Читать книгу The Siren's Touch - Amber Belldene - Страница 13

Sonya flew, which should have been neat.

Who didn’t want to fly?

But the whole ghost thing kind of took the fun out of it. She bubbled with a frightening, furious anger and had no one to aim it at. The need to do something clanged around inside her with no outlet. It set her on edge like a ringing telephone that no one could answer.

Dmitri had calmed her, but he was gone. She dearly hoped he would come back, and soon. If Elena was right, he might be the only one who could help her.

The older woman continued straightening up, sweeping glass and replacing light bulbs. Too bad they had no way to communicate. Talking to her would have been a welcome distraction.

Instead, she decided to snoop. It seemed harmless since Elena couldn’t actually see her. So Sonya looked at every knick-knack on the dark wooden shelves—nesting dolls, more traditional Ukrainian pottery. None of the items revealed much of anything about the unusual little woman though. No photographs of a husband or children. No man’s hat hanging on the coat rack either. Down the hall, a suitcase had exploded in a guest room, and what could only be Dmitri’s clothes were strewn around the room. Hanging on the wall, old family photographs hinted at a large and important family, but no recent pictures had been added to their ranks.

The woman’s bustling energy filled the charmingly cluttered house to the brim, but after close inspection, Sonya was certain she lived alone. A heavy sadness dwelled in the corners of every room, as if Elena couldn’t sweep it away or crowd it out, no matter how hard she tried. Whenever Sonya floated through a pocket of the gloomy emotion, she sunk lower to the ground, consumed by compassion for the lonely woman.

Miniature oil paintings of Kiev’s famous landmarks lined the hallway. One in particular tickled Sonya’s ghost brain like an itch she couldn’t scratch. A brass plate beneath it read Taras Shevchenko National Opera House. She stared at it for a long time, willing the memories to surface, but they refused to obey her.

Back in the living room, Elena flipped a switch, lighting a small blaze in the fireplace and settling into an armchair with an old leather-bound book. The flickering blue and orange flames drew Sonya even though its heat could not penetrate her ghostly form. If she concentrated very hard, she could recall what it felt like to be warm, and the memory silenced the anger rattling around inside her.

After some time, Elena set the thick tome down and slid a glossy magazine with a glamorous model on the cover from her brief case.

The tickle started up inside Sonya’s brain, quickly turning into smoldering burn, and the Opera House came into view.

She bounced out the backstage door on the balls of her feet, and a clap of thunder sounded, warning she had better rush home. But not even a rainstorm could ruin her mood. Her life had been on hold for so long, and finally it was about to begin, with an official apprenticeship to Marya, the National Opera’s costume designer.

She crooked her elbow around her bag—her new but dog-eared edition of Vogue Magazine tucked safely into the satchel right next to the length of fabric Marya had given her. She hurried down the sidewalk under darkening clouds.

The air crackled, heavy with the metallic scent of rain about to fall. She skirted the butter-yellow walls of the colossal building until she reached the plaza and hurried toward Volodymyrska Street. The first ripe drops of rain fell onto her head, seeping through her hair and tracing a cold trail down her scalp. She raced over the slippery cobblestones until she finally reached the shop without stepping in a puddle—surely a good sign. The bell on the door jingled as she entered.

Seated at his usual spot in front of a brightly lit felt mat, Papa glanced up from the necklace. Its glittering diamonds stole her breath. “Hello, dear.”

“Papa, you must lock the door when you take that out of the safe.” She removed her sopping coat.

“Nonsense. A locked door discourages customers. And who would dare to steal from Director Andrich?”

She swallowed an exasperated sigh. “Maybe he’s powerful, but you’re not.”

She marched into the back room where her sewing machine and various baubles in need of polish crowded her small worktable.

Her gaze strayed to her satchel where the Vogue waited. Maybe tomorrow she could copy the sleek dress on the magazine’s cover with the wool Marya had given her.

The shop bell jingled.

“Hello,” Papa greeted the customer.

She peered around the door. In the corner of the shop, her father fumbled at the narrow safe, attempting to slide the necklace inside. A tall, young man in a militsya uniform browsed over the cases of rings. Dark blond hair showed at his temples under his hat. Sonya’s pulse accelerated—it always did when she was in close proximity to militsya men. They could get away with whatever they wanted—from giving girls a hard time to extorting all the profit from neighborhood businesses.

Instinctively, she gripped the door’s handle to rush in and protect Papa, but she resisted—he would have to handle these things himself from now on.

“Were you interested in seeing something?” he asked the young man.

The officer stood over the case of women’s rings, and his thumb played at the spot where his own ring finger met his palm. The gesture captivated Sonya.

“Yes. This one, please.” His accent suggested he was from the countryside, not Kiev, and she softened toward him. But a militsya man was still a militsya man, and not to be trusted. He lifted the ring high into the faint light filtering through the window. But then, with his face turned up, he closed his eyes and his Adam’s apple rolled as he swallowed. Not the face of a happy man buying a wedding ring.

Her foreboding gave way to a curious pity. Who had broken his heart?

Wordlessly, he enclosed the ring in his fist, reached out and dropped it in Papa’s outstretched palm. In a voice so low she could barely hear it, he said, “I would very much like to see Director Andrich’s necklace. I am told it is very beautiful.”

The scene froze, like a single frame of film stuck in the movie projector. She searched her mind for the rest of the memory, desperate to discover what had happened next, but there was nothing.

A door slammed in Elena’s house, yanking Sonya fully into the present. Then a sob gathered momentum inside her, a giant bubble of frustration forcing its way up her throat. It tore out of her mouth, once again shaking the house and every precious object inside.

Elena peeked her head through the hallway door and clucked. “Oh dear. I do hope Dmitri comes back soon. But in the meantime, child, please do try to calm down.”

Sonya pressed both her hands over her mouth and used all her self-control to keep her roiling emotions inside while she waited for Dmitri.