Destinies

By Karleene Morrow

Destinies casts light on one of the most extraordinary and little known chapters of European history. It is an epic and beautifully crafted tale of two worlds a thousand miles apart, yet inextricably linked. . . .Bob Atkinson, Author, The Last Sunset

The only thing young Christian Kehler intends to do this spring is to ride his horse around the Rhineland countryside with his friend Donnig behind him on Greybon’s back.

To his distress, he is soon torn from his homeland in war devastated Germany and taken to a distant, barbaric country ruled by an empress named Catherine who has enticed his people with offers of free lands, homes and more. His parents and neighbors quickly accept and escape before Emperor Joseph closes the borders.

While the Rhinelanders are struggling to establish the colony near the Volga River that will become their home, their benefactress, Empress Catherine, is enduring a faithless lover and fearing the court intrigues of spies and false friends that may threaten her life.

Christian, however, is determined to make a good life for himself in this new land, pleased to have the friendship of a Rhineland youth, a Russian blacksmith and a Gypsy woman. . . but as he matures he is secretly torn between loyalty and desire, loyalty to his friend and the fierce love he feels for his friend’s fiancée.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karleene Morrow
• Release date: Jun 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475139624

Karleene Morrow

Author Karleene Morrow grew up in an ethnic family and is a descendant of the German colonists whose history was the inspiration for this novel. She holds a B.S. Honors, Sociology/Psychology and an M.S. Ed Psychology. Now happily retired she lives at the beach in the Pacific Northwest where she shares her home with her Pomeranian dogs, some of them champions, all of them spoiled rotten, beloved companions. Karleene Morrow is also the author of the popular book FICTION WRITING: How to Write Your First Novel

Book preview

Prologue

Rhineland, Germany

1766

If I were younger I could cry my heart out or throw myself on the floor and hold my breath, like my little brother Willie sometimes does. If I were older I might curse my head off like Jakob Prinz the butcher when he is angry, which is most of the time. Or I could punch the wall until my face turns crimson and my knuckles are bruised and maybe even bleeding.

But I am fourteen, and what is a boy of fourteen to do when his world crashes all around him. My father’s closest friends are gathered in the parlor, the six I call The Men. They didn’t arrive until late evening after my brothers and I had been sent on to bed and right off they started muttering words like leaving and going, making me suspicious. I think they have some secret plan that they are keeping from their families.

It isn’t like me at all, but I put my ear to the bedroom door and what I hear sends my mind tumbling, like the rockslide last spring that killed Mrs. Bockenbacher’s dog.

The butcher’s voice suddenly booms across the room, Why in hell would we want to live in Russia with those barbarians?

Russia? I gasp. What does he mean. Live in Russia? I press my ear more firmly against the rough wood of the old bedroom door.

Across the room Willie cries out in his sleep. My heart leaps and I dash to my bed and the feathersack my mother made for my last birthday. I squeeze my eyes closed and pretend sleep. Any minute she will come in to check on little Willie, tuck the blankets around him, stroke his hair and whisper soothingly to him. I don’t know what dreams three-year-olds have, but they must be frightening. Often he thrashes about and groans, sometimes waking Max who is five and does not have nightmares.

But Willie quiets and the boys settle back into their sleeping knot, arms and legs all twined together, Willie’s breath again calm and steady. After a few moments I tiptoe to the door once more and listen.

The country is devastated from these past seven years, Mr. Ulrich, Donnig’s father, says firmly. It will take a long time to recover from that terrible war. This is an opportunity we must not pass up.

Jakob Prinz argues, his voice rising, insisting that if they are patient things will improve.

If we don’t starve first, Mr. Ulrich says.

Mr. Prinz begins one of his tirades but then I am startled to hear my mother’s voice. She and Donnig’s mother are the only women present but women are expected to keep silent when men discuss business. Mrs. Ulrich says nothing, but my mother speaks. Prices rise every day, Jakob, especially in your butcher shop. You grow rich while others grow more poor.

I feel pride at her gentle courage. Mr. Prinz tries to silence her, but even though she is soft-spoken, in the end it is the butcher who is the silenced one.

I remember the day when news came that the long war had ended. People from our village brought what food they could and that night a festival took place in the square. Men drank beer from stoneware mugs and pale wine from glass bottles. The party lasted deep into the night until, filled with food and droopy-eyed from stolen sips of dark brown beer, Donnig and I crawled into the back of my father’s hardwood wagon and closed our eyes against the flaming bonfires and star-bright sky.

For two years since the end of the war that lasted for seven, peace has settled on our village, but often now there is not enough to eat; sometimes I find only a slice of black bread and a dried apple in my lunch bag. Today I felt ashamed to eat my food because some had no lunch at all, like the Lieski children, or the Bettger boys who shared a handful of pumpkin seeds washed down with water from the school well.

The tzarina, the empress, offers us free passage to her country, my father is saying. Free land and more, while here our princes raise taxes, making demands impossible to comply with.

I hear the rustle of paper.

This is the document, he tells his friends. It will be delivered to the tsarina’s ambassador when all have signed who accept her invitation. What do you say?

What do you say, Adam? one of The Men asks. Are you thinking that this is the right thing to do? Are you going to sign?

Yes, I hear my father say. I am and I will do so now. There is silence for a moment and then he says softly, so that I can barely hear him, There. It is done. I am taking my family to Russia. Who else? You, Johann?

Johann Ulrich agrees. One by one my father says his friends’ names and one by one they sign the Russian paper. The butcher grumbles and complains but he must have signed because Mr. Ulrich says, Good, Jakob.

I crawl into my bed scarcely able to hold a clear thought in my head. My mind reels. My heart lurches as I think of Greybon.

Greybon is my horse and my best friend. Besides Donnig, I mean. I don’t know what will happen to her if we go to Russia. I fear my father will tell me that Greybon cannot go. To think of leaving her makes me ache somewhere down inside myself. How can I do it? She will whinny and paw the ground. Her dark, moist eyes will be sorrow-filled and mine will sting with salt.

I curl into the plump feathersack and pinch my eyes tight, though it is night and I would see only darkness if I opened them. I want to sink into the soft bedsack, deeper and deeper, until I disappear. Across the room my brothers are tangled together, their breathing deep and rhythmic. It will not matter to them. They are too young. They do not love a horse like Greybon. They will not remember this old house that has comforted us, sheltered and loved us and been loved in return. They will not miss the forest trails where Donnig and I have flushed up pheasants or our hiding places where every spring we watch deer families with their wobbly-legged babies or the grand birds who come to fish on the backwaters of the river.

I keep my eyes closed tight. Maybe if I pray—my mother always reminds me to pray—maybe if I pray, God might be listening and tomorrow morning when the cold spring sun throws white slashes across the river waters and chases away the darkness at my bedroom window—maybe then my father will say, in that straight-faced way of his, Do not worry yourself, boy. Russia is not for us.

Then I will bridle Greybon and ride to Donnig’s house, and together we’ll go down to the scrub field and call to the ground squirrels who pop their heads out of holes in the earth, scolding us, fearful that we may tread upon their homes.

~~~

Prologue

St. Petersburg, Russia

1766

Elisabeth Petrovna, Empress and Autocratic Ruler of All the Russias, is robed in state; the magnificent bed on which she reposes is appointed in red velvet with silver embroidery and draped by moiré silk curtains. Her own shimmering gown is of gros de Tour threaded with silver. It is one of fifteen thousand gowns imported to her wardrobe from fine German looms, for in all her vast country there is not one single weaver.

The Russian orders adorn her grand attire: the order of St. Katherine as a scarf, a sash of St. Andrew drawn across her waist, St. Alekzander against her right wrist, around her neck a ponderous lace of jewels. Diamonds glitter on every finger and are profusely arranged in her hair.

Elisabeth Petrovna, Empress and Autocratic Ruler of All the Russias, is dead.

Silent and draped in black, I rise from the place where I have kneeled alone for several hours. It is my final daily homage to the corpse of the empress that for forty days has lain exposed to public view.

I am the only mourner. I approach the body. I draw back the black veil from my forehead and look into the face of the dead ruler. I have never looked upon that face with greater pleasure. I reach forward and place a golden crown on the head of the odorous creature before me.

Goodbye Elisabeth Petrovna, I say aloud, though no living person is there to hear me. We shall not miss you.

I turn and walk stiffly from the room.

As I look back on that day, now four years since her death, it seems impossible that twenty years have slipped by since I came to this country. Yet in other ways it seems a torturous lifetime.

I am known as Katherine II, Katherine Alexeievna, but, in truth, that is only my royal name. I was born Sophie Auguste Friedrike, though my dear father always called me Fike. He was the prince of Anhalt-Zerbst and I his little princess. Our small town of Stettin on the German border was in a condition of limited finances, abhorrent to my ambitious mother.

When I was fourteen she learned that the tzarina of Russia, Elizabeth Petrovna, was seeking a wife for her nephew who was her adopted son and who would inherit the crown.

My mother wasted no time in doing all that was necessary to make certain no other princess was chosen. Before I hardly knew what was happening I was whisked away to Russia to meet the great tzarina and her heir, my bethrothed, a small deformed youth repugnant to the eye. I was to learn later that smallpox had left its mark upon his already ill-favored face and rickets had bent his body.

I did not wish to abandon my Lutheran faith but at the tzarina’s direction I threw myself into the study of Russian Orthodoxism and the Russian language. I was already schooled in the classics, philosophy and science and in addition to high German I wrote fluently in French, the literary language of the intelligentsia, all of which found favor with the empress.

When my religious studies were complete I was confirmed into the Holy Orthodox Church and immediately thereafter the empress arranged our marriage. It was a grand and sumptuous affair followed by our being taken to the residence she had chosen for us.

On our wedding night Petr rejected our marriage bed preferring to tickle me and wrestle on the floor. Subsequently, we were ignored by the empress and her advisors, which played well with my husband who was enamored with all things German and whose favored pastime was playing general and drilling his regiments in the manner of his idol, King Frederick II of Prussia. In our bedroom he played with toy soldiers and hung rats from toy gallows.

I, on the other hand, bored beyond belief, chose to read each political piece I came upon, appeared at court at every opportunity, avoided royal intrigue and immersed myself in learning the politics of my new country.

Eventually my husband, who had little interest in me, chose a favorite, a slothful, grotesque woman by the name of Elizaveta Voronstova, almost as mentally deficient as he was.

In nine years my marriage had not been consummated and I was the target of much derision and questioning by Empress Elizabeth who desired a grandson. It was by accident that I met a young chamberlain of the Grand Duke. Sergei Saltikov was as beautiful as my husband was vulgar and I found him enchanting, though some said he was a merry ne’er-do-well.

I was aghast when I discovered myself pregnant, fearing the child would surely show the beauty of my handsome lover, and I suffered excruciatingly throughout the pregnancy. To my astonishment, I birthed a baby boy who had heavy-lidded eyes, a piggish snout of a nose and was, overall, offensive to look upon. I eventually came to understand that while he did not resemble Sergei, he looked very much like Sergei’s fool of a brother, who had the most stupid physiognomy I had ever seen in my life.

I later learned that it was commonly accepted at court that Sergei was the father of my child, but as the boy grew to resemble more and more my hapless husband, some came to think he could be Petr’s son. None knew, as I, that my husband was incapable of physical relations, though many suspected that he was at least sterile, when he did not sire a child with his silly favorite, Elizaveta Voronstova.

Empress Elisabeth may not have heard the gossip flying about court, or more likely chose to ignore it, for she was almost delirious with joy at the birth of the baby. She promptly named him Paul and whisked him to her chambers, refusing me access to him. What she did do was send Sergei Saltikov to Sweden.

The tzarina raised my son as her own, until she became ill and fell repeatedly into convulsions. Petr chose not to visit her, but when she worsened I stayed by her side and nursed her. On Christmas Day 1761 she lost consciousness and died.

My defective husband, Petr III, was now tzar of all the Russias.

Petr ascended the throne and within a few months had all but destroyed the treasury. In another two months his drunkenness and idiotic ukases had alienated the nobility, infuriated our countrymen and finally lost all support of the senate and his ministers.

I was staying at Mon Plaisir when Captain Alexei Orlov, brother of my friend Grigorii, awoke me in the early hours of June 28th. I was not surprised that a coup was about to launch.

Petr was overthrown so quickly and completely that his idol, King Frederick of Prussia, would later say that he allowed himself to be dethroned like a child being sent off to bed.

It seemed wisest to me that he be imprisoned at Ropsha. Alexei wrote me some days later that Petr was released from his imprisonment to dine with the guards wherein a quarrel ensued between himself and one of the officers. When the scuffle was done Petr lay dead on the floor and no one had an explanation.

Alexei begged my forgiveness for the accident that he could not explain. I folded the letter and locked it away, and the following morning it was announced to our people that my ailing husband had died of a colic attack.

Petr was buried and I was crowned in the Kremlin on Sunday, the 22nd of September, 1762.

Over the next months I had many considerations of how to drag my backward country out of its darkness. One of my plans culminated in the Manifesto I had completed. Its purpose was to colonize our eastern lands. Specifically, it invited my former countrymen, proficient agriculturists and artisans, to migrate to Russia at the crown’s expense.

This morning, while walking toward the senate hall, Nikita Panin kept sneaking glances at me until I said, Count Panin, what is it? Why do you keep looking at me?

He drew in his breath sharply and his face took on a slight color. Excuse me, Your Majesty, he said. I did not mean to be rude. It is only that you look so. . .how shall I say. . .you look especially happy, as if you are pleased about something.

I almost laughed aloud. Indeed, I said. We have a plan that will be of immeasurable benefit to our country. We have dispatched our ambassador and his assistants to invite Europeans, the agricultural Germans particularly, to immigrate and settle the lands below the Urals.

The count appeared shocked and completely baffled.

So, I said, you wonder why they would leave their villages and come to Russia.

Ah. Oh. Panin hunched his shoulders as he walked. Well. . .

We have offered them free passage and when they arrive they will receive land and homes, and many other benefits, everything they need to—

Oh dear. Oh me, Panin stammered. The senate. . .they will never approve. . .

How short-sighted my advisors are, I thought. I was a penniless princess of a bankrupt principality. I married the heir to an empire with no dowry and only three dresses to my name. I am Katherine the Second, Empress and Autocratic Ruler of All the Russias, Grand Duchess of Smolensky, ruler of the entire North Region and Lady of Novgorod in the Netherland. My vision is broad. I see no limits.

I admit I could barely suppress a smile as I stood before the senate in the great hall.

Gentlemen, I announced, though they are, in fact, little more than barbarians, We have completed a manifesto which Count Panin will now read. As this is a royal order, it will not require your vote. Eyebrows raised and mouths fell open as they realized they would have no say in whatever they were about to be told. However, I continued, straight faced, We do wish you to be apprized of its content as our delegates have already departed for the European provinces.

When Panin finished reading, I took my leave with great good humor and left the senators there squirming in their chairs.

~~~

BOOK ONE

ONE MAN’S DEEDS ARE LIKE

THE DEEDS OF ALL MANKIND.

. . .Jorge Luis Borges

One

Katherine awakened slowly, the cool sheets sensuous against her bare skin. Sunlight filtered into the room, brushing lavender and blue against her eyelids. She stretched, then curled again into the crumpled satin, not yet ready to surface from the tingling sensations left over from the long night. In slow motion she reached across the bed. Her hand slid on the smooth satin to the emptiness beside her. She came up, fully awake.

Grigorii?

Even as she said his name he had already returned to the bed, crossing the room like a bronzed Roman. He had an easy walk, loose yet arrogant; incompatible movements that he somehow synthesized.

What is it? she said, forcing her breath to an even pattern. The golden hair on his chest curled in soft ringlets and spun downward to the wild springy mass at his groin. An arch at the small of his back reached up to rippling sinews, thickening at his neck and shoulders. God! she thought, he is exquisite.

She pressed her thighs together, feeling her skin cool itself with its own perspiration. Is something wrong?

No. He looked at her and laughed as he drew the covering back and slipped in beside her. What could be wrong on such a morning?

He kissed her playfully, then sank onto the pillows. What an extraordinary night. You are extraordinary. He lifted his bent arms, tightening his fists to raise the muscles on them, then turned to catch her and said, Come love me, woman.

Katherine felt her heart in the hollow of her throat, but she said coyly, As if you could do all that again.

Grigorii pulled her into his arms, forcing her body against the length of his own. His lips found her eyes and cheeks as his hands moved along her hips. She sighed and whispered, Where. . . did you learn to. . .do all this. . .

He stiffened, drew back and thrust her away, all in one motion. The effect was chilling, as if the sun had loosened from its gravity thread and hurled itself through space, leaving a dark, cold place in its wake.

Katherine sat up and tried to catch at his arm. He pulled away and dropped, face down, onto the bed.

Grigorii, I didn't mean. . . She leaned across his back, trying to kiss his buried face, teasing. Come, don't be angry. I didn't mean. . .I am just enjoying.

He shrugged her off and stood up. You enjoy accusing me then? Do you think I go to the whores in the streets to be taught like some initiate, so I might come demonstrate my prowess for you?

No! she said, taken aback. Of course not. I never said. .

He paced angrily around the bed. One doesn't take lessons in love making as though it were horsemanship, you know.

Really, Grigorii. . . .

Perhaps that's how you had your other lovers trained. Did you send them to riding school to learn the fine art of increasing your pulse rate?

She rose to her feet, facing him, her cheeks burning. There are no other lovers. What’s the matter with you? She moved as if to slap him but he caught her arm and shoved her backwards.

I try to please you and you reward me by accusing me of unfaithfulness, he said. Do you judge by your own standards? While I'm away attending to your errands, what are you attending to? Playing house with some performer from the Guard so when I return you can look demure and shocked by my advances?

Katherine stared at him, her expression hard as granite. You forget yourself, sir, she said.

Oh do I? Grigorii snapped. Why is that? Because you are the great Empress of all the Russias?

Indeed I am, Katherine responded in a level voice. I also rule Novgorod, Estonia, the entire north region and twenty-four others if you need a list to refresh your memory. My power transcends this bedroom—yours does not. You will do well to remember that!

Grigorii met her eyes, silenced by the intractable look he saw there. He stood with his arms folded, his head tilted in a pose of outrage.

A trifle overplayed, she said.

I refuse to tolerate your innuendos, he said, his voice less sure, his confidence wavering.

Katherine had recovered her composure. She said, as if to a child, I accuse you of nothing. But if you are not guilty, my dear, why are you angry?

Oh, thrust home, Madame. A quotation from your precious friend, Voltaire?

No, she answered softly. From your precious friend, Katherine.

For once Grigorii had no quick retort and they stood in naked checkmate until Katherine, always one to see the humor of a situation, tipped her head and said, Truce?

Grigorii knew when to draw in his ranks. He lifted his hands in a gesture of boyish defeat and Katherine felt herself melt. He is incorrigible, but what is one to do when the heart eclipses the head? She sighed and moved toward him.

The air felt weighted with his anger, but whether their earlier mood might have been recaptured she was not to know. At precisely the moment when she tried to slide into his arms, she heard a determined rapping at the antechamber door.

She motioned for him to wait and picked up her robe. Moving to the sitting room, she closed the bedroom door behind her. Voices came from the entrance door. She knew that one of them belonged to her skittish chambermaid, protesting some advance.

The voices faded as the chamber door closed with finality. Katherine stepped into the receiving rooms of the apartment and said, What is it, Anya?

The girl whirled round, startled as a spider. She wrung her hands in a habit to which Katherine had finally accustomed herself. It's Count Panin, Your Majesty. He insists on seeing you. I tried to say you was. . .busy, but he won’ leave. He says it’s urgent and he went downstairs to take a chair.

Katherine spoke to the jumpy girl in a gentle voice. What is the nature of this urgency?

Anya's hands churned around each other. I dunno. I'm sorry. Don' be angry with me.

Katherine shook her head in exasperation. Are you ever going to overcome your jitters? When have I been angry with you?

The girl did not answer, but her eyes grew wide as if by her silence she had insured the tzarina's wrath, and she pulled at her reddening hands.

Go downstairs, Anya, Katherine said, dismissing her with a wave. Advise the count that I will receive him in half an hour. Have the cook prepare tea for him. Tell the Friseur to come promptly to dress my hair. And for goodness sake, try not to look as if I beat you.

Anya gave a quick curtsy and escaped through the door, away from the tzarina's penetrating look.

When Katherine returned to her rooms, Grigorii had vanished. The door of the private staircase that led to his apartments stood slightly ajar. But for that small oversight he might never have been there. Feeling an irritation at Panin's untimely intrusion, she went to her wardrobe and selected a simple gown.

The argument left her unsettled. Grigorii's mood changes were always unexpected and she invariably came away the worse for them. She knew him to be sensitive and unpredictable. A human powder keg, with no way to anticipate what might set him off.

The conclusions to his tantrums, however, were consistent. He would go off by himself, presumably to sulk and suffer, but ostensibly to punish her. After a few days he would abruptly appear at table, sullen and morose. She would coax and tease him seeking his forgiveness that he would grudgingly give in particles, never all at once. Eventually she would offer some token to pacify him, jewelry or rubles or occasionally a masquerade held in his honor. On one occasion, when he stubbornly refused to be mollified, she had an estate constructed for him, resplendent with luxurious baths and gardens, stables of thoroughbreds and hundreds of serfs to attend it.

She recalled that afterwards he had been remarkably malleable, like a wayward child who had been reassured that he is loved.

When the hairdresser arrived, Katherine put her personal issues aside. Affairs of state awaited her. Being empress is a heavy burden, she thought. An ordinary person cannot do it. Grigorii, as much as I adore him, is, after all, an ordinary person. I must remind myself not to expect too much of him.

Two

Nikita Panin swept into the royal apartments as if the dogs were upon him. He paused to perform a token bow, then proceeded to whip off his coat as he spoke.

Forgive me, Highness. I'm sure you wonder at my rudeness. If it were not a matter of the greatest importance I would not take it upon myself—

Count Panin, Katherine interrupted, please spare me the preliminaries. Sit down and take a deep breath before you make yourself dizzy. I've had my share of high-strung people today and it's scarcely ten o'clock. Unless the Turks are storming the palace, I would appreciate the tranquility of a calm discussion.

Panin was in such a dither that it took a full minute for her words to impact him.

Oh, do sit down, Niki, she directed, motioning him into a chair. I'm about to take my morning meal. You may join me. We'll talk after breakfast. I never like to receive bad news on an empty stomach.

Panin seated himself as ordered, raising his hand in protest as Katherine carried two mugs to the small table.

A cup will do you good, she insisted. You can lace it with fresh cream since you seem to find my coffee unsuitable.

No more than half, please, he begged when she lifted the pot. I really am feeling quite agitated.

Yes, so I see. But here's Anya with the tray. Some eggs and chevon steaks will calm you. Look, raisin muffins with honey. Here now, a few bites and you'll be quite yourself again.

Panin watched as she spooned food onto a plate to set before him. Katherine's cooks were notoriously careless and he stared, dully, at the charred meat and dry, overcooked eggs. Katherine had an insensitive palate, indifferent to the tasteless food. Her guests were accustomed to the poor table her servants set, even at royal affairs. Panin had eaten many a meal at her parties and most were more indigestible than this one.

He picked at his food while she ate with her usual disinterest, more to fill an empty stomach than to savor the meal, he noted. When she had drained her mug of the thick, bitter coffee, she refilled it and reached for the jeweled snuff box. A pinch to each nostril, a deep breath of satisfaction and the empress appeared ready for business.

You've hardly touched your food, she observed. Your errand must be unpleasant to have so ruined your appetite.

I have little appetite before midday. But indeed my errand is unpleasant. I am the bearer of dreadful information.

Once the count had Katherine's full attention, he spoke in a straightforward manner, since she preferred to receive bad news head on. She didn’t appreciate it being watered down or made palatable by minced words and he made no attempt to soften the impact.

"I had intended to bring you news from the assembly, who refuse to agree on the Nakaz. The issue of freedom for the serfs has caused them considerable concern. That is sufficiently distressing but it pales against the shocking information that has only just been made known to me. There is a woman in Italy who claims the right to your throne. She says she is the daughter of Elisabeth Petrovna and Prince Razumovski and that she has proof of her birth. Moreover, she maintains that her parents were secretly wed and that her father retained the marriage paper."

As he had anticipated, the color leached from Katherine's face. Part of what he said caused her to remember a certain event regarding Razumovski. At the time when she had hopes of marrying Grigorii, she had already heard rumors of Empress Elisabeth's secret marriage. She sent her chancellor to Anitchkov Palace where the aged prince enjoyed his retirement years. When he heard that Katherine sought proof of his marriage to the deceased Empress, he suspected that she intended to use it as precedence for a marriage to Orlov. He took down a book from his shelves and from it withdrew a faded paper. Before the chancellor could stop him, he kissed it and threw it into the fire, saying, For Russia, this sacrifice.

Katherine jerked herself from that memory to hear Panin report, The lady's story has spread throughout Europe and has now been carried to Russia. I regret having to tell you that a great number of people believe her, including many soldiers of the Guard.

Katherine’s face blanched. The Guard brought about my ascension to the throne. They have always been favorably disposed to me.

Not so much as you believe, Matushka. There were some who thought you intended to rule as regent for the little tzarevich, your son Paul. Discontent has risen in the ranks and among some of the officers as well. They resent your not being of the blooded line and feel you duped them in retaining power after they helped you seize it.

Katherine thought of her bastard son, so curiously like her deranged dead husband. I don't believe it, she said.

The concern in her eyes told Panin otherwise and he continued. Under normal circumstances it would be safe to assume that the radical element in the Guard would pose no threat. If not fanned, the extremists' view should dissipate and be forgotten. This news from Europe, however, could be serious. Very serious, indeed.

Well of course she lies.

I don't see that it matters. If enough people believe her to be the true heiress, the result would be the same. She will seize the Russian crown as rightfully hers.

Panin could see the shock slipping from the Empress's face as reason took over. What is the lady's name?

Princess Tarakanova.

Where in Italy does she reside?

Presently in Piza, near Lavorno.

Katherine looked into Panin's eyes with a directness that inclined him to blink. Nikita, she said, answer this in all truthfulness. Do I have the support of the nobility, and of the senate?

As of the moment, yes. No one is ready to see you deposed.

And yourself?

I am always at your command.

Katherine thought a moment. If steps are taken to silence this person, will there be repercussions?

I think not. Panin said. Not if the matter could be handled quietly.

Katherine rose from the table with the confident air of the resourceful leader that she was. Thank you for coming, my old friend. When this problem has been resolved you shall be properly rewarded.

That is not necessary, he said with a sincerity that touched her. Your deep love for Russia is reward enough. You are a great leader, Katherine.

He smiled, warmly. He was a man of unquenchable ambition, capable of reinvesting his loyalties as needed. Where once he was totally committed to the heir apparent, the young Paul whose tutor he had been, he knew now where power was vested and where it would undoubtedly remain. His dedication to Katherine was genuine. It would continue so as long as she endured as Autocrat of All the Russias.

That's what some are already calling you, Katherine the Great.

For once the tzarina dismissed a compliment and when Panin had taken his leave she sat at her writing desk. There was one trusted friend to whom she had always been able to turn in troubled times. How fortunate that at the moment he commanded the Russian Fleet in the Mediterranean. But Katherine perceived nothing unusual in that coincidence. She expected both Fate and God to be favorably disposed to the empress of Russia.

She drew forth a sheet of paper and with bold strokes began her communication.

Three

On the sixteenth day of March, exactly two weeks after The Men had reached their decision, Christian Kehler stepped from the planked porch of his home, down the four board steps and onto the mushy ground. The sky was transparent, washed by the cold sun visible above the far hills. He pulled the worn jacket tight against the wind and set off toward the road. Icicles dripped from leafless trees and from edges of the weathered house. Winter grass crunched beneath his footfall, crisp and wet under the melting snow.

Christian walked close to the road's edge avoiding the sagging wheel ruts now collapsing to mud as the thawing ground gave way to the climbing sun. His thoughts turned to The Men.

From the first day after they had made their decision, households buzzed with activity. Two dozen Bingen families agreed to make the April trip to the great Lübeck seaport. Each morning Christian was called from his bed before dawn broke to dress quickly and quietly while the little ones slept on. The few chores he had always done were increased, added to each day until he could just finish by nightfall when he sat to table, too tired to eat. When at last he crawled, aching, into the plump inviting feathersack, he had little time to dwell on the coming events so quickly and deeply did sleep arrive.

More than a week had passed since he had seen Donnig. Pastor Ekler dismissed school so that even the children would be free to help with preparations. But last night, at supper, his father had surprised him.

Christian, he said with no warning, as was his way. You may rest tomorrow.

Christian looked up, startled, the spoonful of thin stew suspended before his open mouth. Rest? Is it Sunday already?

I leave with Mr. Ulrich in the morning, to meet with the stockman at Frankfort. We'll be able to sell our animals for a higher price than we can get here.

Christian lowered the spoon. And the horses? You will sell them, too?

All the stock except the team and wagon. I will try to arrange a sale for them and deliver on the day we leave.

Christian looked into his food and stirred it.

You may spend the day with Donnig, Adam said to the top of his son's head. Fill the wood box before you go and be home before darkness falls.

Sleep did not claim Christian so quickly that night. He lay in bed, thoughts of Greybon filling his mind.

From the first moment he had seen her on that warm June day last summer, his heart had belonged to the horse. Rosine Ulrich had invited his family to Sunday dinner. After Pastor Ekler's services, Christian had helped the boys into Adam Kehler’s wagon and motioned to Donnig.

Come ride with us, he called. Donnig scrambled off of the open four-wheeled cart, then stopped and faced his mother. May I?

She turned to her husband. Johann?

Johann Ulrich looked down at the eager boy, then to Adam's fine polished wagon. Off with you then, he said. He clicked the reins and the creaking wheels turned behind the big roan carthorse. Rosine waved a hand as Donnig climbed up the Kehler wagon.

"Benimm dich anstandig," she called.

I'll be good, he answered. He watched his father’s wagon wheeze into motion, his brothers and sisters sitting knees-up on the bare wood slab.

Adam Kehler clucked his tongue at the matched Friesians, drew along side the Ulrichs and guided the horses onto the road. Within moments Kehler's wagon tracked smoothly over the hard-packed ground, the cart lost in the dust and distance behind it.

At the Ulrich farm the boys jumped down in excitement, pausing just long enough to help three-year old Willy to the ground.

Wait now, Margreta called to them. Change out of your Sunday clothes. She lifted a cloth sack from the floorboards and handed it to Christian. Help the little ones, she ordered.

They finished dressing and were coming through the netted porch door when the dray pulled into the yard. Adam had already unhitched his team and led them toward the Ulrich barn.

Got something to show you, Johann called to Adam. He helped Rosine dismount the plain, unlined seat. Adam stopped and waited as Johann led horse and cart toward him. The boys skipped along behind Christian and Donnig.

Inside the barn Johann led the way down the row of stalls, past the pen of newborn piglets. The latest family addition, he said.

Christian heard his father chuckle. Now isn't she a sight to see?

Christian ran through the barn and climbed up the widely spaced boards where Adam stood looking into the stall. Christian's head popped over the top rail. His eyes landed on the most exquisite animal he had ever seen. His father opened the gate and stepped inside.

Fine mare, he said. He ran his hand down her front flank. Didn't know you were in the market for a saddle horse.

I wasn't. I'm not. Jed traded her to me for some hogs he wanted. Gonna have to sell her. What do you think she'll bring?

She looks sound. Adam pried her mouth open. Four years, maybe?

Suppose so. About that.

Saddle horses aren't much in demand now, Adam said. Everyone needs teams, but you might send her to the stockman. He's still buying for the army.

I heard that.

Christian stared at the magnificent horse. She held her head high, a silver wedge-shaped head that tapered from a broad forehead to a narrow, delicate muzzle. Over the long, muscular neck her mane lay silver-blue, with the same sheen to her high set tail. Her dappled coat had spots of bluish grey and white. The color blended down her legs until it became a solid shimmering grey above her stocking feet. Large oval eyes looked at him, curious, trusting, intelligent.

Could I ride her? he blurted. I mean. . .

Both men looked at him as if they had forgotten he stood there.

I mean. . .well. . .could I?

A smile touched the owner's face. So, Christian, you like this mare, hmmm?

Oh, yes sir, I do.

Me, too, five-year old Max said.

Ride, Willy cried.

Hold up now, Adam said. Mr. Ulrich isn't running a livery here.

Ah, it's no problem. Johann slid a bridle bit between the mare’s teeth. She's sweet as a candy stick. They can all have a ride before dinner. Soft mouth though, he said. Treat her gently, lads.

He led her out of the barn. The boys followed him through the wide door with unmasked excitement.

You first now. He lifted the toddler onto the horse's back. Now you, he said, swinging Max up behind Willy. He pulled back the mare's mane and fastened the toddler’s small hands into it.

Hold on tight.

Willy held on tight, his eyes round and unsure. Johann handed the reins to the older boy. Go ahead. Take them for a walk.

Christian obeyed. He led the horse across the yard, downhill to the meadow, back up and around the barn.

Yippee, Max called, his feet flopping against the dapple. Giddee yup.

Willy began to cry.

Enough? Christian asked, anxious to complete the ride and feel the mare's back himself.

I guess so, Max said. Willy's such a baby.

Down you go. Christian lifted Willy to the ground. Max slid off by himself and the two scampered away.

Your turn. Christian offered the reins to Donnig, hoping to take his own turn last and therefore longest.

Pooh, Donnig said.

You don't want to ride?

Uh-uh.

It was true that Donnig did not like horses. On occasionally, during especially foul weather, his mother would bundle him up and insist that he and his sister ride the crossbred draft horse to school. Donnig preferred to walk but this she would not accept.

Not in this weather, Rosine Ulrich would say. Your clothes will be soaked. The wind drives too hard. Better you ride than to sit wet at school all day and catch your death. Turn him loose and he'll come home. You can walk back if you must walk at all, but make certain that your sister comes back in the pastor's wagon.

If the weather is that bad we should stay home from school.

It's not that bad, she would say. In the end he would lose the argument and seated firmly behind his sister, a canvas wrapped around them both, they would ride the two miles to school on the warm, lumbering dray horse.

But to plod the school road aboard the broad roan was hardly the same as to ride the open, windy meadow on this sleek-muscled saddle mare.

Sure?

Yeah. I'll go with the little kids 'til you get back.

Christian put his hands on the mare's neck and with a quick bend of the knees, sprang easily to her back, easier than he could do on one of his father's tall black Friesians.

Dinner's near ready, Johann warned. Don't be gone too long.

I won't, he said. His father's eyes were stern upon him. Sir, he added.

But time was his last concern as he rode in the summer breeze, over the meadow, down the trail between thick gumwood trees, along the creek bottom.

She picked her way across the flat wet stones, carried him lightly up the bank and climbed the rising hill. When they reached the ridge her breath was steady and unlabored. Feeling her need to stretch out after the confinement of the barn stall, he let her have her head. The smooth single-foot pattern changed to a cantor and then, free, she broke into a stretching gallop. Christian bent forward and gripped her mane. He squeezed his legs against her belly and hung on as they flew with the wind across the ridge top, high above the creek, the meadow, the Ulrich house.

The Ulrich house!

Whoa, girl, whoa. He tugged at the reins, carefully at first, remembering her mouth, then harder, tighter. Whoa, girl.

She slowed, dropped into her light trot.

Good girl. He patted her and laid the reins across her neck. She turned smoothly.

Christian looked skyward. The high sun had moved west. He must have been away at least an hour, maybe two hours. Dinner would be over. He had been gone too long, blatantly disobeying Mr. Ulrich and taking advantage of this great favor his father's friend had done him. And however much time it had taken them to reach the ridge, it would take that again to return.

The entire way back he considered how he could explain. Grown-ups did not seem to have any difficulties with time. They were always where they needed to be, when they wanted to be. He'd never known a grown-up to mount a horse and ride the creek for the pure joy of it, miss a meal, or gallop like thunder on the crest of a high ridge. No, they rode to church and meetings and market. They rode to hunt. They rode with purpose.

He could think of nothing to say that they would understand. He had disobeyed, that was the thing, and for it he would surely be in serious trouble.

The problem was that he did not know exactly what serious trouble consisted of. He had never been disrespectful to a grown-up before, not outright like this, and so had not met with the punishment it might call for. Jakob Junior frequently got in serious trouble and once the red-faced butcher strapped him until he bled and it took most of the summer down at the swimming hole before the marks disappeared beneath his tan.

Christian remembered when it happened to Donnig. For a whole month he had to do extra chores and wasn’t even freed to attend the big church bazaar, held only two days before his confinement ended.

Christian shuddered. He could not imagine his father's version of serious trouble. As the dapple-grey trotted into the Ulrich dooryard, he swallowed, reined her to a stop and smeared the sweat from his face with his shirt tail. He slid from her back as his father appeared in the doorway, other faces behind him.

Christian opened his mouth but no words came forth. His throat froze as the man hurried toward him.

Christian!

The boy did not move; he felt the tremor start at his scalp and slither its way down through his body. His father's hands were on him.

What happened?

Christian began to shake.

Are you hurt?

Christian blinked. . . .no. . .

Were you lost? Adam leaned toward him, the strong weathered face a map of worries.

. . .oh. . .

What is it, boy?

I'm. . .sorry, he said. His throat thawed and the words gushed out. I forgot. I rode the high trail, past the creek. I didn't know we went so far. I saw three hawks, and it was windy, and I just rode and rode and it was so wonderful and. . .

You certainly did worry us, his father said. Christian saw the stern expression ease and felt an arm circle his shoulder. You must never do such a thing again.

No, sir, he breathed.

Adam straightened, looked at him thoughtfully, and said, Are you hungry?

Christian blinked again. Is that it? Is that all there’s going to be?

Yes, he answered quickly. I am, but. . . He glanced toward the mare that snorted softly. I'd better see to her first.

Go eat, his father said. I'll tend to her.

No. Please. Christian caught him by the arm. Can't I? She'd. . .she'd like me to, I think.

Would she now? Adam eyed his son. See to it then. Rub her well before you feed her.

Yes, sir, he said. Mr. Ulrich. . . He clenched his fist and stabbed at a stick with the toe of his shoe. I'm awfully sorry. I didn't mean—

Johann Ulrich nodded his head. Go on, lad.

Donnig slipped through the door and ran after him. When he caught up, he said, What'd you do for so long?

Nothing. Just rode. Christian turned toward the barn.

I don't see what's so great about a horse. There's lots of things I'd rather do than bounce around on top of some old nag.

Christian led the mare to the end of the barn and began to rub her with the thick piece of blanket he pulled from a wall hook.

Name one.

Go fishing.

Nah, that's different. Fishing isn't doing something.

Well, I'd rather fly.

Ha. When did you ever fly?

I fell out of the hayloft once.

Aw, that doesn't count. Name something else.

I'd rather swim in the creek, Donnig said, or skate on the pond in winter, or go sleigh riding.

Christian nodded. Yeah, those are all good too.

I don't like animals. They smell.

That's because your dad raises pigs. But horses are different. If you ever rode this horse you'd change your mind. I promise. She's like riding the wind. She's like. . .like flying.

Donnig studied the mare suspiciously. Anyway, it don't matter `cause Pa is gonna sell her as quick as he can.

Why?

Can't afford her, he says. Donnig mimicked his father's voice: Can't feed an animal that don't pay for itself or make money, like the hogs. He thought a moment, then added, I think the real reason is because he needs a new wagon. I'll bet he's gonna use the money to have your father build him one.

Christian raised up from under the mare. What?

That's what my mother thinks, too.

Your father needs a wagon?

Sure. You know how bad his is. There's holes all over it and the wheels are about to fall off.

And my father is going to build it?

I s'pose. Your old man's the best wagon maker on the Rhine, everyone knows that. 'Course my Pa can't buy one like yours, not fancy like that. But one with side rails anyway, for hauling to market.

Help me, Donnig. Donnig caught the piece of cloth that Christian flung at him. Do her chest and legs. Hurry. Christian rubbed her rear flanks with long, swift strokes.

What's got into you?

Hurry, Donn. . .

Donnig hurried. In a few minutes Christian led the mare into her quarters. He pulled off the bridle, poured oats into the pail and bolted from the stall, but not before touching her face, caressing her.

See you later, Grey Lady, he said and ran through the door. Donnig scurried after him. They raced toward the house.

Greybon.

What?

Greybon, Donnig puffed. That's her name. Not Grey Lady.

Greybon, Christian repeated, mounting the steps two at a time. At the door both boys stopped and stamped dirt from their feet. A smile crinkled Christian's face. Greybon. What a royal name.

Donnig shook his head. "Christian, you're Ungewohlnlich," he said.

You call me strange? Christian said, boxing Donnig on the shoulder. The pot calls the kettle black.

What?

Don Quixote.

Not him again, Donnig groaned. Have you memorized that whole book?

Not quite, Christian said modestly. But it might come to that, he thought. Except for the Bible he had no other book, and he’d read it four times.

To all outward appearances, the boys walked calmly into the summer kitchen, but Christian's heart thumped erratically. He seated himself at the table where the men sat drinking beer and smoking longpipes. Donnig slid onto the bench next to him.

Christian scooped food onto his plate, listening for a break in the conversation. He picked at the sausage, waited, listened, pushed his food around with a fork, watched his father.

Eat, boy, Adam said. What's the matter with you?

His chance had come.

Donnig says you're gonna build them a wagon.

Plan to.

A hauling wagon, with sides?

Yes.

Like the one you made last month for the peddler?

Approximately the same, his father said. A bit larger.

But not big, not like the one you've been working on for the military?

His father studied him. What's this about, son?

Didn't I help with the peddler's wagon?

Adam nodded. You did.

You said I did a good job. I heard you tell the blacksmith you were proud of me.

Adam mocked a frown. I see I must be more careful. Your head might become too big for your shoulders.

Christian flushed but would not give ground. But you agree that I did a good job?

His father leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. I agree.

Christian swallowed. I could build Mr. Ulrich's wagon.

He waited, but Adam's expression did not change. After a moment he took the longpipe from his lips and said, Alone?

No, sir, the boy admitted, but if you helped some and supervised too, checked each thing as we, I mean I, went along—

Yes?

There's still a long time until school starts. I would work every day and you'd be free to work on the army wagon you've contracted. We'd be working together.

And give up your summer school break?

Christian nodded.

And why? Adam cocked his head. Why would you want to do that?

Then Mr. Ulrich wouldn't have to pay money.

I see. You would do this for nothing, then?

No. He licked his lips and sucked in his breath. For the horse.

There it was. Christian stared at his father but the face remained stoic. Adam mouthed his pipe, staring at his son. Christian turned to Mr. Ulrich but Donnig's father was a mirror image of his father. Finally, Adam spoke.

Where will you get money for the wood and blacksmith's fees?

There's wood in your shop. And you could loan me the blacksmith's fees.

How would you pay it back?

I could work for you every Saturday, clear through the school year, and holidays and next summer.

Adam considered this. That's a high price to pay for a horse.

Christian held his breath.

You know that to give your word means there is no turning back until the job is done?

Yes, sir.

Even if the horse dies, still you must fulfill your word.

If the horse dies? Christian felt the hair on his arms rise. But no, Greybon is young. Healthy and strong. Greybon won’t die. I know, he said.

Adam laughed and to his son's astonishment, shook hands with Johann Ulrich.

Christian, I’m not a tyrant, Adam said. I’ll help you with the wagon and when it's finished you may work Saturday's at fair pay until the debt is reduced. After that, a few hours each week to pay your mare's feed. Do you consider this a satisfactory arrangement?

Overcome, Christian could only nod his answer.

And so it was that Greybon became Christian Kehler's mare. The terms by which he earned her were the most severe test of his young life. Not because of difficult work or long hours; these he did not mind. But rather because the time he spent working, every day save the Sabbath, became time he could not spend with Greybon. Each morning he rose early to let her out to pasture; each night after supper he stayed with her in the barn, sometimes lying in the loft looking out at the stars, talking to her below, telling her stories until his mother's voice called him to bath or bed.

When Christian fastened the last bolt into the Ulrich wagon, there was still three weeks until the start of school. They were the happiest weeks of his life.

Except for his daily chores, Saturday's promised work and Pastor Ekler's sermon on Sundays, he spent every moment with Greybon. He discovered more of the countryside than he thought existed. He rode along the river to the homes of all the families he had ever heard mentioned, some in Bingen, some farther to the south of town than his own home was to the west. Best of all, he convinced Donnig to climb onto Greybon with him and together they enjoyed the waning weeks of the central uplands summer.

All last fall the spotted mare waited for him in the high fields beyond the church yard. When winter came, she carried him to lessons, her flesh warm beneath his trousers. The great snorts of air she blew would freeze, turning white against the winter wind. Always he would give her some treat before he set her loose: a carrot, a piece of sugar loaf, a tidbit from his lunch sack when he had nothing else.

She nuzzled him and pawed the ground when he left her, then turned to trot the snow-packed road back to the Kehler barn. She stood the long day until she heard the voices of the children coming home from school in the back of Pastor Ekler's hay-filled sleigh. Christian's whistle pricked her ears and before the sleigh turned into the narrow entrance road, she was already trotting to meet him.

But one day his whistle did not bring Greybon. Christian found her tethered in her stall. He ran to his father's workshop.

What's wrong with Greybon, he cried, bursting through the door. Why is she tied?

His father replaced the tap auger he had been using and shouldered the door against the blowing storm.

Sit down, boy, he said. Christian recognized the disconsolate tone of his voice. He had heard it only once before, when the baby girl, after repeated miscarriages, had lived but a few hours; when his mother lay bleeding and the old doctor had not come for many hours. Sit down, boy, his father had said that night. I have something to tell you.

Now the sad face looked into his. I have something to tell you, Adam said softly.

Christian choked. Greybon is going to die.

No, no. His father reached to touch him. She's not going to die. She's as healthy as ever. The voice softened again. But she will get weak on the rations she’s been cut to. We can't afford to feed her in these times, Christian. You know things have become difficult since the war. The wagon orders have stopped and now we can do little more than feed ourselves.

I'll work— he pleaded.

There is no work for you. It's Greybon's time to work. She has to leave us.

. . .no. . . Saliva collected in the back of his throat; his heart drummed in his ears as a swelling nausea washed through him. He reeled, not hearing the rest of the soothing words being spoken, and pushed his way through the door into the blowing snow.

Later, his eyes stinging with pain, he watched his father halter Greybon, looping the line over the wagon's rear rail.

The milkman will borrow her until things get better. She'll earn her keep with him. Adam climbed onto the seat without looking at his son. It will only be temporary, we’ll bring her back in the spring. She's a good strong horse. It won't harm her.

Christian stood stiffly, biting his inner cheek, forcing down the lump that welled up his windpipe. He watched the team of Friesians pull away, Greybon stepping lightly at the end of the rope, whinnying softly, unaware that for months to come she would pull a red and white delivery cart through the snowy streets of Bingen.

He swallowed the hard lump at the back of his throat when the wagon, and Greybon, disappeared into the distance and blended into the darkening horizon.

Christian raised his eyes from the mudded road. Ahead he could see the two posts that marked the entrance to the Ulrich farm. He stepped up his pace.

It was over. The horse was gone. All the days and nights of waiting for spring, and for her return, had ended. They were going to Russia, and Greybon could never come home. She had been taken to the stockman this very day, to

Reviews for Destinies

[darleneewilliams · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Destinies commences in 1766 and has parallel aspects throughout: the life of Katherine II and the adventures of Christian, aged 14, a German immigrant. Katherine II, her mother-in-law deceased and her husband conveniently dead in an “accident”, has progressive plans for Russia. On her agenda is colonization of eastern lands with German immigrants courtesy of the Russian treasury. In Rhineland, Germany, villagers meet to discuss Katherine’s proposal. Germany is a war-ravished country on the verge of starvation. The princes of Germany demand taxes citizens are unable to pay. Twenty-four families accept Katherine’s invitation and sign the official documentation. Thus begins a harrowing journey to Russia, which separates the villagers from everything familiar and loved ones forever. The challenges are not over upon their arrival. Seemingly insurmountable obstacles – the lay of the land, lack of housing, apportionment of lots, cruel Russian winters, regulations and restrictions – threaten their survival. We watch Christian struggle to come to terms with life in Russia, mourn the loss of his best friend and horse, rail against life’s unfairness, witness atrocities, take on heavy responsibilities beyond his age and mature into a young man. Through Christian we see the development of a community where once only bare land existed. Morrow excels at depicting Katherine, with her political strengths and personal flaws. A woman determined to forge a new and prosperous Russia, who quells rebellions and vanquishes threats to her throne, yet cannot live without adoration and prodigious expenditures. These personality conflicts will bring Russia and Katherine to the very brink, and sweep Christian and his fellow immigrants into the path of destruction. At approximately 670 pages, one could maybe assume the novel will bog down at some point. Morrow writes so beautifully that even the more mundane events, such as Christian learning to trap, holds your interest. Morrow clearly portrays the daily events of an immigrant community, along with portentous happenings. Destinies is described as an epic novel. I am usually leery of the word “epic”. Oftentimes, the “epic novel” disappoints. Not so with Destinies. Morrow has written a complex, intricately woven novel that fulfills the definition of “epic”. I have only 2 concerns with Destinies; the novels opens with two different prologues, one Katherine’s and the other Christian’s, written in 1st person point of view. The remainder of the novel is then written from a 3rd person point of view. I was a little disconcerted in the beginning and unsure of who was exactly who for a bit. The other time I felt discombobulated was the ending. It seemed to drift off without a clear division between the actual end and what would pass for author’s notes. Despite these minor hitches, I wholeheartedly loved Destinies and unreservedly recommend this novel. Karleene Morrow is an extremely talented writer. I am so impressed with her prowess with the written word, I can honestly say Morrow is on par with today’s pre-eminent historical fiction authors.