The Lost Souls of Angelkov by Linda Holeman Page A

good hand and his feet have been bathed in cool water and vinegar, but it isn’t bringing down the heat.”
    The doctor again bends over Konstantin and begins to unwrap the dressing. When the last round of linen is pulled away and the smell is fully released into the room, even he reacts with a small intake of breath. Antonina presses her handkerchief to her nose and mouth.
    “This should have immediately been well cleaned and stitched,” Dr. Molov says. “How many days since he was hurt?”
    “Four.” It’s been four days since she’s held her son, she thinks.
    The doctor shakes his head, opening his bag and pulling out a small leather case. After he’s worked over Konstantin with warm water and disinfectant, needle and thread, he and Antonina go into the hall. He tells her he will check on the count’s progress in the morning; there is nothing more to be done this evening. He has ridden to the estate from the city of Pskov, and will stay overnight at Angelkov.
    Antonina nods. “Thank you, Dr. Molov,” she says, and goes down the long hall to her bedroom.

    Tania has waited until the doctor and the countess have left Konstantin’s bedroom. She enters with stacks of towels and bed linens. “Will he recover?” she asks Pavel.
    “The doctor has done what he can,” Pavel says as the woman sets down the clean laundry. Pavel knows about her relationship with Konstantin. Everyone on the estate knows, including the countess. Pavel watches her. She is very like Konstantin’s first wife, dark-complexioned and raw-boned, the same age as the first Countess Mitlovskiya. The count started to make his demands on Tania six months after his wife succumbed to a lifelong stomach ailment.
    Tania leans over the count and strokes his cheek. “Kostya,” she whispers. She hopes he recovers. After thirteen years, she is used to the small pleasures the extra weekly rubles from her master bring.
    He doesn’t stir, and Tania, without looking at Pavel, goes downstairs and back to her room in the two-storey stone building behind the manor that houses the servants of Angelkov.
    In her bedroom, Antonina thinks about how she could have had her son back by now. She could have, if not for Konstantin. Her anger at him is too intense to let her sleep.

    The next morning, Antonina pulls herself out of bed, her head dull and her eyes gritty. The horror of it all, the sleepless nights and too much vodka are taking their toll. She knows she has to see to her husband, but even the thought of walking down the hall is daunting. She holds Tinka against her, pressing her face into the little dog’s warm fur. When Lilya comes in, she gently guides Antonina into the chair in front of the dressing table and pins her hair haphazardly for the time being. She speaks to Antonina as she wipes her face with a warm, damp cloth, but Antonina can’t quite make sense of what she’s saying. It’s as if she is underwater.
    As Antonina moves slowly to her door to go to Konstantin’s room, Lilya stops her, putting a robe over her nightdress and then a shawl over her shoulders, clasping it with a sapphire brooch. She stoops and picks up Tinka, who tries to follow Antonina.
    Grisha is standing outside the count’s room. He bows toAntonina and opens the door for her. Antonina enters. Her husband is as motionless as he was the evening before, although now his eyes are closed. There is dried matter on his lips. Dr. Molov is sitting on a chair beside the bed, holding Konstantin’s injured hand. The edges of the wound, under the new stitches, are swollen and reddish-purple, pushing against the thread. Through the stitches seeps a fluid, bloody and yet not entirely blood.
    “It’s worse?” Antonina asks. The words are measured. She has no saliva, and her lips are slightly numb.
    “Yes,” the doctor says, glancing up at her and frowning. “He’s in a state of unconsciousness.”
    “What’s happened? Why is he like this?”
    “We can’t say just yet.” The