The Gathering Storm by Robin Bridges Page A

Swords.
    “Is there a note inside? A picture of the crown prince, perhaps?”
    “Nothing,” I lied. Did the Montenegrins know of my mother’s superstitions? Or was it just a coincidence?

    There was another feast later that morning with even more treats. Apricot creams and strawberry zephyrs. Chocolate babas and gooseberry puddings. And Petya’s and my favorite: an enormous marzipan torte. I ate until I thought I would be sick.
    We presented gifts to our small household staff after breakfast: the male servants received new shoes made of the finest Parisian leather, while the female servants received silver-handled hairbrushes. I had knitted a pair of mittens for Anya.
    “Did you make these yourself?” Anya asked incredulously as she inspected the delicate needlework. A red rose adorned each mitten.
    “Of course,” I said, more than a little proud of myself. A surgeon needed to be dexterous to execute fine stitches. When Maman taught me knitting and embroidery, I imagined I was sewing up sick and injured people.
    Late that afternoon, I accompanied Maman as she delivered presents to distant cousins, and then we visited the Oldenburg Hospital with baskets of oranges for the patients. It made for a long day. I almost fell asleep in the sleigh on the ride home.
    I opened the onyx box again before bedtime, staring at the tarot card. It looked much older than the one in my mother’s deck. This queen was dressed in a crimson robe and the lettering was in Italian. According to Pushkin’s short story “The Queen of Spades,” said queen, along with the Queen of Swords, signified secret ill will. I wasn’t sure if the card was meant to be a warning. Or a threat. Either way, it seemed like a bad omen, so I threw it into the burning logs in my fireplace.
    The flames leapt up and turned a deep violet. I stepped back, dropping the box to the floor.
    I heard a gasp from the doorway behind me. Anya.
    “What strange, unholy fire is this?” she asked, making the sign of the cross hastily. “Are you practicing witchcraft, Duchess?”
    I’d never felt more terrible in my life. She was frightened of me. “No, Anya. Of course not. I was getting rid of an old card. It must have been the chemicals in the ink.”
    She stared at the fire, which once again appeared normal. “Perhaps your father should come and see. In case it’s dangerous.” She opened the window a tiny bit to freshen the air.
    “No, I’m sure everything is fine. I don’t want to disturb him or Maman.” The last thing I wanted was my mother to become ill again. And though Anya didn’t care for the Montenegrins, I thought she would be safer if she didn’t know everything about them. I hoped I was protecting her by lying to her.
    For the rest of school break, I went to bed every night curled up with my medical journal. After having argued with Papa once more about the stubborn minister of education, I had decided to write a letter of application to the University of Zurich. That was where Maria Bokova and Nadezhda Suslova, Madame Orbellani’s idols, had received their medical degrees.
    Every night I fell asleep to articles about childhood diseases or advancements in cranial surgery. I’d like to say I dreamed about finding a cure for meningitis or scarlet fever, but I didn’t. Nor did I dream about surly boys. Less than two weeks after Christmas, the Black Mountain nightmares began.

CHAPTER NINE

    I
was standing in a temple, which appeared to be carved from deep within a mountain. The temple torches were lit all along the walls, with an especially large fire burning behind the altar. A priest in a black robe chanted something in an ancient language I could not understand. Was it ancient Greek? It did not sound familiar. I tried to move and realized my arms were pinned behind my back by someone I could not see. As I struggled to free myself, I found that I could not remember how I had gotten there
.
    As the chanting went on, it grew dark outside the bloodred