duke left for Moscow on behalf of the Koldun to attend a meeting with the wizards in the Kremlin. He must have decided to visit with his uncle and aunt, because he remained away from St. Petersburg for some time, which suitedme perfectly well. It made it easier for me to concentrate on my studies.
On a crisp October day, in the small but opulently appointed family chapel at Betskoi House, I became the godmother of Dr. Ostrev and Lyudmila’s young daughter, Tamara. Papa stood as godfather, paying for the entire service and hosting the christening dinner. Lyudmila’s parents were unable to journey to St. Petersburg from Kiev but sent a silver spoon as a gift for good luck. Anya stood beside me and held the white gown for her young niece. As per Orthodox tradition, the parents were not allowed to be present for the ceremony, so they waited in the red parlor with Maman. I held the squirming infant in my arms as the priest chanted prayers over her head. Her huge blue eyes blinked slowly at me, and I felt a strange tug in my heart. I hadn’t been around babies much in the past few years. Young girls started classes at Smolni as young as six, but there were few at the school who were younger than twelve. My cousins were spread far and wide across Europe, so I hadn’t seen many infants except the empress’s and Miechen’s children.
When it was time to take Tamara’s gown off, the priest beckoned me to bring her forward and place her in the silver baptism font. It was the same antique bowl that both my brother and I had been baptized in years ago. I lowered the naked child into the cold water, and her pink face turned red with a heathen howl. I could see her cold light wrapped around her like a soft, hazy cocoon. Tamara Rudolfovna would have a long, healthy life, it appeared.
The priest blessed her and poured the holy water over her head. I lifted the wriggling, unhappy infant from the water and wrapped her in the clean white linen Anya held out. The white“garments of light” symbolized her new life. The priest’s assistants rang bells and chanted while the priest anointed Tamara’s head with holy oil.
Her howls had subsided, but her body still shook with indignant sobs. The sweet baby awakened a new feeling inside me. It had occurred to me with shock that Lyudmila was younger than I and was already a wife and mother. What kind of mother would I be?
This led to another thought: What kind of father would George be? I blushed and glanced around quickly, relieved to see that no one was paying attention to me. Everyone was watching Tamara.
Anya, standing at my side, now took the baby and dressed her in the Ostrev family’s white hand-embroidered baptismal gown and the white lace cap that Lyudmila had tatted herself. Suddenly, I was conscious of an emptiness in my arms. I wanted to hold the warm, sweet-smelling bundle again.
The ceremony was soon over, and I followed Anya and Papa and the rest of the party out into the parlor, where Lyudmila scooped baby Tamara up in her arms. Maman was drying her eyes with a handkerchief and ran to embrace me. “Oh, my darling, I was just thinking how soon it will be your baby in our family chapel receiving such a blessing!”
I pulled away from her and laughed lightly. “Not for years, Maman.”
“Oh, I do hope Madame Marina’s prediction was wrong. The gypsy woman told me years ago I would never have grandchildren.”
“Maman, either Petya or I will certainly prove MadameMarina wrong.” I squeezed her hands and left her to seek out Dariya, who was now holding the baby and smiling. She looked happy. I decided to leave her in peace as well and took a steaming cup of tea from the elaborately laid table in the dining room and walked over to the window. The late-afternoon sun was sinking, and the shadows from the houses along Millionaya Street were stretching across the Neva River. I saw people and carriages hurrying across the bridge. A shadowed figure in a long black coat caught
On a crisp October day, in the small but opulently appointed family chapel at Betskoi House, I became the godmother of Dr. Ostrev and Lyudmila’s young daughter, Tamara. Papa stood as godfather, paying for the entire service and hosting the christening dinner. Lyudmila’s parents were unable to journey to St. Petersburg from Kiev but sent a silver spoon as a gift for good luck. Anya stood beside me and held the white gown for her young niece. As per Orthodox tradition, the parents were not allowed to be present for the ceremony, so they waited in the red parlor with Maman. I held the squirming infant in my arms as the priest chanted prayers over her head. Her huge blue eyes blinked slowly at me, and I felt a strange tug in my heart. I hadn’t been around babies much in the past few years. Young girls started classes at Smolni as young as six, but there were few at the school who were younger than twelve. My cousins were spread far and wide across Europe, so I hadn’t seen many infants except the empress’s and Miechen’s children.
When it was time to take Tamara’s gown off, the priest beckoned me to bring her forward and place her in the silver baptism font. It was the same antique bowl that both my brother and I had been baptized in years ago. I lowered the naked child into the cold water, and her pink face turned red with a heathen howl. I could see her cold light wrapped around her like a soft, hazy cocoon. Tamara Rudolfovna would have a long, healthy life, it appeared.
The priest blessed her and poured the holy water over her head. I lifted the wriggling, unhappy infant from the water and wrapped her in the clean white linen Anya held out. The white“garments of light” symbolized her new life. The priest’s assistants rang bells and chanted while the priest anointed Tamara’s head with holy oil.
Her howls had subsided, but her body still shook with indignant sobs. The sweet baby awakened a new feeling inside me. It had occurred to me with shock that Lyudmila was younger than I and was already a wife and mother. What kind of mother would I be?
This led to another thought: What kind of father would George be? I blushed and glanced around quickly, relieved to see that no one was paying attention to me. Everyone was watching Tamara.
Anya, standing at my side, now took the baby and dressed her in the Ostrev family’s white hand-embroidered baptismal gown and the white lace cap that Lyudmila had tatted herself. Suddenly, I was conscious of an emptiness in my arms. I wanted to hold the warm, sweet-smelling bundle again.
The ceremony was soon over, and I followed Anya and Papa and the rest of the party out into the parlor, where Lyudmila scooped baby Tamara up in her arms. Maman was drying her eyes with a handkerchief and ran to embrace me. “Oh, my darling, I was just thinking how soon it will be your baby in our family chapel receiving such a blessing!”
I pulled away from her and laughed lightly. “Not for years, Maman.”
“Oh, I do hope Madame Marina’s prediction was wrong. The gypsy woman told me years ago I would never have grandchildren.”
“Maman, either Petya or I will certainly prove MadameMarina wrong.” I squeezed her hands and left her to seek out Dariya, who was now holding the baby and smiling. She looked happy. I decided to leave her in peace as well and took a steaming cup of tea from the elaborately laid table in the dining room and walked over to the window. The late-afternoon sun was sinking, and the shadows from the houses along Millionaya Street were stretching across the Neva River. I saw people and carriages hurrying across the bridge. A shadowed figure in a long black coat caught
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