Chapter 2
Soviet Russia
December 1922
Claire couldn't believe she'd actually done it. She'd woken up in the dead of night, like she'd planned, she'd slipped out of bed (if the thin-blanketed cot she'd had to sleep on for so long could be called a bed), crept across the floor without waking anybody up, made her way down the rickety old stairs, got into the kitchen for some last-minute supplies, and then managed to open the front door and head right on out of there!
She'd just made it through the orphanage gate, and she'd stopped to admire her own feat.
She'd been dreaming of the moment for years. The moment she'd finally leave that god forsaken place.
She'd started thinking about it practically on arrival, if she was honest. She remembered she'd been found wandering the streets with a head wound and no recollection of who she was (apart from her name, which rang a bell as being right), or who her parents were. Some people had cleaned her up and taken her to the orphanage, but the woman running the place, Ekaterina Popova, had been...less than sympathetic to her plight.
She'd put her on chores right away, and Claire had had no food until she was finished with them all. Apparently she "looked fat enough to survive missing a meal".
She certainly wasn't that fat anymore. Over the course of the next few years it had all been beaten and starved out of her by Ekaterina.
She was much smaller and weaker than her cohorts due to the neglect and the abuse she'd been subjected to. And although Ekaterina detested and mistreated every single child in that orphanage, she held a special kind of hatred for Claire.
Since the very first moment Claire arrived at the orphanage, Ekaterina had made it obvious that she was an unwanted burden, and she'd treated her as such, giving her more gruelling and harder tasks than the other children, and punishing her on a regular basis.
Every orphan met Ekaterina's leather belt once or twice, but Claire had felt the sting of the hard leather against her skin more times than she could remember. She had scars – big, nasty scars that covered part of her upper and lower back – to prove it.
She couldn't understand why Ekaterina detested her so, but Claire did know one thing: she was not going to tolerate the abuse any longer.
Back when she'd first been found, her pockets had been filled with diamonds, jewels and precious stones, which she'd been forced to hand over to Ekaterina. The one thing she'd been allowed to keep, however, was a beautiful pendant.
The only clue to her past.
She'd never taken it off. Not even when Ekaterina had threatened her with not feeding her for a week if she didn't turn in the necklace.
But she couldn't hand it over. It had the only words on it that had ever offered her any hope.
"Together in Paris".
She didn't know what it meant exactly. She didn't know who this person she was supposed to be together with was, or if they would even still be there. They might have gone away, given up hope of finding someone who had clearly meant a lot to them once.
But Claire wasn't going to give up hope. Maybe they'd still be there, and be able to tell her who she was.
Now that she'd escaped, she could do it. She could go to Paris, and find out.
And maybe she'd find the love and family that she'd craved ever since she'd arrived at the place she'd had to exist for far too long.
She hadn't wanted to give Ekaterina the satisfaction of kicking her out when she turned eighteen. At seventeen and ten months old, she was confident that she would be able to find a job, and if she needed to, she was willing to lie about her age.
After five year at that orphanage, she was prepared to take any job, no matter how taxing or how low-paying. She was certain that no job could be as bad as living under Ekaterina's roof. Luckily for her, the bakery down the road was owned by a kindly old woman named Irina Zolotova.
Irina seemed to be the only person who actually cared about the children at the orphanage. She was well aware of the abuse going on, so she would always feed them some fresh bread or pastries when they visited her store. She'd also provide them with medicine and some money if they needed it.
Many of the orphans went to her for a job when they were kicked out of the orphanage, and although she couldn't afford to hire them for long, Irina always allowed them to stay for a short while until they found a stable job that allowed them to rent a room of their own.
Naturally, C.C. was planning on asking her for aid first thing in the morning. Irina was the polar opposite of Ekaterina, so seeing as the latter abhorred C.C., the former adored her. Irina seemed to see something in her that other people didn't. But that might have just been her imagination, and the fact that the baker was so kind to everyone.
But it didn't matter. She also offered hope.
She would go first thing in the morning. It was decided. She'd get a job and save enough money to go to Paris.
And then she might have a chance at finding everything out.
But for now, she had to get to the place she was going to use as temporary overnight accommodation – a small cave hidden in the wildwoods. She'd found it ages ago, when she'd left the orphanage to wander the streets for the day, and it appeared that no one knew where it was apart from her.
That made it safe. Which made it ideal.
She'd spent time and effort preparing it, and now all she had to do was make her way there one last time.
One last time, and hopefully never again.
"Come on, Claire," she muttered to herself as she began to trudge her way through the snow. "You can do this."
Surviving this night meant a job. A job meant money. Money meant a train ticket...
She kept going, thinking about which step led to what.
A train ticket meant Paris. Paris meant...
It meant… home? Family? Belonging?
She couldn't quite decide.
She only knew that this was the first step in order to find a place of her own, and Claire dreamed of finding one. Somewhere with a real bed, and real cooked food, and a warm fire that crackled for hours because it was made of logs, not twigs. Part of her felt like she needed it because she'd had it before. But that was ridiculous – again, she was an orphan, found wandering the streets after her parents were probably taken away during the Revolution or something. She didn't know, she didn't remember them.
All she had was the present.
She'd never stopped trying to remember her family. Since the very first moment she'd forced herself to try and think back; forced herself to bring up an old memory that would guide her home...
But she'd never managed it.
Occasionally, her mind would surrender a blurry memory of a long lost past: playing in lush gardens with a young man (her brother, maybe?), dancing on a pair of shiny black shoes, the feeling of gentle hands threading through her hair as a soothing voice told her that she was loved...
And a lullaby.
That was her most prominent memory: a lullaby.
A lullaby that was hers and hers alone. A lullaby she was supposed to sing while thinking about an old woman who loved her very much:
On the wind, across the sea
hear this song and remember
soon you'll be, home with me
Once Upon a December.
It was perhaps the most concrete memory she had, and she couldn't even remember where it had come from.
But if Paris was just around the corner in her life, she could find out. And that fuelled her like nothing else in her life.
She rushed through the streets with the melody echoing in her head and the beginnings of tears in her eyes. Luckily the roads and alleys were deserted, otherwise she'd probably be too distracted to notice if someone was trying to sneak up on her. She was constantly on edge after so much abuse, but if she was overcome with emotion it took the world around her out of focus.
But she made it to her little temporary safe haven.
It might have been a cave, and therefore suspect when it came to dampness and the presence of wild animals, but it was out of the wind and free from snow. She'd packed it with supplies, including candles and blankets, and the extra food she'd lifted from the kitchen that night would make an adequate late-dinner-slash-early-breakfast.
It was far more than she'd had at the orphanage that day, at any rate.
Ekaterina had sent her to the pile of rags she'd had to call a bed without supper, for not cleaning the cellar properly. Apparently she'd been supposed to wash the flagstones, not just sweep them, even though it was so cold down there putting water on the steps was asking for a sheet of ice.
Claire was no stranger to hunger, but escaping had whet her appetite. Her empty stomach churned and twisted painfully, yearning to be filled with something – anything. She reached out for one of the tinned cans of pre-cooked meat she'd heisted from the kitchens, used a knife (also stolen) to crack the can open and peeled back the lid.
She fell on her meal ravenously, almost as if the cold contents of the can were the most exquisite delicacy she'd ever tried. It wasn't obviously, but hunger inevitably lowers the bar.
At any rate, it was better than nothing.
She washed it down with a little vodka, which she'd stored in a small hip-flask Irina had given her a few weeks ago, when she'd found out Ekaterina sometimes punished her by prohibiting her from drinking water.
When she finished her meal, Claire put the empty can and the flask to one side, moved to cover the entrance to her cave (both to keep wild animals and the cold out) and built a small fire with the little tinder she'd been able to collect in the days before her escape. She stacked the kindling on top of the tinder and used a lighter she'd stolen from one of the stores in town to light it.
Despite being small, the fire radiated a comfortable warmth that, combined with having had the most copious meal in over a month, made Claire feel somewhat content. She lay down at a safe distance from her small campfire and wrapped her blankets tightly around her, and even if it wasn't very comfortable or particularly warm, she was thankful to be there rather than at the orphanage. she knew it was bearable.
Although a little room in an inn or above a store would be even better...
There, she could rest after a long day's work and save up money to go somewhere else.
Maybe that somewhere would be Paris, and that someone would still be waiting.
She closed her eyes then, and settled in for what sleep she could get, dreaming of pendants, Paris, and warm reunions.
She didn't see the two figures arrive from nowhere in the cave. The light that announced their presence couldn't be seen by mortal eyes – only by those who'd passed into death. And as such, the only two who were aware of it were the former Tsar and Tsarina.
Stewart hadn't been able to stand seeing C.C. so alone. Their little one had never been alone before the coup that took them from her, and he'd be damned if he was going to sit around watching from the realm of the dead if he could do something about it.
And his wife had been adamant about doing something, too.
So he and B.B. had crossed back into the realm of the living, hoping that their presence in spirit might be able to bring their daughter some sense of comfort.
When C.C. was born, the empire had been disappointed. Noel, their first born and Tsarevich, had always had a notoriously poor health, so B.B. had been expected to produce a second heir to secure the succession to the throne should anything happen to Noel. However, her four subsequent pregnancies had produced only Grand Duchesses rather than the desired second male heir. C.C. had been their last daughter, the baby of the family, and as such she'd been doted on by her parents and older siblings alike. Upon her birth, Stewart had said that their daughter was a gift sent from heaven for, had she been a boy, she would have belonged to the Empire, but as she was a girl, she belonged to them.
Their girl had been perfect: big blue eyes, shiny golden hair, long eyelashes and her mother's sharp features.
Save for her nose – that was (thankfully) all Stewart.
They'd celebrated her arrival in the privacy of Peterhof Palace, and since by the time of C.C.'s birth B.B. had been a seasoned mother of four, she'd loosened up a little with her. Unlike her siblings, the littlest Romanov hadn't been raised in the strict Victorian manner that B.B. had favoured when raising her elder children. Quite the opposite, in fact – C.C.'d been incredibly spoiled, regularly getting new toys and clothes rather than hand-me-downs from her sisters, and she'd also been allowed to get away with murder (most of the times). But despite being mischievous, cheeky, and at times behaving in a manner that bordered on disobedience, she'd been a happy, kind-hearted and down-to-Earth child.
Stewart remembered he would always put her to bed, and her mother would then come and read her a story, always ending it with a goodnight kiss from the both of them. B.B. remember how they would tuck her in, warm and snug in her blankets, and stay with her for a few minutes, until she fell asleep.
Much like they were doing now.
Only the context was rather different.
And a lot more painful...
"Oh, Stewart..." choked out B.B., her voice cracking, "She's skin and bones!"
Stewart could see for himself, and it tore at him. They'd always made sure their children ate well, and the food brought to them was rich, hearty, and full of the most delicious flavours. He wondered if she even remembered eating anything other than bread and tinned foods – things with no taste or nutrition, designed to keep her alive but not for her to actually enjoy it.
But they couldn't feed her, and it was the worst feeling either parent had ever had.
"Isn't there anything we can do?!" B.B. was despairing, and Stewart didn't blame her.
He wanted to be able to provide her with a feast; a never ending one that she could take food from every day, and grow and replenish her strength. He wanted to see her as the beautiful, healthy woman he'd imagined she'd grow up to be, not the frail shivering teenager that they were now seeing.
He wanted even more than that to be alive again, and to hold her in his arms.
Perhaps he could do something like that still? He had no physical body to hold her with, but he felt like there was something he could do. Something to help her, even in a small way. He approached her gingerly, almost afraid that somehow she would wake up and see him, and be afraid.
"Hello, sweetheart," he murmured, sitting by her. "I know you don't remember me. But I'm your Papa and I love you very much..."
B.B. did the same, taking the same seat by her daughter as she would have if C.C. had been in bed at home.
Home...she so desperately wanted them all to go home...!
It wasn't fair. They were a family, and didn't deserve to get split up like this!
"And I'm your Mama," she whispered, tears spilling over before she could stop them. Not that she wanted them to. "And we'll always be here, whether you can see or hear us or not."
They would watch over her for as long as she lived. And when she at last (hopefully after she had achieved a great age and a prosperous life) came to them, she'd be welcomed into their arms with the warmth only family could provide.
A family she had, whether she knew it or not.
Both parents lay at each side of their child, cocooning her in their love. B.B. began stroking her hair, and somehow it must have worked, for the girl hummed in her sleep.
B.B. remembered she'd always liked to have her hair touched.
"You will get through this, Kotyonok," Stewart murmured, rubbing C.C.'s back. "There is still someone waiting for you in Paris."
His mother.
She'd been looking for C.C. tirelessly, offering a fortune for anything or anyone that led to her. Many had tried to con her, but despite any initial joy or glimmer of hope, so far her heart had been crushed more times than she could count.
Marie had been left behind to pick up the pieces of a broken life, too.
But speaking of Marie, B.B. remembered a lullaby she used to sing to C.C. when she was little.
A soft tune that had never failed to soothe her.
"On the wind, cross the sea, hear this song and remember," began B.B. in a soft, loving tone, "Soon you'll be home with me, once upon a December."
The song must have, on some level, got through to her. It must have reached some part of her sleeping mind – the part that remembered who she was – because she relaxed. Like she used to relax in her own bed, just before they turned off her bedside lamp and left her for the night.
But they weren't going to leave her this time.
Especially not as, the longer they sat there watching and murmuring words of comfort, their girl began to twitch and gasp. They exchanged a look of concern. They knew a nightmare when they saw one. What would it be about that night? The orphanage worker locking her in the thin, leaking cupboard? Running through the streets to get to her cave but never making it?
A small, pleading cry told them what it was.
"Papa...No...!"
Oh...
It was that night.
The night they'd all been murdered.
Violence and horror had overtaken Petersburg that night, but his girl had somehow found a way out. Marie had tried to get C.C. to safety – take her to Paris, where they would build a new life together...
But it hadn't been.
C.C.'d fallen off the train.
She'd bumped her head.
And her identity had been lost then, as had the imperial magnanimity of the Romanovs.
Stewart still ached over the loss of his empire, his life, and his family, but nothing hurt more than having left little C.C. behind.
"No... no... Papa... Mama..." she gasped, thrashing on the cave's floor. "Papa... Mama... Noel..."
It hurt worse than the any of the times he'd been stabbed to know that she didn't know that they were there, that they loved her, and that they were never going away.
And when she woke up, she wouldn't remember a thing.
"Stop! Please! Don't hurt them!"
B.B. had her head buried in her hands by that stage, and she was shaking with her own sobs.
She didn't know how much C.C. had seen that night, but it was obviously far too much. Perhaps it was better that the fall had wiped that memory out. She couldn't imagine having to live the rest of her days haunted by it...
"Grandmama, wait!"
Stewart flinched. If only C.C. had managed to get on that train!
She'd be living the life of a wealthy (even if being royal meant nothing anymore) lady in a fine city, with a woman who loved her and would look after her. Not living alone like a vagrant, with no money, real food, or protection. This was not the life she was supposed to have. She was supposed to continue her education, they'd have given her a grand house, and she was supposed to find love and be loved...
But now...what could come of any of that? She had no way of being educated. She had no money for a room, let alone a house. And love...what hope did she have without the time to do anything but look after herself? What man would see her and decide that she was the one, when things were as they were?
She had to rely on herself, didn't she? Herself and the love they could comfort her with from beyond the grave. They could at least sit with her through the nightmares, if no one else was going to be around to do so.
They didn't know how long it took for the nightmare to play out. They didn't know how many words of comfort they whispered into her ear to try and soothe it away to let her sleep. They didn't know how many more times they would have to do it.
But they knew when it was over.
With one final, chilling shout, C.C. bolted upright.
"RASPUTIN!"
And then, as soon as she'd let the word out and started to catch her breath back, it became painfully obvious to her parents that everything had gone back to the way it was before. She'd only remembered them in her nightmare, which was now probably fading from her mind.
Was that the only way she'd ever see and remember who they were? By remembering their deaths in her nightmares? Stewart wondered if it might be better if she just forgot entirely. He hated seeing her suffer as she was, and being unable to do anything but the bare minimum to help...
And maybe not even that.
With a heavy heart, the former Tsar observed his youngest daughter hug herself for a little while, just muttering to herself that everything would be okay. She was not okay, he could tell, but the girl was also strong and stalwart – she'd gotten that from him. She schooled her emotions; forced herself to keep her composure despite the pain and hopelessness. She was a true Romanov.
Strong-minded and decisive when she had to be.
And she'd just made a decision – she had to go to St Petersburg.
She'd had this nightmare before, but she'd never been able to remember anything but loose fragments of her dream: fire, a scent of blood pervading the air, bullets being fired...
But this time... this time she'd noticed something new.
She now knew where most of her family had met their end: at the Winter Palace.
They'd been killed alongside the Tsar, his wife and their brood.
But why had they been there? Who had they been for them to be at the palace the night the Revolution started?
Wiping her eyes, she looked over towards the pile of things she'd brought with her from the orphanage. Tinned foods, extra blankets, candles...little things that upper classes didn't worry about.
"Must've been servants," she muttered to herself, pushing her blankets off and preparing to get up. "Who else would be at the palace, and get in the way of the revolutionaries before they got the Tsar?"
Stewart felt his jaw drop. Of course he couldn't be angry, but it did hurt.
How could it not, when his own precious girl couldn't even think that maybe her family was royal? Did she really not think she was special enough for that?
"Sweetheart..." he sighed, and reached out a hand to at least feign trying to touch her. "If only you knew..."
But she didn't know. That had been taken from her, along with them.
And she was heading for the mouth of the cave. She peered out, checking it was light enough for something.
"Daybreak!" she grinned to herself. "Irina will be up!"
The couple knew who Irina was. They were very grateful to her for looking after their girl. For feeding her and giving her somewhere warm to stay whenever Ekaterina banished her outside. Perhaps she was going to get a proper breakfast. She certainly needed more than the little tin of unidentified something she'd consumed earlier.
"I'll have a job in no time," Claire told herself.
She'd just horrified her mother without even knowing it, and was out of the cave before another word could even be said.
"A...a job..." B.B. would have fainted, had she been a physical presence. "Stewart, our girl...! A job!"
Stewart heard. But he was willing to let it happen without too much complaint. His girl had no home, no money, no one to love her apart from Irina. She needed a job now, if she was to survive.
And that was more important than her pride as a royal, currently.
After all, what use was being a royal in a country without a monarchy?
They followed her out, Stewart consoling his wife all the way, and Claire unaware that two people were watching her out of the love that she hoped to find. The sunlight made diamonds out of the fresh fallen snow. It crunched pleasingly underfoot as Claire made her way towards the bakery.
The sign on the door was still turned to "Closed" but she knew all she'd have to do was knock and Irina would come running to see who needed her help so early.
And that was exactly what happened. She watched through the store window as the woman hurried in with the speed of someone a third of her age to unlock and open the door.
"Why, Claire!" she was surprised by the early morning visit, and perhaps a little concerned. "Did you come for the first of the fresh loaves?"
She then lowered her voice, in case there were any passers-by (not that there were).
"Or did she kick you out at this time of the morning?"
The look on the girl's face told Irina everything she needed to know. Over the years she'd taken in countless of escapees from Ekaterina's orphanage. They all had that same look in their eyes – the tiredness of a long (sometimes sleepless) night, the fear of being discovered, and the blossoming feeling of freedom born out of their decision to flee.
Claire was no different, but in her eyes she saw a special glint.
A sort of mischievous glint that spoke volumes.
She had something up her sleeve, and Claire being Claire, wouldn't say a peep until the time was right.
"Come on in," Irina said, ushering the teenager in "I'll prepare you some tea and give you fresh clothes. You need them after a night in the woods. Then, we can discuss your little plan over breakfast."
"How did you–"
"Please, my darling girl," smirked Irina, planting her left hand on her hip, "You are not the first, and certainly won't be the last, orphan to escape Ekaterina's tyranny. Now, chop-chop, get inside, time's a waistin'!"
Well, things were certainly moving a lot quicker than Claire had expected! She did as she was told, and stepped inside.
The ovens must have been on for a little while, because the room was warm and the smell of baking bread was just starting to drift. Soon it would be out the door, and start enticing customers towards the shop. Perhaps even other children from the orphanage, who might have been denied breakfast and had come looking for something, anything that Irina could give. Bread, biscuits, cakes...
It made Claire's mouth water just thinking about it! And as she stepped through into the back of the shop and went up the stairs to Irina's little apartment, the kitchen table greeted her with a very tempting sight.
A honey cake, mostly untouched but for one slice taken out.
But she didn't touch it. She seated herself at the table and occasionally allowed herself a glance as she tried to keep her attention on Irina, as the old woman bustled about making the tea.
The woman chatted about this and that as she prepared the drinks, never once appearing to look at her guest.
But Claire also knew that she was often wrong when it came to Irina and what the old woman saw.
"I'll bring a knife over and we can have some of that cake you've been making eyes at," the baker said amusedly.
Claire's eyes immediately snapped forward, and she felt her cheeks redden. Irina chuckled, and turned to finally bring the tea tray over, complete with a knife, and some plates and forks for cake.
"No need to be embarrassed," she settled the whole lot down. "You know I get plenty of people in here hungry for the cakes, and you are most deserving of one after your ordeal."
She lifted up the knife and sliced a great big bit off to slide onto a plate, which she then pushed in front of Claire. The girl looked at her once more, and after another encouraging nod from Irina, she grabbed a fork and dug it into the cake.
The chunk she took away was hefty, and so sweet when she put it into her mouth that she almost cried. It hadn't been very long since she'd last been at the bakery for something Irina didn't mind giving out, but this was different. It tasted even more like heaven than usual, and no one apart from Irina herself appeared to have been near it!
None of the other orphans had been able to try it. She was the first.
It was the first time, as far as she could remember, that she'd had something worth having that the others didn't. And it gave her a renewed sense of hope that there were better things still to come.
But first, she supposed she had to explain why she was there. If she could finish chewing the honey cake!
"Enjoying it?" Irina asked with a soft smile. When Claire nodded, she patted her affectionately on the arm. "Take all the time you need. We'll have a nice long chat about it."
A banging on the front door interrupted them.
Irina's lips became a thin line and her nostrils flared. It was as if her whole demeanour had changed – there was no trace of the warmth and the sense of safety that usually reigned over whatever room Irina found herself.
Frankly, the look on her face was making C.C. a bit uneasy.
"Child, I want you to remain here, no matter what," said Irina, getting to her feet. She sliced some more cake for C.C. and poured her a cup of tea.
All the while, the banging on the door persisted.
"Don't make a peep," Irina ordered, "I'll deal with our unwanted guest."
"Irina!" bellowed a gruff voice that made the hair on C.C.' back stand on end. "Open the damn door! I know she is here!"
Of course it was Ekaterina. She always guessed where the orphans went during the day when they were being punished by not being fed. Straight to the old witch who didn't give them any discipline!
Where could feeding them when they were told not to lead? Telling them that they were right to have ambition and could do what they wanted in life? Giving them proper beds and warm clothes?!
Ekaterina wasn't going to have any of that. She wasn't a charity, though for tax purposes the state was perfectly welcome to declare her one.
And she knew that Claire was upstairs.
And even though the girl was upstairs, she was afraid that Ekaterina would find her somehow.
"Ekaterina, what can I do for you this morning?" Irina asked sweetly, letting Ekaterina in. "I don't open for some time, but I can always make an exception if it means feeding those poor children..."
"Don't play pretend with me," Ekaterina snarled. "There's only one child here that we need to discuss and I know she's somewhere in your store!"
Claire chanced creeping closer to the door to the upstairs landing. She was still out of sight, but it meant she could hear everything a little bit clearer.
And Claire could imagine the look on Irina's face as she stared up at Ekaterina (the woman towered over her easily), and didn't even break a sweat.
But if Claire knew anything at all about Irina, it was that she never broke a sweat. Not ever.
It was this kind of apparent confidence or arrogance that tended to annoy people. Especially Ekaterina.
"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," she said pleasantly. "I haven't even opened my shop yet, how could I possibly have customers in?"
Claire imagined Ekaterina's nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing.
"You are capable of opening a door that reads "Closed", Ekaterina argued. "Didn't you think someone would have seen you before? You've practically had an Army wandering through the place!"
There was the sound of shuffling feet, as though Irina was moving to intercept someone trying to come into the apartment.
It was at that point that C.C. really resented the fact that even though Irina's apartment was small and older than perhaps anyone could tell, she kept it immaculate. And that included repairs, so there were no holes in the floor that she could peer through. At least in the orphanage, she could peer through all kinds of cracks in the walls and holes in the floors to spy and see who was coming. It meant all kinds of colds as well, but it was sometimes worth it.
It meant seeing if there were any potential parents coming to see if they could adopt. At least, that's what it had meant to her when she was younger. The older she got, it just meant seeing if Ekaterina was coming.
But no, the best she could do was listen.
She helped herself to another forkful of honey cake as she did.
"An army, no – hungry people, yes," Irina said, remaining cheerful despite the threat that was no doubt looming over her by now. "None of whom I have seen today so far. Perhaps your own eyes were simply playing tricks on you, Ekaterina? If you had, say, locked one of the children outside, you might have imagined seeing them out of guilt..."
Claire held her breath. Ekaterina never felt guilty about anything – she seemed to lack the capacity. There was only room for malice, and the delight felt at inflicting it on others.
And she'd managed to scare most of the surrounding area, and to fool everyone else, into thinking that there wasn't anything wrong. But the fact that Irina seemed to be keeping an eye out suggested that she had a plan. She wouldn't have mentioned it directly to Ekaterina otherwise.
Was she going to report it to the authorities?
Claire wanted to help if so. She would testify without hesitation if the opportunity came up. The fact that Ekaterina hadn't spoken a word felt dangerous, though. Like she was going to go one step further than just beating the children.
"Are you sure you want to play at this game with me, Zolotova?"
The threat was implicit in Ekaterina's words but, had Claire been downstairs, she would have seen that they produced no effect whatsoever in Irina. She remained stone-faced. If anything, one of her eyebrows twitched slightly, and not precisely because of fear.
If there was something she wasn't, it was afraid of this sadistic woman.
"I'd put that question to you, Popova," replied the baker, "I don't need to resort to the authorities in order to make you regret the day you decided to bully these children into adulthood."
Claire had to force herself not to drop her fork. Her jaw, however, was another thing entirely. In all her years at the orphanage, Claire had never seen anyone so much as make a peep back at Ekaterina, and yet here came Irina, practically making an open threat to her.
It was wonderful.
Heavy footfalls were heard, and a fist banged against the wooden countertop.
"Was that a threat?!" snarled Ekaterina.
Claire could almost see her bloodshot eyes and twitching hairy upper lip.
"Oh my! What a smart cookie we have here!"
Claire's jaw tried to fall even further, but it couldn't. Instead, the movement was transferred to her nearly falling off the top step, next to the stairs.
She was surprised that she didn't hear fearful or rage-filled screaming next.
Instead, it was a deathly silence. Irina was certainly a hero, but the lack of noise was worrying.
She'd told her to stay where she was, but maybe she should go down? The baker didn't deserve any negative treatment that came off the back of this.
"I see how it is, then," Ekaterina probably nodded before she began to pace again. "I'm not afraid of your words, cyka. I'll tear this place inside-out if I so choose, and you won't be able to do a single, damned thing!"
Claire bit the inside of her lip. Ekaterina might not have had that much of an imagination, but she never made threats she didn't intend to carry out. But Irina probably knew that already. She seemed to know everything else, probably from offering food to so many starving orphans.
"I'd like to see you try," said Irina, "And be very careful with what you reply, because reporting you to the authorities is still a possibility."
Again, there was a deathly silence. Ekaterina knew just as well as Irina that she would be in big trouble if the Soviet authorities found out about the way she mistreated the children.
Ekaterina released a loud huff.
"Game on, cyka," growled the poor excuse of a matron.
A sudden loud noise made C.C. jump – it sounded like glass had just shattered. And indeed, Ekaterina had pushed to the floor a beautiful glass dome along with the buttercream cake it had been covering.
This, C.C. knew, was a declaration of war...
But it was a very calm one when it came.
Irina must have made some move – some defensive and yet defiant move. Claire imagined her folding her arms.
"Your newfound attempt to ruin my livelihood will be for a short run," Irina said. "I can always make more cakes, you can't make the children like you."
No, thought Claire. She really couldn't. The woman was just unlikeable - she'd been cruel to everyone, hurt as many as she could, and didn't feel even the slightest bit bad!
She deserved it. Everything that came to her would be earned.
If someone came to take Ekaterina away, Claire wouldn't even blink. She'd be more concerned about what was right.
And replacing the despot in a worn (somehow, even though it had never been used) apron seemed like a better idea than trying to convince one of anything.
Though the authorities would have one heck of a good go at convincing Ekaterina that she was wrong. Probably under a charge like "damaging the property of the state" or something, but still.
Claire might not have remembered the Revolution herself, but she knew about the people who'd replaced the royal family. They were tough on everyone, and dealt out punishments for even the slightest offence.
And this was more than the slightest offence. So even if Irina had said she didn't need their help, the thought of Ekaterina being arrested and sent off to Siberia was...satisfying.
And now it felt like the atmosphere had shifted. She heard someone fetch the broom that Irina always kept in the corner of the store.
"Now, are you going to let me clean up in peace, before I open the store?" the baker asked. "Or are you going to stay and insist on looking for a young woman that I've already told you isn't here?"
Ekaterina spat on the floor as an answer. Claire didn't see her leave, but the dinging of the bell over the door signalled her departure.
"Don't come on down just yet," Irina said called out to Claire, "She is still outside and I don't want her to see you."
Claire wanted to protest; if it weren't for her, Ekaterina wouldn't have come to make any threats or break anything inside the store. But she also knew that despite her warm and kind demeanour, Irina didn't like being contradicted. So she returned to the chair where she'd been sat, and finished her honey cake.
Luckily, Irina was back upstairs in no time, looking just as happy and relaxed as always.
"That was a nasty pest to get rid of," joked the baker, taking a sip of her tea – somehow, Claire noticed when Irina took hold of her cup, her tea was still warm…
But she shook it off. Irina had always done little odd things like that – her house always being spotless and never needing repairing, food and drink and practically anything else she needed for someone always being perfect, and even the local dogs and cats acted differently around her, wanting her to play all the time and rubbing themselves against her!
The odd was practically her normal, so it was hard to question after a certain amount of time. Claire could only put it down to Irina being the closest thing to an angel that the world had.
She was certainly acting like one, looking the girl over with no small amount of concern.
"Did you like the cake?" she asked, sipping her tea as Claire nodded. "It's always been one of my favourites, too."
The baker replaced her cup on her saucer, and peered at Claire more closely.
Claire froze, unsure of what was going on.
"When was the last time that ghastly woman allowed you to take a bath?" the baker asked. "A proper one, not one of those three minute cold wash things."
Claire didn't remember any other kind of bath. Ekaterina didn't like spending time heating water to let the children wash properly, much in the same fashion as she didn't like heating the orphanage to let them not freeze overnight. She almost had an aversion to heat of any kind, and avoided it wherever she could.
She explained all of this to Irina, who listened intently and waited for Claire to finish before speaking.
"Well, in this house we rely on warmth, in more ways than one," she said, rising from the table and starting to gather the cups and saucers back onto the tray. "And we also rely on baths. Would you like me to run yours? It wouldn't be any trouble."
Claire did like that idea, very much. And while Irina got started on the bath, she ordered the girl to go into her room and pick some of her old clothes to wear, when she got out.
Claire did as she was told, and soon she was set up in the most wonderful and perfectly warm bath she felt like she'd ever had. It cleaned the dirt and grime from her body, brought the shine back to her hair, and made her feel less greasy and uncomfortable than she had felt in… well, ever, probably!
When she got out, she slipped into the new dress and stockings (it didn't matter if they were all technically hand-me-downs, they felt so new!), put on Irina's old coat and wrapped a warm knitted scarf around her neck. Irina had also provided her with a pair of brand new leather boots – Claire´s old pair was weathered and falling apart; the leather had cracked and was stained with years' worth of grime, dirt and even blood.
Eventually, after untangling her hair, she returned to the kitchen area, where she found Irina sat back at the table.
At the table, with a large bag. And… a lot of Rubles on the table surface.
"Ah, you are looking much better!" Irina said, getting to her feet and looking at Claire appreciatively. "Sometimes a good bath is all that we need to look and feel better!"
Claire couldn't help but agree. Getting the dirt off her body had made her feel happy, refreshed, even... pretty.
She was actually feeling pretty for the first time in her life. Or at least for the first time since she could remember.
"Would you like me to braid your hair before you go?" asked the baker.
"Go...?" C.C. repeated, a lump starting to form in her throat – was... was Irina kicking her out already? Was it because of what Ekaterina had done to her shop? She didn't want to go... least because of her life-long bully!
In there... in there she felt the most at home she'd felt in years...
"It's not your fault, sweetheart," Irina was quick to clarify; somehow (maybe because of the look in her eyes) the baker knew she was feeling guilty. "But you cannot stay. Not because I don't want you – I'd have loved to give you a job – but because, if Ekaterina finds you, she will take you back to the orphanage, and there is nothing I can do to avoid that while you are still a minor."
Oh. That was something that Claire hadn't thought about. If Ekaterina saw that she was still there, she could complain to the authorities.
And as Claire was still underage, she could legally take her back. Irina might even get into trouble. And that was the last thing Claire wanted, after all the mess she'd already caused!
She had to go, didn't she?
"That is why I am sending you to my cousin, in St Petersburg," Irina continued. "She can give you a position, and no one will know that you are not eighteen."
She finished that sentence with a wink, and pushed the bag towards her.
"I've given you everything you'll need for the journey, plus a little note for my cousin, explaining the situation."
She then proceeded to store the money she'd placed on the table inside a little hemp sack, which she stored inside Claire's larger leather bag.
"Here," Irina said, gesturing at the baggage, "There is food and water inside as well as cutlery and a hairbrush. It will last you for about a week, but I trust you'll be in Petersburg way before that."
Claire's eyes were glued to Irina. She was frozen in place. Incapable of making the faintest of movements. You'd have had to look closely to realise that she was still actually breathing.
It wasn't the bag full of provisions. It wasn't the new clothes. It wasn't the bath or even the honey cake.
It was the money.
She... she'd never seen so much money in her whole life! Irina had to have put over a thousand rubles inside that sack! Was... was she really giving them away? To her? How could she repay her?!
"I...I don't know what to say..."
Irina shook her head, "Don't worry about saying anything, dearie. Just go out there and find what you're looking for."
There was a pause then, and Irina then gave her a smile that Claire couldn't quite determine, feelings-wise. It was knowing, and pleased, and had a hint of something else that she couldn't quite place.
But it made her feel good.
"You know," Irina started up again. "I think I can see your future in St Petersburg."
Claire's eyes snapped up to her from the bag, which she'd finally taken to hold and look at.
A future in St Petersburg sounded...far more promising than any other she'd ever been offered.
And if Irina said she could see it, it had to be true. The baker was never wrong!
She clutched the bag to her, overcome with emotion, and threw her arms around Irina.
"Thank you," she nearly burst into happy tears against her shoulder. "For everything...!"
Irina chuckled, and briefly hugged her back, before releasing her.
"You are most welcome, my girl," she smiled back. "Now, go out there and make your way!"
Claire intended to. She might not know who she was, but this was the first step to finding out. And she was starting life by herself, which was its own rite of passage!
If only she had parents to see her off...
But she couldn't stop to think about that. St Petersburg awaited her, and the life that Irina had promised was waiting.
With another hug and a promise to write, she was out the door into the mid-morning weather. It might have started snowing again, but she barely felt a thing in her new coat, boots and scarf.
It would definitely keep her all the way to St Petersburg.
Irina watched her go from the bakery door, and she eyed the two ghostly figures from time to time. They seemed to be reluctant to leave, and were whispering together.
It had taken Irina only a second of Claire being in the shop to realise who these figures were. They'd walked in with the girl, but she'd been unaware of their presence. Then again, most mortals are oblivious to the dead around them. Irina knew who they'd been in life (apart from the girl's parents, of course) but seeing them in person was different to seeing a newspaper clipping or the heads side of a coin.
And they needed another opinion on what they were currently doing.
"Aren't you going to follow her?" she suggested loudly.
It caused them both to start, the woman giving a yelp, and the man put his arms around his wife.
The Tsar and Tsarina of Russia themselves. She should have guessed it, what with their little lost girl living in the orphanage just down the street!
The little princess that Irina had made it a sort of mission to watch over. Being a witch, her power wasn't limited if she didn't want it to be, and the girl had been in need of a friend.
But she couldn't make it obvious, obviously. Her true nature simply couldn't be revealed to just about anyone, otherwise she'd practically be asking for trouble. No, she liked things just as they were – she kept her magic hidden behind the façade of a kindly old baker, and helped those in need. And Grand Duchess Chastity-Claire had certainly been in need of her help. The princess didn't remember it, but she'd been the one to find her wandering the streets, calling for her parents. She'd cleaned her up and sent her to live at the orphanage; she'd been grossly unaware of Ekaterina's true nature at the time.
Still, her instincts hadn't been entirely out of tune. Irina remembered sensing there was something off about the orphanage so, in order to keep an eye on the girl, she'd quickly settled in the village under the guise of an old baker. She'd taken care of C.C. ever since.
She liked to think she was the girl's unofficial guardian.
Given the fact that the Soviets were still chasing royals out of Russia (or, in many cases, murdering them), Irina had thought it wiser to keep Claire in the dark about her true identity. She knew the girl like the back of her hand; Claire would have set out for Paris ages ago had she known who she really was, and gotten herself killed in the process.
Everything in this (or any other) world has its time. And C.C.'s was only just arriving.
She'd meant it when she'd told Claire that her future was in St Petersburg. Fate awaited for her in the shape of a young bright-eyed man.
Not that she was planning on telling her (or her parents) any of this. This, she knew, was only for her to know and for them to discover.
"You can see us..." the Tsar said, apparently confused.
Irina's mouth formed a line again, "Well, yes. But I'd rather not. Your daughter just left, you see. And you have more business following her than staying. Especially as she will soon be out of sight..."
Both the couple exchanged a look like she had a point, which Irina knew she did.
They then began to smile and nod at one another, heading for the shop door.
But they paused as they went by her, the Tsarina reaching out to her as if they could touch her.
"If we were alive, you would be rewarded so well...!"
Irina gave a small curtsy in return, showing them the respect they deserved both as royalty and as the dead, and then it was time to watch them leave. They turned the same corner that Chastity-Claire, the little lost princess of whom everyone had spoken for years, had, and were then at last gone from sight.
Soon after that, Irina finally swapped her shop's sign from "Closed" to "Open", and started to welcome her first customers of the day.