Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 4

He turned to Lena, his expression mild but intent. “Do you know where in Rostov one might find the post-telegraph office?”

Lena nodded, a trace of her usual sharp amusement in her tone. “Not far, master. Close to the boulevard where we first met. It is easy to find.”

“Excellent,” Yarosvet said, a faint spark of satisfaction in his voice. “Then we shall set out for the town tomorrow morning and take care of all that is necessary.”

Asya’s eyes brightened at the prospect, and she gave a small, eager nod.

Taissia, ever practical, interjected with a note of caution. “The tarantas, as we discovered today, offers little room for four. Short rides between the estates are tolerable, but the journey to Rostov might prove uncomfortable.”

Yarosvet’s lips curved in a subtle, amused smile. “I have no objection to riding alongside Andrey,” he said, as if the suggestion merely added to the small adventure, leaving the practicalities of space and comfort to be endured with good humor. “Moreover, tomorrow we might accomplish two things at once. We can pass by your estate, Asya, to see the house for ourselves and take a closer look at the grounds. It will give us a better sense of what must be done — the work to restore the house will bring the estate back to life and deter any who might be tempted by its empty, abandoned appearance.”

Asya nodded readily, yet Yarosvet caught a glimmer of something elusive in her gaze — an unreadable shadow beneath the surface, a quiet mystery that made her response more than mere agreement.

Taissia reminded them that they had intended to practice acrobatics with Lena today. Then, if Yarosvet did not object, he could give them all a lesson in boxing — a skill whose importance had been underscored by the morning’s events. Turning to Asya, she asked whether the girl knew how to fight.

“I do,” Asya replied, her accent coloring each word, “though perhaps it is not skill, but instinct. I strike with whatever is at hand, bite, scare… and show my wish to kill, yes?”

Taissia’s eyes sparkled with delight, and even Yarosvet gave a small approving clap at such frankness.

Lena, curiosity bright in her gaze, asked whether Asya could shoot. The girl admitted that she had only ever fired a gun a few times, but that she had become proficient with a bow — a crude, handmade one — while surviving alone in the estate, since anything that could shoot had long been taken away by the former owners.

Both girls’ eyes widened in admiration. “You actually made the bow yourself?” Taissia exclaimed, scarcely believing it.

Asya shrugged lightly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Ah… it is nothing difficult,” she said, her accent coloring the words. “The secret — find good hazel bush, yes? And a string that fits just so. That is all.”

Lena exchanged a glance with Taissia, both clearly impressed by the resourcefulness behind the simple, matter-of-fact explanation.

Yarosvet’s voice carried a hint of curiosity as he mused aloud, “Then I suppose you must know your way around a knife as well.”

Asya, however, did not answer immediately. Instead, she asked, with a faint frown, “Where… my coat?”

Lena darted inside the house, returning moments later with the warm, well-worn fur coat. Asya slipped her arms into the sleeves and, with a practiced hand, delved into the lining. Her fingers emerged clutching a knife, and she held it up for inspection.

It was a remarkable blade, clearly the work of a skilled craftsman. The handle was polished and smooth, shaped to fit her hand perfectly, the steel gleaming with a subtle, almost predatory gleam. Every detail spoke of careful forging and patient sharpening, a tool meant to serve faithfully and last a lifetime.

With a swift, fluid motion, Asya seized the knife by the blade and, with a short, precise flick of her wrist, sent it flying. All eyes followed the arc of the steel as it sailed through the air, embedding itself with a sharp, almost feral precision into the thin trunk of a young birch several paces away.

The girls squealed in delight, while Yarosvet’s gaze fixed keenly on Asya. “Again,” he said, a hint of challenge in his tone.

Asya darted to the birch, swiftly extracting the knife embedded in its thin trunk. With measured steps, she returned to her spot, holding the blade firmly once more. She adjusted her stance, took a deep breath, and let the knife fly. It sailed through the air, landing with perfect precision, again embedding itself into the young tree.

Taissia’s eyes widened in astonishment. “I would never have believed,” she exclaimed, “that from that distance, one could throw a knife and hit a sapling no thicker than my wrist… and not just hit it, but have it stick!”

Lena could only nod, her expression a mix of awe and exhilaration, while Asya’s cheeks flushed faintly, a mixture of pride and bashful pleasure at the attention she had earned.

Yarosvet held out his hand. Asya, obedient and steady, approached and placed the knife gently into his palm. He turned it over, weighing it, feeling the balance and the temper of the blade as one who knew such things. “This… resembles the knives of the Caucasus,” he murmured, his brow lifting slightly. “Where did you acquire it?”

Asya’s dark eyes met his. “When Polivanov… he buy me,” she said, her words carrying the soft lilt of her accent, “he also buy this from trader. I hide it when they take estate apart. Since then… always with me.”

A flicker of shadow passed over her face. “If they ever force cellar door… I let it speak for me,” she added, quiet but unmistakably resolute.

Yarosvet regarded her for a long moment, impressed by the combination of care and readiness, the silent promise held within that small, hand-forged blade.

Remaining seated, Yarosvet cast a measured glance at the birch, seemingly frozen in expectation. Without a flourish, he let the knife fly. The girls only caught, in the flicker of the motion, that he held it not by the blade, but naturally in his palm, thumb securing it with casual precision. The steel bit into the slender trunk with a muted thud.

Taissia and Lena shouted, voices high with pride for their master’s skill, while Asya, seized by a sudden, uncontrollable rush of emotion, leaned forward and pressed a brief, impulsive kiss to his beard, scarcely aware of her own boldness.

Everyone pretended the kiss had been nothing out of the ordinary. As Asya turned to retrieve the knife from the birch, Taissia’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. “You and Asya must teach me and Lena to strike true, to hit our targets as skillfully as you do!” she exclaimed, her voice alight with excitement and wonder.

She laughed softly, the thrill of possibility shining through. “Just think of all that awaits us — acrobatics, horseback riding, boxing, knife-throwing, archery… so much to learn, so much to discover.” Her gaze darted between her friends, brimming with delight and the promise of endless adventure.

The day proved as warm and golden as the one before, the air so soft and fragrant it might have been the height of summer rather than spring. In the quiet hour before luncheon, Taissia decided it would be a pity to let the time slip idly by — they ought to do something useful, something lively. She suggested they begin their long-promised acrobatics.

Turning to Asya, she asked whether the girl had ever stood on her hands or tried doing splits. Asya blinked, clearly puzzled by the question — until Lena, laughing, dashed down the veranda steps onto the soft grass and, with a light sweep of her skirt, turned two cartwheels in succession, quick and effortless, her dress flaring like a bright bell.

Asya’s eyes lit up at once, a gleam of challenge and delight awakening in them.

Taissia seized Asya’s hand with a gleeful little cry and tugged her away — past the veranda, around the corner of the house, through the garden where lilacs had already begun to open, and into the small grove beyond.

Yarosvet made a faintly reluctant gesture, saying there was no need for him to follow — he had matters enough to occupy himself with. Lena turned to him at once, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh no, you don’t,” she said lightly. “We’ll need an audience — for motivation, if nothing else.” Taissia laughed at that, calling over her shoulder that Lena was quite right, and before he could find a reply, she drew Asya along again — through the garden alive with scent and colour, toward the same sunny clearing beyond the grove where Inga and Zlata had been tumbling with them the day before.

Lena fell a step behind with Yarosvet as they followed the others through the sunlit garden. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, her lips curving in a playful smile. “Taissia and I,” she murmured, “we mean to tame her — for you. So just be yourself, and act as though nothing at all is happening.”

Yarosvet glanced sidelong at her. “A dangerous undertaking,” he said. “Wild things bite.”

Lena only grinned wider, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve a taste for danger, isn’t it?”

Lena, standing at the edge of the clearing, turned to face Taissia and Asya with a bright, conspiratorial smile. “For what we’re about to do,” she said, her tone playful yet assured, “freedom is essential — absolute freedom.”

The word freedom seemed to strike a chord in Asya. Her dark eyes flickered, the corners of her lips curving in faint, almost involuntary agreement. But before she could ask what Lena meant, she saw her begin to move with brisk, decisive grace — unbuttoning, loosening, slipping out of her garments one by one, until not a single thread remained. The spring sunlight caught on the pale smoothness of her skin; she stood unashamed, alive, her hair gleaming like molten bronze.

Asya froze, breath caught somewhere in her chest. Her glance darted to Yarosvet — he was sitting calmly on a fallen birch trunk at the edge of the glade, one arm resting on his knee, his expression composed, thoughtful, entirely untroubled by the scene before him.

Then Taissia laughed softly — that bright, ringing laugh that seemed to belong to the open sky — and began to undress as well, with the same easy confidence, as though shedding her clothes were no more curious a thing than loosening her hair before sleep.

Asya stood motionless for a few moments, her breath uneven, her hands caught halfway between impulse and restraint. Before her, the two girls — radiant and unashamed — moved as if the sunlight itself had come alive in them. Their bare limbs flashed among the dapples of gold and green, their hair — hastily gathered and knotted to keep it from flying loose — gleamed like ribbons of fire and honey.

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