The Wolf Wilder by Katherine Rundell
Nobody had a hairbrush, but they had made do with their fingers and a toothbrush Sergei had borne triumphantly back from the outhouse. Feo shivered in her underwear in the ballroom while Yana lifted the dress over her head. Zoya pulled a loose thread from the hem.
“She’s ready!” called Zoya. “Everybody come see!”
There was a lot of bustling in the hall, and then the ballroom door burst open and the children streamed in, Ilya and Alexei last, whispering together.
Everyone fell silent.
A plait curled around Feo’s head and fell, thick as her arm, to the backs of her knees. They had twisted it so the tangles didn’t show. She was very pale, but her jaw was set. The dress fell in a simple square from her neck and brushed the ground. It was belted tightly with the silver chain from the chandelier, polished by Clara with snow and her sleeve.
Feo held her shoulders far back and her back straight—“If it feels strange,” Yana had said, “you’re doing it right”—and her chin high.
“Don’t look sideways, either,” said Yana. “I went to Saint Petersburg once, and rich people look straight ahead. You have been bred, remember, to know that other people will get out of your way.”
The girls had touched her lips with some of the red paint from the outhouse watered with snow, and they were purplish red. The ballet shoes were white and made Feo want to point her toes, and the dress, as she strode across the floor, rustled with the sound of fir trees.
“Oh,” said Ilya. “That’s quite a lot more impressive than I expected.”
Yana gave the dress a final pull and stood back. “We need gold. Countesses wear gold.”
“I don’t have any gold,” said Feo. “I had a gold chain before all this, but not anymore.”
“I know!” said Ilya. “There was a stack of Bibles in the library!”
“What?” called Alexei. But Ilya had gone. “We don’t really have time for praying!”
Ilya was back minutes later, carrying an armful of half-burnt books that came up to his chin. He was not, as far as Feo could tell, in a praying kind of mood.
“The gold lettering! Look—see—it comes off under your fingernail!”
Everybody fell on the books. The idea seemed to make the little ones giddy.
“God could arrest you for this,” said Sergei. “This is better than murder.”
Feo rubbed a little of the gold on her finger and touched it to the outside corners of her eyes, and eyelids, and fingernails.
They had more than enough: Feo put a little on Black’s eyebrows and some flakes on White’s ears. The wolves, after all, were her disguise, she thought: They deserved some war paint.
At last the children stood back, leaving Feo in the middle of the ballroom, the two wolves at her side.
“That,” said Alexei, surveying their handiwork, “is the stuff that fairy tales are made of.”
The snow was melting that evening as Feo drove the sled into Peter’s Square.
A crowd of children had gathered to beg for coins outside the ballet, and they stood, looking up at the sky and down at the girl. The not-snow was almost as extraordinary as the child.
Almost. The girl would have been extraordinary whatever the weather. A blood-red cloak, freshly washed, flapped behind her. Her forearms, from elbow joint to wrist, were covered in scratches and bruises, but her eyes were gold. The set of her chin suggested she might have slain a dragon before breakfast. The look in her eyes suggested she might, in fact, have eaten it.
The boy sitting on the sled, dressed in a soldier’s uniform, had a look of determination you see not in habitual adventurers, but in people who have only recently discovered that they are brave. The young man stumping behind, wrapped in green velvet and fur, had covered most of his face. But the mouth could be seen below the hood, laughing.
But what was really extraordinary—what was making the crowd of children stare and whisper—was the pair of wolves she drove before her. They shone with sweat and ice, their backs were humped with muscle, and they were speckled with gold.
This, then, was a jail. Feo had never seen one before, though she had read descriptions of them. It was surprisingly large and beautiful: four great red-brick wings shaped like a cross around a central lookout post. It was loud too: the shouts of prisoners, occasional laughter, occasional groans. Feo shivered and prayed that the groans did not belong to Mama.
The passage through the city gates had been made easier by the fact there were no adults; only Alexei, and he, lounging against the gate, looked neither adult nor child: the offspring of a war god and a sapling tree. Probably, Feo thought, people just didn’t suspect children. It had taken half an hour to find the jail: Ilya’s sense of direction, he admitted, was not wolflike. They stopped around the corner of the jail to confer.
“What do you think?” Feo peered at the guards, and at Ilya. “Do I act haughty or sweet?”
“Haughty with the gate guard, I think.”
“Yes,” said Alexei. “They won’t care about adorable: They’re sentries. Adorable works best on unobservant people. Look confident.”
Feo nodded. Her “confident” face felt a lot like her “scowling” face, but it would have to do for now.
The wolves padded up to the stone arches over the jail. There were men in uniform marching across courtyards.
Feo looked at the guard: She let her eyes travel up from his boots to his beard. She thought about lisping, but discarded the idea.
“Good evening, man,” she said.
Behind her, she felt Alexei nod.
“Um, my father said I should wait for him inside,” she said.
“Who?”
“My father.”
“Yes, but who is your father?”
Feo said the first name that came to mind. “Count Wolfovich. And this is my cousin. And this is his . . . pet soldier.”
Ilya glared.
“I don’t know the name,” said the guard. “I can fetch someone, though—just a second.”
“My father is the tsar’s second cousin,” said Feo quickly. She forced astonishment into her voice. “He would be surprised to hear you don’t know of him. And . . . um . . . his surprise is often painful for those who feel it.”
“I—” The guard hesitated, glancing over his shoulder.
“I was told the guards were properly educated. But if not, I will simply tell him—”
“No need for that, miss!”
“Let us pass, please.”
“Of course. No need to mention this, miss. And what beautiful wolves.”
“Thank you,” said Feo. “I know.”
“They make such good pets,” he said, his ingratiating smile lingering on Black’s gold-flecked fur.
Feo moistened her lips. The wolves felt her quiver, and Black’s hackles rose. “Yes,” she said. “Don’t they just.”
“Well, you probably know the way. You can wait in the warden’s library. Fourth floor of the central tower. Stay away from the cells.”
Feo was not sure about the fourth floor—wolves do not like stairs, and Ilya was making meaningful faces at her—but there seemed no choice. The stairs were marble with thick brass balustrades, and the wolves’ claws made a tap-tapping on them as they climbed. It sounded, to Feo, loud enough to summon every soldier and prisoner in the place.
Nobody did appear, though, as they made their way up. On the second floor, just next to the staircase, there was a marble alcove. It had a statue of an austere-looking saint in it, and a small marble bench. Feo ducked into it. The glory of having made it this far rose up in her throat, and she had to force herself not to giggle.
“Ilya!” she said. “Ilya, what were your faces trying to say?”
His face was red, but not with glee. He glared at her. “I was trying to say we should be going to the wings of cells, not up the central tower.”
“Well, I didn’t get that. Try to make your faces more specific next time.”
“Faces aren’t specific things! Faces
“My faces are quite specific, actually. And your faces said, specifically, ‘Someone is making me kiss my great-aunt.’ ” She grinned at him.
“Which way now?” Alexei’s voice cut across the bickering. “Ilya?”
“I don’t know,” said Ilya. He avoided looking at the older boy. “I know there are four wings of cells, shaped like a cross.”
“Yes, but which one will Mama be in?”
“I don’t know. I thought there might be signs to the women’s block. But there’s not. I’m sorry.”
All the laughter and hope dropped out of Feo’s chest. “I thought . . . it would be easy once we were in. I thought we’d at least be able to see her.”
Ilya said, “I think the South Wing might be the one for women. But . . . I’m not sure.”
Alexei, though, seemed unperturbed. “We can’t just guess: We only get one try. If we guess wrongly, they’ll sound the alarm and we’ll all end up in jail. Which is not in the plan. So”—he turned to Ilya—“where will the servants be?”
“Why?”
“Servants always know more about the details of a place than anyone else.”
“But they won’t tell you!”
“Actually, I’ve found,” said Alexei, “that people will tell you whatever you want, as long as you’re nice enough, and as long as there’s nobody else around. And you can usually tell from looking at someone if they’re going to be a talker.”
“How?” This, Feo thought, was useful information.
“It’s in the eyes, and the way the mouth falls. Look out for someone who wears his eyebrows a little higher than most people, and whose mouth is like this.” Alexei opened his lips two millimeters and pushed his lips slightly forward. “As if they’re always about to speak.”
“Then let’s go!” said Feo.
“And look out for people who talk fast. Fast talkers often let out information without realizing they’re doing it. I should know. I am one.”
Nobody stopped them. They paraded down the tiled floor, the wolves’ claws clacking like high heels, and nobody batted an eye. It was as if the gleaming wolves acted as a kind of camouflage: They melted into their surroundings. Busy men in groups of two and three pushed past, some of them with wolves of their own, a few of them turning to smile in a fatherly way at the top of Feo’s retreating head.
The door to the kitchens was painted white. From behind it came the clatter of washing up, and bursts of singing, and hurrying feet. Alexei ushered them in and, grinning, asked for meat for the wolves.
“Count Wolfovich’s orders,” he said.
There was a girl dressed all in black polishing the silver.
Feo edged closer. “How long does that take you?”
The girl wore her hair piled high on her head. It wobbled precariously as she polished. “A few hours, miss.” Feo studied her. Her eyebrows, as she answered, were high. A talker, perhaps.
“How many spoons is that?”
“More than a hundred here—that’s for dinner in honor of the army tonight. There’ll be thirty of them, but they get four spoons each.”
“What!” Feo jibbed, and stopped. She’d been about to ask, “What on earth for?”—but countesses would know. She said, “What—what a task!” and winced at herself. Disguise is not an easy thing. “What are they celebrating?”
“They’ve arrested a bunch of agitators, miss. Least, that’s what they say. Most of them are just homeless folk. But they want them off the streets for General Rakov’s visit on Thursday.”
“What will they do with them?”
“I don’t know. With Rakov, nobody knows. He’s got a violent heart, that man.” Her eyes widened. “He’s . . . not a friend of your parents, I hope, miss?”
“No,” said Feo, with complete honesty. “Tell me about him.”
“Well, there’s some poor woman dragged in from the countryside, too. Rakov’s pushing for the death penalty, says it’s her fault he’s lost an eye.” She lowered her voice. “He wants to watch in person.”
“But . . . she won’t have had her trial!”
“What?”
Feo shook herself. “Um . . . I meant, I hope they’re keeping her safe until her trial.”
The girl wiped her hair from her eyes in a proud sort of way. “This is the safest prison in Russia, miss.”
“And is she . . . is she in the safest wing?”
“Well, there’s just the one for women, miss—the North. Barely anyone in it at the moment, but that’ll change, the way General Rakov’s going.”
“Fascinating,” said Feo. She nearly said “thank you,” but stopped herself just in time. Countesses, she decided, were probably not the “thank you” sort of people.
It took all the self-control Feo had not to sprint straight out of the kitchens and down to the North Wing of the jail. But Alexei kept a strong hand on her arm as they left and pushed her and Ilya into an unused library.
“She’s in the North Wing!” cried Feo. “She’s just down there!” She shook off Alexei’s grip and pirouetted. “Let’s go!”
“We can’t go now,” he said. “I was talking to the cook—he said there’s one guard for every two cells. You wouldn’t get close to her.”
“We’ll just have to run fast!” she said. “Come on! She’s right there, waiting for me! You’ll come with me, won’t you, Ilya?”
But the younger boy’s face was grave. “We wouldn’t make it,” he said. “There’s no way. We need numbers. We need an army.”
Feo stared from one to the other. “I knew you’d side with Alexei!”
Ilya turned puce. “It’s nothing to do with Alexei! It’s fact.”
Feo sagged. She sat down on the floor next to Black and laid her head against his side. “I just want to see her.”
“But, Feo—we have an army!” said Alexei. “At home! We just need to get them ready, and then we can storm the jail. We’ll make a diversion, and we’ll break out your mama.”
“When?” Feo brushed some gold out of her eyes and swallowed hard. She bunched her fists. “Tomorrow?”
“Thursday. During Rakov’s visit: They’ll all be on parade, or polishing their buttons. That’s the time.”
“How?”
“First,” he said, “we need to train our mob. Then we start a revolution.”
FOURTEEN
In the half-burnt library the children slept soundly, clustered together under blankets pilfered from their homes. The ballroom, with its marble floor, was too icy to sleep in, but the library was well insulated by books, and the sound of the sleeping children was soothing each time Feo woke with a cry in the night.
Training to be a proper mob began the next morning.
Alexei hustled the children from their beds. The warm fuzz of sleep was still on them, and nobody was pleased to be led into the ballroom, which was as cold as the snow outside. But nobody said no to Alexei. It would be like saying no to a whirlwind.
“Right!” Alexei paced in front of them, his sleeves rolled up, his bangs held back by a band of cloth. “We need to get warm before anyone can learn anything. Nobody can learn with a cold brain.”
“I’ll light a fire,” said Feo. “There’s matches in Ilya’s pack.”
“No!” said Alexei. “We’re running thirty laps of the ballroom.”
There were some groans.
“Anyone groaning,” said Alexei, “spends tonight outside with the wolves.”
Feo opened her mouth to object—it seemed unfair on the wolves—but Alexei’s face was not the kind that left space for disagreement.
“Listen,” he said. He spread out two hands. “Children are smaller and weaker than adults. It’s just a fact. So we need to be faster, and braver. That’s math. You don’t have to run, Feo, unless you want to. You won’t be in the mob.”
Feo ran anyway. At first it was fun to outrun everyone: streaking past the little ones, past Ilya’s lolloping stride, which involved a lot of elbow movement—he wo
Feo refrained from pointing out that running if wolves are after you is more optimistic than useful.
“All right!” he called. “That’s enough. Everyone sit on the floor. We’ve got dried apples somewhere—Vasilisa, will you hand them out?” And then, under his breath, to Feo, “Who taught you to run like that?”
“Mama.” Feo looked at her hands. “If you grow up running in snow, running on waxed wood or stone is easy. I grew up thinking wolf pace was normal. To them, I’m slow.”
Feo excused herself from fighting. She had had enough of blood for the time being. She sat on the windowsill with the pup in her arms, feeding him milk from the tip of her finger.
Alexei paced, lionlike, among the children as they sat looking up at him. “We have one advantage when we reach the jail—the guards can’t shoot children in front of other people. At least,” he said, “they can, but people seem to like it less.” He looked pointedly at Sergei, who was biting his toenails. “I honestly have absolutely no idea why.
“So, we’re going to practice attacking. When we’re in Saint Petersburg, you’ll be too frightened to think: You’ll hesitate. But if your muscles know exactly what they’re supposed to be doing, they’ll do it even if your brains are scared. We’re training to make your bodies braver than your brains, you see? That’s what soldiers do.”
“But I won’t be scared!” said Sergei.
“Last year, when lightning hit the oak tree, you wet the bed,” said Bogdan.
“I did not!” He looked, outraged, around his gang. “The rain came through the ceiling.”
“Just onto your mattress and nowhere else?”