Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Golden Samovar by Olga Wjotas

Author:Olga Wjotas [Wojtas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Saraband
Published: 2017-12-18T11:42:15+00:00

Seven

As though from a great distance away, I heard Old Vatrushkin yell, “You devil!”

The pressure on my windpipe disappeared, and there was the sound of a thud.

“If you ever come near her excellency again, I’ll rip your head off your shoulders!” roared Old Vatrushkin.

With an immense effort, I half-opened my eyes and imagined I saw Sasha slumped against the wall, his head spinning round and round. Lack of oxygen was making me hallucinate, subconsciously latching on to the mention of heads.

Old Vatrushkin picked Sasha up as though he were a bag of gherkins and hurled him out of the front door before slamming it shut and locking it.

Babbling incoherently, he rushed over and propped me up in a sitting position. My head felt as though it were spinning even faster than I had imagined Sasha’s was. I tried to speak but no words emerged from my damaged throat.

Old Vatrushkin was weeping now.

“I should never have left you!” he sobbed. “I suspected, who could fail to! But I never thought . . .”

Dazed though I was, it was crucial that I ascertained what had just happened. I swallowed with difficulty and managed an approximation of speech.

“Old Vatrushkin . . .”

His sobs redoubled, but he was beaming. “Oh, your excellency! God be praised, you can speak! May the angels protect you, since I have signally failed to do so.”

“Old Vatrushkin.” It still hurt to talk, but this was important. “Did you just throw Sasha out the front door?”

“Thanks be to heaven, I did.”

“Old Vatrushkin,” I croaked, “that was very rude of you.”

He blinked.

“Your excellency?”

“Sasha was a guest in my house.”

“But, your excellency!”

My head was throbbing and I was going to have the most spectacular bump. I closed my eyes and took a long breath. “What don’t we do? We don’t throw our guests out the front door.”

“I obey your excellency in all things,” said Old Vatrushkin. “Except this.” His brow was creased in anxiety and determination.

“Old Vatrushkin,” I said, “how can I possibly invite anybody round again if you’re likely to throw them out the front door?”

“I am talking only of that devil! He tried to kill you!”

His words made no sense. I must be dreaming. But the way my head ached suggested I was conscious.

“He had thrown you to the ground and was strangling you!” wailed Old Vatrushkin. “If I had been a minute later, you might have been – you might have been . . .” He began sobbing again.

I leaned back against the wall and tried to override the pain. “You have the most extraordinary imagination,” I said. “I keep warning people against making assumptions. Sasha hadn’t thrown me to the ground. I was daft enough to miss my footing at the top of the stairs, and he was rushing to help me. He was obviously checking for a pulse, but just didn’t know how to do it properly. Which is why first aid courses are so important.”

Old Vatrushkin’s mouth was set in a firmly defiant line. “He was trying to kill you,” he said.

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