Free The Lost Souls of Angelkov by Linda Holeman Page A

the storehouse, simply shrugged when Grisha demanded to know where Mikhail had been taken.
    “You have your money,” Grisha said. “I don’t care if you won’t give me my share—just give me the boy.”
    With his take, he’d planned to add a last piece of good land to the versts he had already bought. He had come to understand, many years ago, that he needed to possess something of his own. And now he did. He would build a house and hire some of the former estate serfs to work for him. He’d been training Lyosha to be
his
steward. He planned to leave Angelkov as soon as the wretched business with the kidnapping was over. It wasn’t about the money for him; it was only about his anger towards Konstantin. Now he wondered why he had been so vindictive.
    “Give back the boy,” he said, making a fist, although he involuntarily winced. Two of his ribs were broken, and in spite of his bluff, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand up to Soso.
    “The others want more money.”
    “More? They got what was agreed upon.”
    Soso dropped the bag with a grunt. “It’s not enough.”
    “Then send another note and ask for more ransom. But don’t think I’ll deliver it without getting the child back first this time.”
    Soso leaned against a stack of filled sacks and lit his pipe. “A bit more money is all they want.”
    “And where is Misha?” Grisha asked him again.
    “Safe. Get me money, and I’ll get you the boy.”
    “Do you think I’ll get you more money if the child is already dead? Am I that much of a fool? Unless I have proof he’s alive, there will be no more money. Get me some proof.”
    “I’ll talk to the others,” Soso said, and sucked on his pipe. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Grisha. “When I’m ready.”
    Grisha knew then that Soso had him in exactly the position he wanted. He saw that it wasn’t only about the money for Soso, just as it hadn’t been for him. It would bring Soso pleasure to make him wait.

    A week after the kidnapping, Antonina sits beside Konstantin’s bed.
    He is in a deep sleep, his lips cracked and peeling, his cheeks sunken. Antonina wonders what he is capable of thinking, of understanding, in this fevered state. Is he suffering over his son? Of course, he loved his child, even though he was not the son he had dreamed of.
    His first marriage had been long and childless. He had wanted the son Antonina gave him to be more robust. He urged the boy to take chances, to ride difficult horses through the meadows and to practise dives, over and over, in the lake on the estate. Konstantin forced Mikhail to skate on that same lake, frozen in winter, until the child’s face was ghostly with exhaustion. He had been proud of the boy for his outstanding musical ability, yes, proud that by the age of five Mikhail could compose melodies. But it wasn’t enough for Konstantin.
    “Is that all he’s interested in?” he asked Antonina when Mikhail was seven. “It’s abnormal for a boy to care more for music than the thrill of the hunt, the horses and dogs, rifles and hunting bows. Look at Lilya’s brother from the stables. Lyosha. He’s still a boy, and yet already so accomplished. Grisha told me that only last week he got three grouse and a fox within an hour.”
    “Lyosha is much older than Mikhail. Don’t compare him to our son.”
    A few years earlier, Konstantin had seen Lyosha kicked by one of the horses. Luckily, it was a small filly, and it was just the edge of her hoof that caught the boy or he might have been seriously injured, even killed. Lyosha was knocked unconscious for a few moments. As he came to, with two of the older stablemen kneeling over him, he grimaced but insisted on getting to his feet. Konstantin later learned that the child’s collarbone and arm had been broken, but he hadn’t made a sound. He had been impressed by the boy’s strength and stoicism.
    “Mikhail should spend more time outside, instead of all the hours at his lessons or