CHAPTER 15
NEW YEAR’S EVE
Viktor spent the next five days doing whatever work he could around the house—anything to keep his mind off the fight he’d witnessed. Nothing helped. He was sleeping worse than ever. His eyes could neither stay open nor closed.
At first, he wished he had listened to his mother … and his father … and Grandpap. Yet the more angles he studied, the more he thought he was in the right. After all, his parents were hiding something; the entire town was hiding something! And it was those secrets that had driven Viktor and Romulus into their cat-and-mouse card game. Find the Silent Deal, or die.
On the morning of New Year’s Eve, Viktor sat in the Den with Romulus, tired of talking and thinking about the Leopard’s boxing match.
“How do you block everything out? You know, pain … fear …”
Romulus shrugged. “I just don’t wear emotions on my sleeve.”
“Who was that man at the fight?” Viktor asked.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb—the one with the greenish hair. He was staring right at you.”
“I don’t know. I was just as confused as you.”
Perhaps it was the increasingly strange things he’d seen lately, but for the first time in a long time, Viktor began to wonder if Romulus was being honest with him. Everyone else was lying, so why not his best friend, too?
“It looked like he’d just walked out of the forest. You know the creature he looked like, don’t you?” Viktor said.
“If you think that was the Leshy, then you’re as crazy as Mikhail. He still thinks I was raised in these woods.”
“Let’s go visit your grandmother,” Viktor dared.
“I told you no!”
“Who taught you so much about the forest? Why do you have the one object our should-be-fictional enemy wants? And how—when my fingers snapped like twigs—did you get twice the amount of raps from Dimovna and not flinch?”
Viktor meant the attack to have force, but Romulus was unruffled. “Come along, Doubting Thomas. I’ll answer your one question that isn’t stupid.”
Romulus and Blizzard led the way deep into the woods. Viktor fumed most of the way there, but he was too curious to turn back. He was also embarrassed. Hadn’t Romulus done enough to gain his trust? Now what would he make his friend reveal—more sad stories about his past … or something more sinister?
In the winter, the bare trees and the blanket of snow caused much of the forest to appear the same, yet Viktor had a feeling he had never been in this area before. The trees were too perfectly straight. The fog made the forest too still. Then Viktor saw something much more terrifying. He spoke, in a harsh whisper:
“Romulus, something was here before us.”
Romulus looked to where Viktor pointed. A patch of trees on the right had deep V-shaped cuts in the bark, like a beast had sharpened its claws on the trees.
“Someone was here before us,” Romulus corrected.
“The Leopard?”
“No … me. This is the spot.”
Viktor felt suddenly uneasy.
“Relax,” Romulus said. “They’re Norway maple trees. You cut their bark to get sap for syrup.”
“This is your great secret? Syrup!”
“No more questions,” Romulus pleaded. “Just trust me.”
Viktor was tired of being cynical, so he swore to keep his mouth shut and help Romulus in his task—even though it seemed irrelevant and useless. Over the next hour, the boys carved V-shaped gashes in the bark of the trees, kindled small fires at the trees’ roots, and collected the flowing, heated sap in glass jars.
Back at the den, Romulus whipped up some blinipancakes. Then he poured maple sap into a pan over the fire, every few minutes draining the watery liquid that rose to the top. Slowly the sap became syrup; Romulus used half of it to drench the pancakes in sweetness.
The food was delicious, but Viktor’s annoyance peaked as he finished eating. Was there a secret or not?
Finally, Romulus spoke: “After Miss Dimovna broke your fingers, I felt guilty. See, I should have made these for you earlier, but my pride got in the way.”
“Made me what—pancakes?” Viktor asked, watching Romulus put the remaining syrup back over the flames.
“Not quite. See, I couldn’t do this after your hands were beaten up. They had to heal first. But I figured it would make a good present, seeing as your birthday fell a few weeks ago.” He chuckled at Viktor’s expression. “Yeah, you’re mother reminded me when I came over.”
“Hold on, what’s ‘it’? What’re you making?”
“Okay, we’ve only got one chance at this,” Romulus muttered, watching the syrup begin to steam.
“Maybe you should let me in on the plan,” Viktor said.
“Then you might back out …”
“What?”
“Never mind. No time,” said Romulus, grabbing the pan of syrup off the fire. “Just put your hands flat on that desk, palms down, and keep very still. Close your eyes and think of something very happy.”
Viktor got to the “palms down” part when he felt fire course over his hands. Romulus had poured the hot syrup on top of them! Viktor yelped and tried to pull his hands away, but Romulus held his wrists down.
“Just count to ten!” Romulus barked.
Viktor winced and shut his eyes tight. After a moment, it was over. His hands felt cool, almost pleasant. “I—I can’t feel my fingers! Did you burn away my nerves?”
“No, just hold on.” Romulus grabbed a knife and used its point to trace around Viktor’s hands. “Done. Go ahead, see for yourself.”
Viktor looked down at his hands. His fingers felt trapped, as if in a mold, yet at first glance, nothing seemed different. Then he realized it: There was a fine layer of hardened, clear sap across his hands. He yanked his hands off the table and peeled the invisible molds off his hands. The rubber-like material was flexible, yet retained its form. The sap had crystallized!
“This is how you’ve been doing it,” Viktor murmured, holding the molds like they were priceless. “This is why you can’t feel Miss Dimovna’s raps!”
Romulus pulled his own pair of sap molds from his pocket. “These do more than get you out of raps. These give you free reign to do whatever you want at school.”
At noon, the blood brothers met up with Arseni, Rover, and Roksana to spend their boxing winnings at Prospekt Street’s specialty shops. Andrei and the twins would have come, but they were still healing from the boxing match. Meanwhile, Belch was off alone, hatching some new scheme.
Lemontov’s Elixir Liqueur was first on their list. Viktor bought ginger beer for Grandpap, who was fond of the fiery suds. Then Arseni stepped up to the counter last with a tall, black bottle of Fatata brandy. Roksana gave him a judging look, but he assured her he was only using the Romanian moonshine for a new fire-breathing act.
“Well, don’t expect me to stick Pumpkin Patches on your burned tongue,” Roksana said in a motherly tone.
“Good luck getting that bottle into Kasta Way,” the shopkeeper growled mysteriously, refusing to elaborate.
The noble women in The Pushnoy Pastry Shop were even less hospitable. For his parents, Viktor bought bubliki pretzels and pirozhok—baked buns stuffed with fresh fruit, cheese, or meat. Then they left quickly, saving the Confectionary for last.
By the time they left the sweet store, everyone’s bags were plump with sugar-fruit drops, berry buds, Taffy & Toffee Brother’s Chews, caramel apples, and every type of truffle imaginable. The head confectioner had even given them samples of his Silk Road Sweets: Rock-like sugar crystals and the spun sugar of Dragon’s Beard were ancient candies imported from the Far East.
Walking arm in arm with Roksana down Prospekt Street, Viktor found himself laughing and joking while Rover piped tunes for Romulus and Arseni juggled bonbons—catching more in his mouth than his hands. For a sliver in time, Viktor was happy. But his thoughts invariably strayed back to Aryk’s river.
At night, Viktor’s parents dragged him to a New Year’s Eve dinner that would welcome in the year 1840. Yet because he had turned fifteen and his family was in a particularly good mood from finding anonymous pastries at their doorstep, he was excused early and allowed to visit the Town Hall celebration, so long as he returned home after the midnight church service.
Viktor was out the door in a flash, jogging past bars and wild streets toward Town Hall, which sat between Prospekt Street and Town Square. In the winter, the large building held meetings, but tonight it would be a place of feasting, dancing, and singing, decorated with lanterns and garlands, bells and pine trees. The crowd would be a mix of serfs who’d cleaned themselves up and nobles who hadn’t been popular enough to be invited to other parties.
“Viktor!” called Romulus, trudging up in the snow.
“Hey! You made it.”
Romulus grinned. “How could I miss the first party I was ever invited to?”
He yanked open Town Hall’s double-doors with a bit too much enthusiasm; the oak banged into the brick walls, momentarily halting the activity inside. He and Viktor stepped inside the grand hall uncomfortably, this time closing the doors softly to cut off the draft of cold air.
Evenova and Charlotta had spotted them during the disruptive entrance. They cut the boys off as the music resumed. Viktor found them both striking—Charlotta’s blonde hair against her blue dress, Evenova’s tanned features against her green, yet it was their cross expressions that clashed with the ensemble. When Romulus opened his mouth, Evenova slapped him in the face.
He flexed his jaw. “What the devil is wrong with you?”
Charlotta sniffed. “I hope you know the answer, Viktor.”
No. He was dumbfounded.
“What’s wrong,” cut in Evenova, “is the fact that you both don’t have the decency to think about how your actions affect other people’s feelings!”
Viktor gritted his teeth in a hesitant smile as he produced some of the items they’d bought earlier. “Uh, that’s not entirely true. See, we got you New Year’s gifts.”
Charlotta beamed and stowed one of the caramel apples in her bag. Evenova wasn’t so easily swayed. She grabbed the other one, snapped off the stick, and let it drop to the floor.
“Those are expensive!” Romulus said. He reached to grab it; Evenova smashed it with her boot. “What’s your problem?”
“You!” she exclaimed, her green eyes watering as she grew angrier. “You kept us out of the textile factories and got punished for us, yes—but then you disappeared for weeks without a word. For all I knew, Ulfrik had killed you! But no, here you are gallivanting!”
Romulus scowled. “Viktor, remind me—isn’t this the girl who told me to disappear?”
Viktor shifted awkwardly. Fortunately Charlotta slipped her hand into his and pulled him away from the argument and toward a makeshift bar.
“Thanks,” breathed Viktor. “They do like to bicker.”
Charlotta laughed softly. “You know, she talks about him all day. She’s worried about you two. And … so am I. What’s happened to you?”
Viktor’s dark eyes looked back at her cool, lavender ones. Surely he could trust her. And Romulus already had told them a good amount. The other patrons at the bar were occupied, so in a whisper, Viktor recounted the new things they had learned.
Charlotta’s face went slack. “He killed someone in the last fight?” she murmured. “And he’s looking for the card? Then why haven’t you found the Silent Deal yet? Viktor, don’t you have a plan?”
“We’re working on it …”
The Town Hall doors burst open. The guests gasped as Cappi and Dukker hurtled through the entrance, the shirtless boys spinning and flipping sideways off the walls as they ran. Rover skipped after them, playing a piping hot tune on his flute that summoned a cheer from the partygoers. Viktor thought the worst was over, but then Arseni slid into the ballroom on his knees, clutching a torch and his bottle of brandy.
Viktor winced. “Oh, please don’t—”
Arseni tipped the bottle back and blew a giant ball of fire up into the air. Screams of alarm went up, yet the applause that followed was just as deafening. Meanwhile, Cappi and Dukker began a traditional dance that had serfs joining in. In the Russian style, they clapped and kicked on all fours. Roksana appeared alongside them, spinning with grace as she scanned the party.
“If you wanted to meet Gypsies, now’s your chance,” Viktor said over the music growing in volume.
“Great! I’ll be right back!”
“I was joking,” said Viktor, but too late.
A short nobleman in a top hat took Charlotta’s seat. He rapped his ornate cane against the counter in grandiose fashion. “Oh barkeep!”
Viktor’s ears perked up. The voice was proud and incessant, like a fly that wouldn’t stop buzzing around your ear. “Belch?”
The undersized actor laughed loudly. “No, thank you, strange serf child. My belly isn’t the least bit gaseous!”
The noblemen and women chortled in amusement.
Belch twisted an end of his fake mustache. “Barkeep—I’ll take a vodka tonic on the rocks in a lowball tumbler with equal slices of lime and lemon—better yet, hold the spirit and garnishes—or this serf child may get a ‘belch’ out of me yet!”
Another chorus of laughter echoed around the bar.
“So you want a glass of tonic water?” the bartender droned.
“What I want,” Belch said, adjusting his monocle and glancing at the young noblewoman next to him, “is to treat this lovely lady to dinner, but I’ll settle for two ginger ales!”
Viktor choked on laughter as the nobles rapped the counter, raising their glasses to Belch, who beamed as a mad, joyful looked spread over his face. The young woman next to him blushed.
“Fancy a toffee?” crooned Belch, producing a caramel cube.
“Oh my, you are too kind,” said the lady.
“Sweets to the sweet.”
“How romantic.”
The corner of Belch’s mouth curled up smugly. “Even more so than you think—the phrase was coined from the flowers placed on a lover’s grave.”
Viktor tried to drink from a glass of water, but the liquid shot up his nose.
The noblewoman sighed at Belch. “Must love be heartbreaking?”
Belch stroked her cheek with the head of his cane. “Some, Cupid kills with arrows; some, with traps.”
Viktor couldn’t take it. He spit out a mouthful of water on the floor. Then someone pulled him off his bar stool—Roksana. A slow song was playing as she pulled him in tight.
“We know you and Romulus have the king of spades card,” she whispered.
He accidently crushed her toe. “How did you—”
“It’s obvious,” she hissed, wincing and digging her hands into his shoulders. “You’re the ones he’s looking for—that’s why you came looking for answers. But we can help you. We know one last person you’ve got to talk to: An authority on cards. Arseni is outside with horses. You have to ride to Kasta Way.”
“Why didn’t Belch tell me?”
“Belch is here?”
Viktor nodded at the disguised boy surrounded by aristocrats.
“Can you guess what I did next?” Belch said excitedly. “Why, I turned to that dear lass in the middle of Red Square and yelled, ‘Frailty, thy name is woman!’”
The nobles roared with laughter.
“Forget Belch—he’s an idiot!” Roksana said. “He has no idea what’s going on in Kasta Way. Molotov is banning serfs from the area. Tonight is your last chance of getting through!”
Viktor felt dazed.
“Viktor, find Romulus. You must go … now! What are you waiting for—a New Year’s kiss?” He flushed at the thought. “Fine,” Roksana snapped. She leaned in and pressed her dark red lips to his.
Viktor burned red, and redder still, when he opened his eyes: Charlotta and the twins glared back at him. Charlotta hurled her caramel apple at his head. Viktor ducked.
Belch pointed and screamed. “Something wicked this way comes!”
The flying apple hit Belch’s lady friend in the face. She threw her hands up, dousing Belch with her ginger ale and knocking off his hat and the monocle in his eye.
Belch mopped his face and new clothing with a handkerchief, tearing off half of his moustache in the process. “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!”
The nobles gawked at Belch’s childish face and red headscarf. Without his top hat, facial hair, and monocle, his youth and heritage were apparent.
All too aware that his cover was blown, Belch backed away slowly. “I believe Mercutio would call this next bit a ‘wild goose chase.’”
“Seize the swindler!” a man roared.
Immediately everything turned to madness. As a horde of men chased Belch, the Gypsy twins barreled through the crowd at Viktor. He bolted through a Town Hall that was wet with spilled drinks and hot with arguments.
“Follow me!” Viktor shouted, grabbing Romulus away from Evenova and pulling him out the door.
Cappi, right on their tail, shouted, “I’ll kill you for putting moves on my sister!”
“Did you really?” exclaimed Romulus, skidding to a stop and clothes-lining Cappi with a powerful arm.
“It was her doing!” Viktor yelled back.
“Filthy Aryk-angel!” roared Dukker.
Viktor barely ducked his tackle. “Come on, Arseni has the horses up ahead!”
“What’re we doing?” Romulus asked as they swung onto the steeds.
Arseni checked his pocket watch. “Meeting with someone in Kasta Way. But we’ve got to get there by midnight—that’s our only hope for a distraction!”
“What happens at midnight?” Viktor asked.
“The Chinese flowers bloom!” Arseni dug his heels into his horse before the blood brothers could find out what he meant.
Under a full moon, the three riders flew like shadows across the snowy Southeastern Steppes. Hooves beat the ground like a snare drum; black flanks shuddered. The horses were bred for flights like these, and they nickered at the thrill of a race. Viktor, too, felt hopeful with the wind whipping his face. Tonight could be a breakthrough. The new year could bring new knowledge. He and Romulus might finally talk to someone who knew the secret of the cards.
Ahead, Arseni’s dark coat fluttered in the night air; the Gypsy rode like a madman, checking his timepiece like clockwork.
“One minute! We’re not going to make it!”
The Gypsy crouched in the saddle, as would a jockey. Bending forward, he chanted secret Romani words into his horse’s ears. Though the animal had been riding for twenty hard minutes, it bolted forward as if right out the gate. The other steeds followed suit.
“Twenty seconds to New Year’s!” Arseni said.
They ascended the final knoll before Kasta Way.
“What’s the plan?” Viktor yelled.
“Follow me! Ten seconds! Be silent!”
What had Arseni said—the Chinese flowers bloom at midnight? Viktor glanced down at the icy ground. Will something spring up?
Five. Breakneck speed.
Four. A beating heart.
Three. The roar of celebration.
Two. The crest of the hill.
One. A sizzle shot up into the sky. The year became 1840.
BOOM!
A gigantic orange firework exploded above Kasta Way. Viktor’s horse spooked and bucked him out of the saddle. Flipping sideways, he smacked his shoulder against the horse’s bony knee as his left foot wedged in a stirrup.
Yelling for help was impossible—especially with the bangs of explosives. With the horizon flipped, more colors burst in the sky. Red, yellow, blue, green—some in spheres and some with tails or showering sparks. Viktor flailed desperately. His horse stampeded past Arseni’s.
Around the perimeter of Kasta Way, mounted guards had momentarily turned their backs on their posts to gaze at the firework show. Yet as Viktor’s horse charged by, their gazes snapped away from the sky to the odd sight of a rider dangling by a boot. For a moment, they were frozen, but after Romulus and Arseni broke the line, the men shot after the intruders.
With all the blood rushing to his head, it was hard for Viktor to make out anything but a kaleidoscope of tents and activity. The horse slammed him against people and tent corners until, finally, it skidded to a stop inside a dark shelter.
Viktor freed his aching leg and collapsed into a bed of straw. Apparently the horse had taken him to the stable the Crossbones Clan used, because another black horse burst into the tent; Romulus jumped off its saddle, tied its reins, and rushed over to Viktor.
“Can you walk?”
“I think so,” Viktor muttered.
Romulus pulled him to his feet rather roughly. “They caught Arseni. Come on, hurry.”
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