calm his voice. “I heard the bells and went out to see what was wrong. I feared the Ottomans had finally arrived. But why would you worry about me?”
Cyprian lingered in the hug, then pulled back, his hands still on Radu’s shoulders. “If the sultan’s man had discovered you…” His eyes were wrinkled with concern. “I feared for your safety.”
Radu embraced Cyprian again, both because it was warm and comforting against the weariness of this long night, and because it was the only way he could hide how touched and sad he was that Cyprian’s first fear had been for Radu’s traitorous life.
A CLOUD OF DUST HUNG in front of the window, where musty drapes had been hastily tugged aside. The room was in the back of the house, on the second floor. Lada could see across a fallow field to the hedge where she had watched for her mother. But it was not clear enough to make out where her men waited for her.
She hoped they were still waiting for her. She felt so cut off. What if they left her, too? Radu was lost to her. Mehmed was a traitor. She had separated herself from Hunyadi. She could not lose her men.
The maid cleared her throat. Lada expected the girl to leave, but she just stood there next to the steaming bath she had filled.
“Well?” Lada snapped.
“I will help you undress?”
“No!”
The girl recoiled as if struck. “I am supposed to.”
“You are not supposed to.”
“But— I was to wash your hair, and plait it for you after, and help you into one of her ladyship’s dresses.” The girl frowned worriedly, looking at Lada’s thick waist and large chest.
Lada laughed, the absurdity of it all finally getting to her. Here she was, seeing her mother for the first time in fifteen years, and her mother wanted to brush her hair and dress her up. No—her mother wanted someone else to do it for her. That made sense. At least Oana was not here. She would have been thrilled to volunteer.
“You may stand outside the door so that she thinks you are still in here. And then you may take a message and some food to my men outside. You will see their campfire.”
The girl squeaked in fear. “Men! I could not. It is forbidden. Oh, please, do not ask it of me. If she knew, if she found out—”
Lada held up her hands. “Very well! They will last until I go back to them. Get out.”
The girl nodded, wringing her hands, and slipped out the door. Lada followed, putting her ear to the door. She could hear the rapid, panicked breaths of the girl immediately outside.
What went on in this house?
Lada took a bath. Over the last year on the run, she had learned never to turn down a bath or a meal. But she did not wash her hair, or make any effort to tame it. She dressed again in her traveling clothes—breeches, a tunic, and a coat, all black. A red sash around her waist. When she was done putting her boots on, she opened the door. The maid was so close their noses nearly touched.
“Your hair?”
Lada shook her head, expression grim.
“I found some of her ladyship’s old dresses. I could let out the seams, and…” The girl trailed off, hope dying on her face as Lada’s expression did not change.
“When is supper?” Lada asked.
“She has already eaten.”
“Without me?”
“Our schedule is very specific.” The maid le
aned forward, looking to either side as though fearful of discovery. “I will bring you some food from the kitchens later tonight,” she whispered.
Lada did not know how to respond. With gratitude? Incredulity? Instead, she pushed forward with her goal. “If supper is over, I can see her now.”
“Yes! She will be waiting to receive visitors in the drawing room.”
“Does she receive many visitors?”
The maid shook her head. “Almost never.”
“So she is only waiting to see me.”
“After supper, she waits to receive visitors. You are a visitor. So you may see her now.”
Lada followed the girl through the hall and down the stairs. She would much rather be facing a contingent of Bulgars, or a mounted cavalry. At least those she would understand.
Mehmed’s mother, Huma, suddenly came to mind. Huma had been ferocious and terrifying. She had wielded her very womanhood like a weapon, one Lada did not understand and could not ever use. Was that what her mother was doing? Throwing Lada off guard to gain the upper hand? Huma had been able to manipulate Lada and Radu by forcing them to meet on her terms. Her mother must be doing the same thing.
It was comforting, in a way, girding herself to meet a challenge like Mehmed’s formidable mother. Huma was a foe worth having. A murderer many times over, who had even had Mehmed’s infant half brother drowned in a bath. Lada shuddered, the back of her hair wet against her neck. Was there a darker reason the maid had tried to insist on staying during Lada’s bath?
She regarded the tiny, trembling thing ahead of her with new suspicion. Flexing her hands, Lada dismissed the notion. Though Lada was certain that if her mother wanted her dead, she would make someone else do it. This waif would have to resort to poison or murdering her in her sleep. She was glad she had missed supper, after all.
But everything Huma had done, she had done to further her son’s place in life. What would Vasilissa stand to gain by killing Lada? And why did Lada find it more comfortable to think of Vasilissa as a potential assassin lying in wait than as her mother?
Before Lada could settle her mind, the maid opened a door to a sitting room. It was like being greeted by an open oven. The air was too close and heated past any reasonable degree. The windows were shuttered tightly, and a fire roared in a fireplace too large for a room this size.
The maid practically tugged Lada inside, closing the door as quickly as possible behind them. It took a moment for Lada’s eyes to adjust to the dim room. Her mother sat in a high-backed chair, hands folded primly in her lap, voluminous skirt hiding her feet. Her hat had been replaced with a long veil pinned at the top of her head that completely obscured her face. She was not wearing the same dress as before. This one was white, with a ruffled neck so high it looked as though her veiled head sat on a platter. All the dress’s folds and pleats nearly swallowed her whole.
“Oh,” she said, an entire discourse in disappointment contained in that single word. “You did not change.”
Lada longed to draw her knives, sheathed at her wrists. “These are my clothes.” She took the chair opposite her mother without being invited. It sank under her weight, the stuffing worn and the velvet threadbare.
“Would you like something? Tea? Wine?”
“Wine.”
Vasilissa nodded toward the maid, who poured two glasses and handed one to each of them. Lada took a sip. Or rather, she pretended to take a sip, preferring to wait until her mother drank first. Huma was too recently on her mind to risk otherwise. So far her mother was nothing like Huma, though. Huma had filled the space around her, no matter how large the room. Even in this small room, Lada’s mother seemed to blend into the furniture.
Vasilissa lifted her veil and took a dainty sip. Lada followed suit. Her mother’s eyes were large, like hers, but there was more of Radu in her face. It was startling, seeing her brother reflected in the face of a stranger. Lada could not place the exact similarities; they had something delicate and beautiful in common. But her mother’s face was worn and broken at the edges. Was that what would happen to Radu, too? Would he fade with time, become a withered shadow of himself?
Lada longed for Radu at her side yet again. If he were here, she could focus on protecting him. Having only herself to protect made her feel so much more vulnerable.
“Tell me,” her mother said, keeping a hand in front of her mouth. “What brings you to the countryside? It is not so lovely this time of year, I am afraid. Much nicer once spring has taken hold.”
Lada frowned. “I am here to see you.”
“That is sweet. We do not have many visitors.” She lowered her hand, smiling with tightly shut lips. Then she simply stared. Lada wondered if her own large, hooded eyes were that disconcerting.
Lada had never been good at the games women played, the battles fought and won through incomprehensible conversations. So she pushed ahead. “I assume you have had news that my father is dead. So is Mircea.”
Vasilissa lifted her hand to her mouth again. Lada thought it was in horror or mourning, but Vasilissa’s tone was conversational. “Do you ride? I find a brisk ride in the afternoon settles my nerves and rouses my appetite. I have three horses. They have no names. I am so terrible with choosing names! But they are all gentle and sweet. Perhaps you can meet them tomorrow.”
“Why are you speaking to me of horses?” Lada set aside her glass and leaned forward. “You have not seen me in so many years, since you abandoned us. At least do me the courtesy of speaking to me as an equal. Your husband, my father, is dead.”
Her mother made a wounded face, a flash of truth breaking free. Her lips parted in an animal way, and Lada had a glimpse of a mouth full of broken teeth. Not rotted teeth—Lada had seen plenty of those—nor the gaps indicating lost teeth. Vasilissa’s mouth was a graveyard of shattered teeth. Lada did not know what could have caused such damage.
Her mother, crawling away, weeping.
No. She did know what could have caused such damage.
Lada lowered her voice. “He is dead. Gone.”
If her mother heard her, she did not indicate it. She drew her veil back down, making a repetitive clicking noise with her tongue. “Tell me, do you hunt? I find it abominable, but I have word that all the fashionable ladies do it now.” Her laugh was high and trilling, like the panicked flight of a startled bird. “If you would like, I can have word sent to your cousin. He has an excellent falconer. I am certain he would give you a demonstration, should you wish it. He visits every summer. He has to stay in town, of course, several leagues away, but he always stops by when I receive visitors! We can expect him in a few months.”
“I will not be here then. I am not here for a visit. I need help.”
Vasilissa laughed again, the same terrible noise. “I should say so! But my maid works wonders on hair. We will have you settled in no time. Do you like your room?”
Lada stood. “I need to speak to your father.”
Vasilissa shook her head. “He is— He has— I believe he is dead?”
With a defeated sigh, Lada sat back down. “Who leads Moldavia?”
“Your cousin, I think. Oh.” Vasilissa wrung her hands in her lap. “Do you suppose that means he will not come this summer? I am sorry. I promised you a falcon demonstration.”
“I do not care about falcons! I need men. I need alliances.” Lada shook, a wave of unacknowledged anger and grief overwhelming her. Her father had given her a knife, and her mother had left her with nothing. She desperately wanted something to hold on to. Or, barring that, something to fight against. “I need you to ask me where I have been the last fifteen years! I need you to ask where your son is!”
Her mother stood, her dress-draped frame trembling. “It is time for me to retire for the night. The maid will see to you. Your room is the nicest in the house. You will be happy. And you will be safe; this is a very safe house.”
Vasilissa held out a hand. The maid rushed to her side. Lada saw, for the first time, that her mother
walked with a pronounced limp. One of her feet, when it peeked from beneath her skirts, was twisted at an odd angle. The way Vasilissa moved without cringing spoke of it as an old, permanent injury. Lada did not know what to say, how to talk to this strange, ruined creature. Her impression of Vasilissa on the horse had been wrong. Her mother was exactly the same person who had left them behind. The only difference was that she had found a safe place to hide.
Perhaps Radu would feel tenderly toward her. Lada knew he would urge compassion.
She felt only rage.
“You never came back for us,” Lada said. “He sold us. To the Turks. We were tortured. We were raised in a foreign land by heathens. Radu stayed behind. They broke him.”
“Well.” Vasilissa reached out as though she would pat Lada’s arm as she passed. Her hand hovered in the air, then moved back to the maid’s arm for support. “You are welcome to stay forever. We are all safe here.”
“I belong in Wallachia.”
Her mother’s voice was as harsh as Lada had ever heard it, finally filled with true emotion. “No one belongs there.”
The maid was loath to part with any information, but as far as Lada could determine, her mother was mad. They had lived together in this house, far away from everyone and everything, for the last ten years. Vasilissa had been given the manor by her father, who doubtless could not stand the broken shell of a woman she was.
Every day was the same. The maid smiled as she described it, saying over and over how pleasant it was, to be safe and to always know what to expect. This was what Lada’s mother had chosen. Safety. Seclusion. The woman had abandoned her children, utterly and completely, to live in pampered isolation instead of dealing with the harsh realities of life.
The harsh realities of her own children’s desperate attempts to survive without anyone to aid them.
Lada did not say goodbye. She stopped in the kitchen and stole as much food as she could carry. Then she closed the front door behind her and walked along the dark lane to where the campfire of her men—her friends—called to her. She sat next to them, drawing heat and strength from their shoulders. Bogdan shifted closer and she leaned against him.