The holiday passed quickly. Our family broke the Christmas Eve fast in the usual fashion: as soon as the first stars could be seen in the cold night sky, we ate the traditional twelve-course feast, which included mushroom soup and baked fish. The table was loaded with plates of apricots, figs, sweet almond cakes, and rice pudding.
We would not be able to eat most of the Christmas treats, made with butter and cream, until the next day, after the Christmas Mass. But Papa had talked the cook into making his favorite blini with sour cream. The house was cozy, with a fire burning in every fireplace. The familiar scents of tea brewing in the samovar and Maman's warmed cherry brandy smelled like love to me.
After the midnight Mass, my parents decorated the family Christmas tree. Petya and I acted like infants, squealing and giggling as we unwrapped our gifts beneath its heavily scented branches. Petya received a new saddle for his horse from our parents, since he was going into the cavalry, and I gave him a fashionable silk cravat for his favorite white shirt.
Maman received a beautiful ruby necklace that Papa had commissioned by Faberge to match her tiara. There were happy tears in her eyes as she kissed Papa on his whiskered cheek.
I received a number of books: the latest romance by Marie Corel i, a book of poems by Lermontov, and a book of medical drawings by Leonardo da Vinci. Maman enjoyed reading Corel i, which was much too light and ethereal for me. Maman had once told me A Romance of Two Worlds was Queen Victoria's favorite book, and said the Romanian queen was also fond of Corel i's work. I never felt quite as much admiration for either queen after that.
I preferred dull scientific tomes to romances and was eager to retire to my room and delve into the da Vinci book. There was secret knowledge to uncover in science. All romances ended exactly the same way: a girl realized the surly boy she had hated all along was the only person in the universe who could complete her soul. I did not believe for a minute that my soul could be completed by some surly boy.
And I would not wish my curse to harm anyone else. So how could I dare long for love?
Maman smiled as she handed me a package with a Montenegrin postmark. "This came for you earlier this week," she said. "I thought you should wait until we opened the rest of the presents." I opened the brown wrapped package with dread. The card had the Montenegrin royal seal but was not signed, so I could not tell who had sent the gift. It could have been Elena or her sisters, or even the king and queen themselves.
"Hurry up so we can see!" Maman was so excited about my gift that I considered letting her open it. But something told me not to.
It was a beautiful onyx box, decorated with tiny pearls. Worth a small fortune.
"Mon Dieu, Katiya!" Maman said. "You must write a thank-you note immediately!"
I opened the lid and immediately shut it again, sick from what I'd seen. A single tarot card. The Queen of Swords.
"Is there a note inside? A picture of the crown prince, perhaps?"
"Nothing," I lied. Did the Montenegrins know of my mother's superstitions? Or was it just a coincidence?
There was another feast later that morning with even more treats. Apricot creams and strawberry zephyrs. Chocolate babas and gooseberry puddings. And Petya's and my favorite: an enormous marzipan torte. I ate until I thought I would be sick.
We presented gifts to our small household staff after breakfast: the male servants received new shoes made of the finest Parisian leather, while the female servants received silver-handled hairbrushes. I had knitted a pair of mittens for Anya.
"Did you make these yourself?" Anya asked incredulously as she inspected the delicate needlework. A red rose adorned each mitten.
"Of course," I said, more than a little proud of myself. A surgeon needed to be dexterous to execute fine stitches. When Maman taught me knitting and embroidery, I imagined I was sewing up sick and injured people.
Late that afternoon, I accompanied Maman as she delivered presents to distant cousins, and then we visited the Oldenburg Hospital with baskets of oranges for the patients. It made for a long day. I almost fell asleep in the sleigh on the ride home.
I opened the onyx box again before bedtime, staring at the tarot card. It looked much older than the one in my mother's deck. This queen was dressed in a crimson robe and the lettering was in Italian. According to Pushkin's short story "The Queen of Spades," said queen, along with the Queen of Swords, signified secret ill will. I wasn't sure if the card was meant to be a warning. Or a threat. Either way, it seemed like a bad omen, so I threw it into the burning logs in my fireplace.
The flames leapt up and turned a deep violet. I stepped back, dropping the box to the floor.
I heard a gasp from the doorway behind me. Anya.
"What strange, unholy fire is this?" she asked, making the sign of the cross hastily. "Are you practicing witchcraft, Duchess?" I'd never felt more terrible in my life. She was frightened of me. "No, Anya. Of course not. I was getting rid of an old card. It must have been the chemicals in the ink."
She stared at the fire, which once again appeared normal. "Perhaps your father should come and see. In case it's dangerous." She opened the window a tiny bit to freshen the air.
"No, I'm sure everything is fine. I don't want to disturb him or Maman." The last thing I wanted was my mother to become ill again. And though Anya didn't care for the Montenegrins, I thought she would be safer if she didn't know everything about them. I hoped I was protecting her by lying to her.
For the rest of school break, I went to bed every night curled up with my medical journal. After having argued with Papa once more about the stubborn minister of education, I had decided to write a letter of application to the University of Zurich. That was where Maria Bokova and Nadezhda Suslova, Madame Orbel ani's idols, had received their medical degrees.
Every night I fell asleep to articles about childhood diseases or advancements in cranial surgery. I'd like to say I dreamed about finding a cure for meningitis or scarlet fever, but I didn't. Nor did I dream about surly boys. Less than two weeks after Christmas, the Black Mountain nightmares began.