The Sparrow in Hiding

By J. Kathleen Cheney

Irina's family has come to the countryside to escape the summer heat of St. Petersburg, but she discovers a new worker has been hired to maintain her family's aviary, a one-armed man who poses an intriguing mystery.

Evgeny is hiding from a witch. With the help of his younger sister, he'd survived the witch's curse, but in the aftermath, he was left with only one arm, eyes that appear inhuman, and an ability to see the truth in others' souls.

Will he ever be safe from the witch again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dream Palace Press
• Release date: Jan 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386304517

J. Kathleen Cheney

J. Kathleen Cheney is a former teacher and has taught mathematics ranging from 7th grade to Calculus, with a brief stint as a Gifted and Talented Specialist. She is a member of SFWA, RWA, and Broad Universe. Her works have been published in Jim Baen's Universe, Writers of the Future, and Fantasy Magazine, among others. Her novels, The Golden City, The Seat of Magic, and The Shores of Spain, are published in by Ace/Roc books. Her website can be found at www.jkathleencheney.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

IRINA STARED OUT the window of the library. Down the hill from the Big House she could see the forest she’d missed all winter long. In the early summer breeze, the birch and pine trees waited for her. Dusk bathed them with a golden glow, long shadows hinting at secrets within those woods. She would visit the forest in the morning, when Illarion would be less likely to fret. Her twin worried over her, and God knew the forest wasn’t always safe.

The lake glittered in the last bits of light. Irina smiled when she spotted one of the farm workers on the shore stripping down to bathe. If she were in a bathhouse, she wouldn’t give her spying a second thought, but for some reason watching the man take off his shirt and boots preparatory to slipping into the water seemed rude.

She didn’t feel too guilty, though. Illarion might chide her for spying, but the man was a beautiful specimen.

Perfect golden curls fell over his forehead. His profile formed the substance of a young girl’s dreams, with a long straight nose and noble forehead. His skin appeared smooth, unblemished by pockmarks or spots, and his short beard was neatly trimmed. Unbuttoning his trousers took all his concentration. He caught his lower lip between his teeth as he struggled with the buttons one handed. Then he won the battle, rose, and let his trousers fall to the ground. He waded in a few steps and dove boldly into the chilly waters.

It wasn’t until the man surfaced and began to swim awkwardly that she realized he had only one arm. His left arm—the side that had been facing away from her—was gone. It looked as if that shoulder was still bandaged. Odd, if he’d lost that arm in the Patriotic War or pursuit of the French afterward; most soldiers had returned two years ago. But she understood now why he’d chosen the lake over the bathhouse. Some veterans preferred to hide their wounds, as if it were a shameful thing to have been injured.

What are you doing? Illarion asked from the doorway.

Like Irina, Illarion had dark hair and fair skin. Her twin was taller, though, and his time in the cavalry had filled his blue-gray eyes with hardness. He rarely smiled any longer, his quiet demeanor now closer to brooding. He came and leaned over her to gaze out the window at the dusk-filled trees. Looking for Mother?

Ah, he hated that she did so. Illarion didn’t want to admit their mother was in that forest. Unlike Father, he’d never believed Mother would return . . . but he didn’t want to admit the truth, either. I was looking at the lake, Irina told him. I saw a peasant swimming down there.

You were spying on him? Illarion peered down at the lake, where the bather had just emerged from the water. Ah, Evgeny Petrovich. I should have known. He’s not a peasant.

Was he wounded in the war? she asked, since Illarion seemed to know the man. They were the same age, or near it, she guessed.

Illarion shook his head. No. Leave it alone.

And that was all he would say on the subject.

The morning’s light coaxed Irina out of her bed early. She threw open her windows to better hear the birds in the trees. The nightingales sang already, calling her out to the forest. Irina didn’t wake her elderly maid, Varvara, but dressed quickly by herself in a high-waisted gown of white cambric a year or two out of fashion. She braided her hair neatly, coiled it about her head, and settled a headscarf over it so she wouldn’t offend any of the peasants. This wasn’t St. Petersburg.

Then she collected her sketchpad and charcoals and headed outdoors. An empty bowl lay on the doorstep, a sign that the dacha’s cook still sought the approval of the domovoi. A smile on her lips, Irina picked up the bowl and set it inside on a table. Most residents of St. Petersburg would scoff at the custom. They had little patience for old superstitions there. They wanted to be modern, like the countries to the west, and so had turned their back on the old ways.

Irina wasn’t sure that was wise. There was magic still in the woods and lakes, magic in the night air, and she carried a bit of magic within herself.

She walked down the pathway toward the lake, her slippers crunching on the gravel. The lake’s water was still. It didn’t call to her, not the way the trees did, so she skirted the lake and walked straight into the forest.

The trees knew her name. She walked along the main path, touching the trunk of each tree as she passed. It was gratifying that they remembered from one summer to the next. They whispered more, greetings and pleasantries, but she never could understand much beyond her name. She wondered if no one else heard them, but never asked for fear that others would think her mad. She’d only ever asked Illarion, and he’d flatly said no.

But she believed. She chose to believe.

At the end of the path stood a large bay laurel tree, the only one in this forest.

Irina laid down her sketchpad and threw her arms about the tree, breathing in the scent of the sun-warmed leaves and the bark. The branches rattled, moving toward her almost imperceptibly. She could feel it, though. Her mother’s arms came about her, guarding her from danger. She stayed there for some time, at ease now after so many months away. I’ve missed you, Mother.

The bay leaves rattled in response, their sharp edges clattering together like tiny swords.

Irina settled at the tree’s base, arranging her skirts carefully to keep them from the dew. She told her mother of everything that had happened since she’d gone back to the city the previous fall, a boring recitation. The last few years had been spent watching her aunts’ and cousins’ children, doing needlework, and sketching trees and birds in the capital’s parks. Irina no longer attended balls or picnics, no longer joined others boating on the Neva River. She did not attend the theater or the opera. All of that had ended for her the year she was twenty, back before the war. In the six years since, she’d learned to get by without any of the frivolities her cousins and nieces enjoyed. She was moderately content, even if no one believed that.

She expected that someday Illarion would dutifully marry, needing an heir to inherit the family’s wealth. She would help raise his children. She could live without a husband of her own. She could even live without children of her own. Her first husband had made her life unpleasant, but she had enough left of her dowry to live on. And Illarion wouldn’t cast her out. As long as her brother lived, she would have a roof over her head.

She spent most of that morning at her mother’s side, telling her mother of the family’s news and sketching the trees all about her. But after a time she returned to the house to eat and then headed out to her aviary. That was her project, the thing that kept her busy all summer, kept her from fretting. It gave her purpose beyond watching her cousins’ children.

The aviary stood at one end of the Summer Cottage. Constructed decades ago, it had been a fancy of the dacha’s previous owner, who’d thought himself a gentleman scientist. Illarion knew how she loved the place and a few years ago had ordered everything repaired and painted. She planted new trees and shrubs inside each summer, each in its own pot or planter. One of the farm workers usually worked in the aviary in the winter while the family was gone, keeping fires lit in the hopes of keeping her plantings alive, although most didn’t survive the cold of the Russian winter.

The Summer Cottage and the aviary were part of her dowry—her place—even if she didn’t have the money to maintain them. Fortunately, she’d brought away from her marriage a great deal of jewelry. She had bracelets and earrings and necklaces aplenty, one for each time Sergei beat her. He’d always returned afterward with half-hearted apologies and jewels, as if stones and gold would make up for his actions. Even though she never wore them, she’d refused to give any back when she left him. Those glittering stones could finance a life here at the dacha.

Her father didn’t approve of the idea, though. He didn’t feel the speculation of society with his every step, not as she did. It seemed she would never outlive the damage Sergei had done to her reputation. Irina was tired of fighting the lies of a man long dead. The dacha was her safe haven, her place away from the curious eyes of gossips.

She stopped on the stone steps outside the door of the aviary, staring up at the dome.

Had she just seen a bird?

No matter its name, the stately aviary had never before held birds.

It was modeled after the aviary at the Pavlosk Palace outside St. Petersburg, with marble columns on either side of the door and a triangular pediment topping the façade. It was even painted yellow, but there the similarity ended. Instead of being a wing of a palace, the aviary was a freestanding building, square with a glass dome in the center. As Irina peered at the glass of the dome, she did see the flutter of wings inside.

She cautiously pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. It smelled warm and earthy inside, the trees and shrubs thriving in their