Vasilisa the cook was out at the market when I sneaked into the kitchen the next day. The maids greeted me before getting on with their work. I was glad not to encounter the mistress of the kitchen: Vasilisa was a giantess of a woman, her hands big as shovels, abundant greying hair hidden under a floral headscarf. She had a tongue even sharper than her knives and a round belly that strained against her plain robe and starched apron. She ruled the Pecharsky slaughterhouse, dairy and bakery – as well as the fabulously stocked cellar, its impossibly large key dangling from her belt.
I squinted as I opened a smaller storeroom: sunlight fell through a tiny window placed high up in the wall. The shelves groaned under jars of oils, vinegar and pickled beetroot, gherkins, and onions, as well as walnuts and stewed fruit to be eaten like jam on fresh warm bread. Damsons, cherries, apricots and peaches were all delicacies of the Ukraine. Sacks of buckwheat, flour, oats and barley were piled up next to bags of dried red, green and white pulses. Cabbage cured in a good dozen barrels and countless bundles of dried herbs – parsley, thyme, chives, dill, bay and sage – were strung from the ceiling. Dried forest mushrooms hung in long, knotted chains, waiting to be soaked for soups, stews and sauces. I climbed on a footstool to reach the candied fruit that Vasilisa kept on the highest shelf – novices were renowned for their sweet tooth and so she hid it away. Of the whey butter, which took days to thicken on the summer pastures, I naughtily took a whole bar.
My arms full, I kicked the door shut behind me and piled everything on the long kitchen table, which normally sat a good twenty people – the kitchen staff – once the nuns and their visitors had been served. Its scrubbed wood showed countless scratches from its many years of service. In the heat of the kitchen, I was grateful for my blouse’s low neckline; Vasilisa had baked bread and the oven still glowed. Loaves were resting on the far end of the table; the late-afternoon sun made their crusts shine.
Right. I had the candied fruit and the whey butter. As I had no curd to make pashka, I scooped the cream off the top of the bowls in the dairy, hoping to keep it as thick as possible, just as I had watched the maids doing. I whipped it stiff with a bundle of tied twigs, licking my fingertips: delicious! Now I had to get on with baking the kulich. I would surprise Alexis, I thought joyfully. When had I last felt anything as real as my excitement now?
Illinchaya, our nurse in Kolomenskoye, had hummed a song to remind herself of the recipe and I still remembered the verse: ‘Two sticks butter or lard, soft not hard. Six eggs do whisk, but never too brisk. Use flour abound, it makes everything sound. Sugar on top, don’t say stop… ’ The half-dozen eggs that I had taken from the basket next to the oven lay close to hand. The monastery’s chickens – silly birds that put up a terrific fight for each egg, scratching, flapping and pecking – laid all day round. I cracked them into a large porcelain bowl, scattering the shells carelessly over the table. Next I needed the sugar, Vasilisa’s treasure. I inched it down from between sacks of pepper, mustard seeds and saffron, and sifted heaps of it into the eggs. Vasilisa would have my hide if she knew – but she never would, so I powdered in a little bit more in a soft, even layer. I was such a master baker!
My cheeks flushed with pride as I creamed together eggs and sugar, making a foamy mess. It did not look too bad when I added the flour from my raised hands – ‘It needs air,’ Illinchaya would say – making the table look as if a snowstorm had raged around it. All the while, the butter melted in a heavy cast-iron pan on the oven. Ouch! I burned my thumb lifting it clear, then poured the golden liquid into my batter before adding the flour, gently, cup by cup, so it took in air. Pails of fresh, foaming milk stood in a shady corner of the kitchen. I spooned a bit off into a bowl, adding the yeast – a blend of flour meal and water that stood fermenting close to the oven’s warmth – and mixed it in well. There! Now it just needed to rise.
A couple of hours later, when Vasilisa and the maids were napping before the preparations for supper started – this task and clearing up afterwards kept them up into the early hours of the morning – I was back. First, I dropped the beautifully risen dough into a copper kulich form, smoothing the top. Then I placed it in the oven, which blazed away day and night, heating water for the samovars, roasting a couple of lambs and baking the Abbess’ favourite biscuits. The bar of whey butter was still out and quite hard, so I placed it next to the oven to soften. I could not resist eating quite a bit of it before the kulich was almost ready.
‘Here you are!’
The voice startled me, catching me with my thieving fingers in my mouth. Alexis Razumovsky stood in the doorway. I sucked my fingertips clean, seeing his eyes darken before he averted his gaze. ‘You are late,’ I said, smiling. ‘Typical. Men have that infallible way of arriving when all the work is done, and the food is ready. In half an hour, I promise, you shall taste the best kulich ever.’
His presence filled the room. My cheeks burned. I moved away from the oven, but, if anything, I felt even hotter when he approached, checking on the kulich by opening the oven’s hatch door: ‘I wouldn’t call this ready. Show-off!’
I felt dizzy, both from the heat and his closeness. How beautiful his hands were, tanned and strong, with long, slim fingers, pronounced knuckles and short, clean nails.
‘Let us see,’ I said, slipping on quilted oven mittens and lifting out the mould, flames licking towards me. Wiping my damp forehead with one forearm, I placed the kulich on the table. I brushed my hands on my dark skirt, careful not to spoil its beautiful floral embroidery.
‘You like whey butter, don’t you?’ he said.
I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. ‘How do you know?’
The open collar of his casually laced shirt showed the smooth skin of his chest. He had the wiry strength of a shepherd, accustomed to climbing rugged mountain slopes to rescue a lamb and to defending his flock from wolves and eagles. Gently, he traced the curve of my upper lip. My breath stalled as my gaze became caught up in his. ‘You have some crumbs here,’ he said, his voice tender.
‘Remove them.’
‘I can’t manage with my fingers.’
‘Well, then.’ I raised my face. He lowered his. My lips parted as I felt him searching my mouth, tenderly, without haste. His breath was sweet and fresh as he kissed me once more, careful, and chaste. ‘Got it. It’s wonderfully sweet, like you.’
‘Let me taste,’ I whispered, going on tiptoe. I saw his surprise as I kissed him hungrily. Together, we stumbled backwards. He lifted me to sit on the kitchen table, kissing me, cupping my face, and caressing first my hair and then my bare shoulders, where the blouse had slipped. I arched my neck, sighing, as his lips found my throat, sending flashes of lightning through my body. My quickening breath made him cup my breasts, lowering his head and tasting my buds through the blouse’s thin linen. The fabric was moist, clinging to my hard pink nipples, a sight which made him groan. I remembered myself at last, wriggled away and tucked up my stray curls, trying in vain to adjust the blouse, blushing. He would think me a girl of easy virtue! He tore himself away from me, breathing heavily.
‘I am sorry. This is not right,’ he said. ‘I am soon off to Moscow forever and you are a good girl. I shall not leave you shamed. In Kiev, many a good man might wed a sweet parlour maid.’ He gave me a last, tender kiss before placing my palm on his pounding heart. ‘I knew it. You little thief.’
I cleared my throat and slipped off the table. My legs shook but I steadied my voice. ‘How about some kulich now?’
‘That would be lovely.’
It slipped from the mould easily, all spongy and steaming. He smiled at my proud expression when I piled on the thick cream, sprinkling it with layers of candied fruit and whey butter. I chose from the block the long, blunt knife that Vasilisa used to cut cakes. ‘Do you want the first slice?’
‘As I will be the judge of who has won our wager, gladly.’
I placed a large slice on a plate. How perfectly fluffy the sweet dough was, and how stiff the cream – I felt so pleased to see him eat it. Alexis chewed – and almost choked, coughing, bringing up the kulich and running to spit it out in the bucket near the fire. He was still retching when he looked up.
‘What is it?’ I asked, a deep blush creeping over my throat and up to my face.
‘My God, Lizenka, you used salt instead of sugar!’ He wiped his mouth.
‘I am so sorry,’ I stuttered, then mirth rose from deep inside me. This was so funny! ‘Now I know why Vasilisa keeps the sugar next to the pepper!’ I laughed and laughed, bent double and leaning against the table, holding my sides.
‘Are you laughing at me? After almost poisoning a good man?’ he asked.
‘I am,’ I gasped, wiping my eyes.
‘Just you wait!’ He came up to me, seizing me and kissing me again. His lips sought mine with shocking passion. We devoured each other, limbs entwined, laughing and kissing even more. ‘You’ve won!’ he whispered, coming up for air.
From outside we heard heavy steps and a woman cursing under her breath, fumbling with keys.
‘It’s Vasilisa. She’ll have our hides!’
‘Run! She’s much too fat to catch us.’ He took my hand and we darted out of the back door, racing up some steps and crossing the courtyard, only stopping once we were well beyond the stables.
‘Is it soon you must leave?’ I asked, catching my breath. There was no time for playing games. I fought back tears when he drew me in, holding me warm and close, cupping my face. ‘Tomorrow. At dawn.’
I saw tears in his eyes, too, and swallowed hard: any time would have been too soon, be it now or in twenty years.
‘Promise to forget me,’ he said, holding my hands to his chest.
‘I promise,’ I lied, choking on tears.
‘Do you? Well, I won’t manage to do the same,’ he said, stroking my hair. ‘I have nothing to offer you, Lizenka. Go, meet a good man and have a dozen strong, healthy sons who adore you. May God bless you.’ I let him kiss me for what we thought was the last time, deeply and desperately. I was sure the memory of this beautiful moment would stay with me forever.
When I was a child, my father took me to the Kunstkamera, his collection of nature’s misfits and miracles, such as a foetus with a fishtail, a puppy with two heads, the beheaded and preserved skull of one of his mistresses, the Scotswoman Marie Hamilton, as well as the skeleton of a hunchbacked giant. What I remembered most, though, was an iron that drew another piece of metal close, irresistibly so: Father called it a magnet. I could have left things there with Alexis Razumovsky: a brief chance encounter, sweet but soon over.
Instead, still drawn to him as if magnetised, I sought out Lestocq.
Lestocq and Abbess Agatha sat in her study, sampling last autumn’s ham. He spoke with his mouth full. ‘The smoked ham has merits over the cooked one for flavour, but I like the fleshiness of the latter… ’
‘Let me taste it, too!’ Agatha giggled, washing down each bite with a sip of fortified wine. Her cheeks were blooming. Both of them looked up guiltily when I appeared on the threshold. Lestocq rose, taking in the sight of my flushed face.
‘What is it, Tsarevna?’
‘I am ready to return to court.’
‘When, Tsarevna?’ He angled for another piece of ham, filling the Abbess’ glass anew while eyeing the almost-empty bottle. ‘Do we have more of this, Abbess Agatha?’
‘Lestocq!’ I ordered sharply.
He sighed. ‘All right, all right. There is the impending war in Poland to consider. Travel is not safe. Also, nobody really knows how far the Chinese have advanced. The Shah’s brother might never come. Haste is the worst adviser.’
‘We ride at dawn,’ I said curtly, leaving them to it. ‘I have found another traveller who is going the same way.’