As she did every year, Princess Nadeshda Stropolski, known to her friends as Püppi, had rented a suite with a balcony at the Europ?ischer Hof for the season in Baden-Baden.
She pulled her wrap closer around her shoulders and gazed out from the balcony at the surrounding parks and buildings, all of it silvery in the light of the moon and stars. She loved the view from so high—even in the hours when everyone else was asleep, there was something captivating about it. The enormous trees that marked the course of the Oos River looked like monsters angling for human sacrifices. Soon—when the dawn fog thinned and a pale sun crept above the meadows—the morning concert of the birds would ring from those same trees. Püppi would have been pleased to see how the moon-silvered landscape transformed into a brilliant watercolor, as if a painter had managed to cover his canvas with every shade of green there was, all at once.
By then, though, she would be going to sleep. As she did every day once dawn had broken. Because then she was safe.
From the balcony, she slipped quietly back into the sitting room of her suite. She glanced toward the bedroom, where Konstantin was sleeping—he had no need to fear the kiss of death at night. That was her prophecy. Even after all these years, she heard the voice of the wart-faced gypsy woman in her ears.
Isa, Püppi’s little dog, had curled up beside Kostia’s head as she did every night. Soon, both would awaken, rested and ready to take on the world, while she was old and tired and could finally go to bed.
A shudder went through her. She drank a mouthful of tea and pulled a face. The girl had brought the tray an hour earlier, but until now Püppi had ignored the sharp aroma of the brew in the hope that Konstantin might wake and join her for a cup of tea. The tea was cold, and Kostia still asleep.
It was not so long ago that, drunk with sleep, he had called her to him in bed and they had made love. Love . . .
Püppi’s gaze was drawn to the crackling fire in the fireplace. The maid had kindled it when she had brought the tea. Did she feel so cold because she was tired? Or was it because she was afraid? Fear could feel as cold as ice, too. Püppi knew that better than anyone.
They had arrived in Baden-Baden just the day before. Piotr had traveled with them, which had made the long drive less tedious, at least for Konstantin. That same evening, Count Popo hosted a welcome dinner—nothing big, though, because not all of their friends had arrived yet.
They had all been so overjoyed to see each other again! Prince Gagarin had been so carried away at their return to Baden-Baden that he proclaimed that he was contemplating having a church built in the town. And Matriona Schikanova had announced that in a few days her husband and four sons would be arriving—much to the pleasure of Popo and Piotr, because the Schikanov men were considered outstanding riders and cardplayers whose presence had been sorely missed the previous season when business had kept them in Saint Petersburg. Her dear friend Anna had told the guests about an opera premiere that she had attended in Cairo of Giuseppe Verdi’s Aida.
Irina Komatschova had not talked about it, but Püppi knew that she had spent the winter visiting her estates on the Crimean Peninsula. When Konstantin talked about the marvels of Monte Carlo, Irina’s expression had turned dour, and she had asked if he had at least managed to do a little painting, since the Mediterranean coastline, unlike Crimea, certainly had no shortage of scenes worth immortalizing in watercolor.
Püppi had hurriedly changed the subject. The thought of Konstantin and his painting always made her a little sad.
Dear Konstantin! The urge to go in and embrace him was almost overwhelming. She loved him so much! And he seemed to love her in return, for he had put aside his plans for painting just to be with her through the winter. And, she knew, he had wanted to paint so very much. The winter jasmine. Monte Carlo harbor with all its boats. She herself with her parasol in one of the many parks. But no, for her sake, he had buried his dream of one day being celebrated as a great artist.
Konstantin was still extremely affectionate with her, yet there were moments when Püppi sensed that he paid less attention to her than he did at the start of their travels together the previous October. Sometimes she believed that she even sensed a trace of impatience in him.
As she had the previous evening.
Gagarin’s nephew had begun to play his violin, and Kostia had danced. With Anna. With Matriona. He had even asked Irina to dance, which had softened her sullen expression. The only one he had not danced with was her, Püppi. “I’m sure you must be tired after the long journey,” he had said, and told her that she should look after herself.
Püppi swept a strand of gray hair out of her eyes. She had not been tired, but whenever Konstantin talked like that, she suddenly felt tired. And old. And worn out.
And yet she would have given anything to be young! For Konstantin. For their love . . . or in the end he would regret that he had chosen her over his art after all.
Frowning, she looked at the small bouquet on the table in front of her. Flowers were the favorite subject of many painters, but did Konstantin paint them, too? Or was he more of a portrait artist? Or interested in landscapes?
The truth was that she did not know. She had never asked him to show her his portfolio.
Why hadn’t she become some kind of benefactress for him, a patroness of his art?
So far, she had done nothing—absolutely nothing—for him in that regard.
Someone must have put the bouquet in the room the evening before. Konstantin? No, the pretty arrangement of buttercups, willow herbs, and yellow twigs that Püppi did not recognize did not carry his signature at all. When he gave flowers, it was usually opulent arrangements with roses and lilies that were meant to impress but did not last long. The hotelier, perhaps?
Püppi’s heart suddenly began to beat faster, and she let out a little giggle. Did she perhaps have a secret admirer?
Then she saw the leaflet attached to the bouquet: Sunshine from Sonnenschein’s, it said. Advertising for a florist’s . . . Püppi grimaced. So much for her secret admirer! She’d do better to think about how she could promote Konstantin’s paintings.
Beneath the leaflet she discovered a small booklet: Flora’s ABC of Flowers.
Püppi flipped through the pages curiously. Everybody knew that a four-leaf clover meant good luck, but she was intrigued to see that lavender could be read as a symbol of love and devotion—how very interesting! She went on until she came to the buttercups that made up much of her bouquet, and read: Give buttercups if you can recognize beauty even in old age, and if you love change.
Püppi was taken aback. She loved beauty, and she had no objection to change if it was in her favor.
The illustrations of the flowers were certainly very lovely. In fact, the entire booklet was lovely . . .
Without warning, Püppi had an idea, one that was so thrilling that she grew quite dizzy. A vernissage! An exhibition of Konstantin’s pictures! And this florist would supply symbolically fitting flowers for it.
Dear Konstantin, he should know what it felt like to be a celebrated artist.
The sun was rising slowly into the sky when Püppi finally went to bed. When she woke up, she would seek out the florist behind the bouquet. Change? She was more than ready!
Chapter Thirty-Four
As so often in the late afternoon, the end of the street where the flower shop was located felt all but deserted. The housewives who had done their shopping in the morning were now busy cooking or doing laundry. And the tradesmen and merchants whose workshops and establishments lined the same street as the flower shop were all inside, at work.