Free Turkish Gambit by Boris Akunin

cologne (instead of her wonderful Parisian perfume!), stockings, underwear, a comb, hairpins, scented soap, powder, salve to protect against the sun, cold cream, emollient lotion to counteract the effect of wind, essence of camomile for washing her hair and other essential items. Of course, the dresses were quite awful, with the possible exception of only one, which was light blue with a little white-lace collar. Varya removed the old-fashioned cuffs and it actually turned out rather nice.
    But first thing in the morning she already found herself at a loose end. The nurses had gone to the field hospital to tend two wounded men brought in from near Lovcha. Varya drank her coffee alone, then went to send a telegram to her parents: firstly, so that they wouldn't go insane with worry; and secondly, to ask them to send some money (purely as a loan - let them not start thinking that she had voluntarily returned to her cage). She went for a stroll round the camp, on her way gazing in fascination at a bizarre train with no tracks - a military transport drawn by traction engines that had arrived from the opposite bank of the river. The iron locomobiles with the huge wheels puffed heavily and panted out steam as they tugged along the heavy field-guns and wagons of ammunition. It was an impressive spectacle, a genuine triumph of progress.
    After that, for want of anything better to do, she called in on Fandorin, who had been assigned a separate tent in the staff sector. Erast Petrovich was also idling the time away, lying on his camp bed and copying out words from a book in Turkish.
    'Protecting the interests of the state, Mister Policeman?' Varya asked. She had decided that it would be most appropriate to address the secret agent in a casually sarcastic tone of voice.
    Fandorin stood up and threw on a military tunic with no shoulder straps (he had obviously had himself kitted out somewhere too). Varya caught a glimpse of a thin silver chain in the opening of his unbuttoned collar. A cross? No, it looked more like a medallion. It would be interesting to take a glance at what it was exactly. Could our sleuth possibly be of a romantic disposition?
    The titular counsellor buttoned up his collar and replied seriously: 'If you live in a state, you should either ch-cherish it or leave it - anything else is either parasitism or mere servants'-room gossip.'
    'There is a third possibility,' Varya parried, stung by the phrase 'servants'-room gossip'. 'An unjust state can be demolished and a new one built in its place.'
    'Unfortunately, Varvara Andreevna, a state is not a house,- it is more like a tree. It is not built, it grows of its own accord, following the laws of nature, and it is a long business. It is not a stonemason who is required, but a gardener.'
    Completely forgetting about her appropriate tone of voice, Varya exclaimed passionately: 'But the times we live in are so oppressive and so hard! Honest people are oppressed, sinking beneath the burden of tyrannical arrogance and stupidity, but you reason like an old man, with your talk about gardeners!'
    Erast Petrovich shrugged. 'My dear Varvara Andreevna, I am tired of listening to whining about
    "these difficult times" of ours. In Tsar Nicholas's times, which were far more oppressive than these, your "honest people" marched in tight order and constantly sang the praises of their happy life. If it is now possible to complain about arrogance and tyranny, it means that times have begun getting better, not worse.'
    'Why, you are nothing but . . . nothing but . . . a lackey of the throne!’ Varya hissed out this worst of all possible insults through her teeth, and when Fandorin did not even flinch, she explained it in words that he could understand: 'A servile, loyal subject with no mind or conscience of his own!'
    Immediately she had blurted it out, she took fright at her own rudeness,- but Erast Petrovich was not angry in the least. He merely sighed and said: 'You are unsure of how to