Irina laughed bitterly. And what happens if those overseers also start getting funny ideas in their heads?
Thankfully, she had not let anyone talk her into buying the house up on the mountain. In her present state, it would have been just another thing to worry about.
Konstantin had liked the house, and she found it moving that he really wanted to have a “nest” for the two of them.
She looked over toward the bedroom, and for the first time that morning, her expression softened.
Dear, sweet Konstantin . . .
She would never have thought that life might still have a great love in store.
He slept so soundly! Like an infant that has drunk its fill at its mother’s breast. He had no sense of fear at all. Dear, dear Konstantin—only youth could be so guileless and carefree.
“You’re right, dear Irina,” he had said, when she turned down the house. “So high up on the hill, we would be quite far away from everything. From the Hotel Stéphanie, everything is close and easy to reach, even at your age . . .”
For a moment, Irina had been uncertain whether she should find his remark insulting. Did Kostia really think she was no longer strong enough to walk up a hill? But then she had seen the look in his eyes, full of love and concern.
Irina had not told Konstantin the true reason for saying no to buying the house. Nor had she informed him that, if the situation did not deteriorate, she was planning to buy a house the following season, but a far larger one. If she was going to keep a home in Baden-Baden, then it would have to be large and appropriately stylish. Konstantin would then have not only a room of his own, but the entire bel étage for his art. He gave most generously of his feelings, and she did not want to be petty in return.
But it was an undeniable fact that her young lover was already an expensive luxury. He loved roulette almost as much as he loved cards. But could she deny him those small pleasures, especially as he neglected his painting for her sake? Everything in life had its price.
“Around four weeks from now—on September thirtieth, to be exact—Kaiserin Augusta will be celebrating her birthday, and I have been invited again as I am every year,” said Irina when she and Konstantin were sitting at breakfast two hours later. While Konstantin wolfed down a plate of eggs, Irina’s gaze kept wandering out through the window into the late-summer garden. “Have I ever mentioned that the kaiserin and I are related? Far, far removed, of course, but I still like to be a little more extravagant with a gift.” Irina pushed the cup of now-cold coffee away in disgust and reached for her champagne glass. “But I would also be only too happy not to go to the party, because it signals the end of the season, which means ‘adieu, Baden-Baden.’”
“Why are you so gloomy today?” Konstantin asked. “There will be a new season next year! It’s up to us to make the most we can of the winter, too! Irina, mon amour, what do you feel like doing? Would you like to go to the sea? What about London? You know I will go anywhere with you. Or what about Monte Carlo? Piotr says that the casino there has been open again for a long time now that the war is over. Irina, when I picture you strolling along the promenade at Monte Carlo in a frilly snow-white dress, a parasol in your hand, the silver handle shining in the glow of the setting sun, the sea, so blue . . . turquoise and azure, and almost green in places—what a sight for a painter!”
Irina laughed, interrupting his raptures. “Now stop it. You’re making my mouth water! Monte Carlo . . . not this year. I fear you won’t much like my next destination.” Irina let out a deep sigh. Now don’t make yourself sound like an old mourner, she reproved herself silently, and she straightened her back. It was better for Kostia to know. “Konstantin, my dear, I want to pay my estates a visit this winter, and make sure that everything is in order.”
“You want to go to . . . Russia?” His eyes were as round as marbles; he looked as bewildered as a child who has just been told that a long-promised outing won’t be taking place.
Irina shrugged apologetically. “Crimea in winter has little to recommend it. So I will be much happier knowing you are there with me. With a man at my side, the unpleasant inspections I have to make will, I hope, be a little faster and a little easier. And there will be a few bright spots, too. Visits to relatives and—”
“Visits to relatives,” said Konstantin in a tone of voice he might have used for “criminals” or “lepers.” He frowned. “Irina darling, when are you planning to pull up stakes?”
“I haven’t set an actual date yet,” she said, taking out a diary bound in white leather. “What about October second? The Saturday before that is Kaiserin Augusta’s birthday celebration. We could have everything packed on Sunday and leave on Monday.”
Konstantin chewed on his lip for a moment, then took a deep breath and nodded slowly. “So about four weeks until we leave. Well, we’d better make good use of the time,” he murmured.
Irina laughed. “Oh, we will, my darling!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
At the end of August, on one of her walks through the meadows alongside Lichtenthaler Allee, Flora noticed a bright splash of violet for the first time—the first autumn crocuses. She quickly turned her back on them.
They were the only flowers that Flora had never liked. Ever since she was a little girl, her mother had drummed into her never to pick the harmless-looking but highly toxic flowers.
That was not the only reason Flora did not find the flowers very lovely. The sight of them was enough to awaken a wistfulness in her, because they were a sign that summer would soon fade. Then the wind would blow across the stubble in the fields, and the land would look barren and dull where cornflowers had stood just a few weeks before.
Flora put the final weeks—before nature gave itself over to hibernation—to good use. Like a squirrel stocking up its supply of nuts, she went out every day and gathered supplies for winter: nicely formed branches, rose hips, thistles, and all sorts of berries and aromatic herbs. She even collected empty snail shells and took them home with her. Soon, from hooks in the shed that was built on to the summerhouse and from the ceiling in the shop itself hung not only many, many bundles of herbs to dry, but hundreds of different flowers and grasses.
“Child, what am I supposed to do with these?” Kuno asked, picking up one of the striped snail shells. But all in all, he was overjoyed at the booty Flora brought back with her from her expeditions, because he had decided to try again with dried flowers that winter. Of course, he also planned to order fresh flowers from more southern regions, but those were sinfully expensive, making a good supply of dried plants and flowers very helpful indeed.
Flora thought it a wonderful idea, and as much as she’d enjoyed gathering all the raw materials, she would also have loved to be there when Kuno’s skilled hands created art from a few thistles and leafy vines. By then, though, she would be long gone, and once again standing in her parents’ packing room, filling seed orders.
“Just look what she’s humping around today—more thistles!”
Flora pressed her teeth together. She did not want to spoil her last Saturday in Baden-Baden by getting into a fight with the brainless little witches at Maison Kuttner. “Thistles! Oh my god! As if she wasn’t prickly enough already.”
“And look—she’s been snipping bits off fir trees, too. Is it Christmas already?” asked one.
“I can’t wait to see what she drags home in winter—ice flowers, most likely,” their ringleader sneered, sending her colleagues into fits of giggles.