The Poisoned Princess: A Snow White Retelling (The Skazka Fairy Tales)
The Poisoned Princess: Chapter 5

DIMITRI

She’s smiling again. There’s something about that smile that sets off all of my internal alarms. Who breaks into a house and then cleans it? And cooks. It seems odd. Everything about her seems odd. She’s a walking contradiction.

Her skin lacks blemishes or any evidence of sun exposure, a barely noticeable blush at the apples of her cheeks the only color on her face. Besides her eyes. Her eyes are such a startling light green, they look almost yellow. Her black hair is a wild mess, falling all the way down her back, but despite the mess, it’s the shiniest hair I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing a commoner’s sarafan over a simple blouse, but even though it fits her, she seems unused to it. She keeps tugging on her sleeves and pulling the front of the dress down to keep it from riding back.

She reaches for a glass of water, and I notice her hands. They’re slightly scratched, as if she’s been in the woods, but otherwise they look soft—I mean, unblemished. I’m definitely not wondering how they might feel to the touch.

Pulling my gaze away, I replace Igor’s eyes on me, and I raise an eyebrow in his direction. I’m sure he’s wondering the same thing I am. This girl doesn’t look like a commoner. Someone this well-taken care of should have better options than a cottage in the middle of the magical forest that no one should be traveling in right now. But she’s here anyway, and that raises all kinds of questions. I’m certain we’re not compromised. I can’t believe the queen would send a mere girl to replace us. Although, I guess a pretty face would be one way to sway a bunch of men.

I look around at my companions and can already tell they’re being won over by the food. And by the way she’s making sure to refill their drinks with a smile. Maxim is clearly a goner, and Yasha is a close second, humming a little as he chews the food. They are the more trusting of our lot. But even so, they’re good judges of character. Which is curious since they’re reacting in this way. It’s not like they’ve never seen a beautiful woman before.

I stop that train of thought immediately. It’s okay to recognize beauty, but I’m not about to be swayed. Pretty things are often poisonous. I of all people should know that.

Before I can descend into the dark abyss of my memories, Igor nudges me with his knee and then glances down at my food. I haven’t taken a bite of the breakfast she prepared. Not because I’m not hungry, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Eat, Dimitri,” Igor says under his breath. I send a glare his way. I want to hold out, but then my stomach growls and Igor gives me a no arguments look. Rolling my eyes, I take a bite, determined to dislike it. Except it’s actually very good.

Oladi are best when they’re light on the inside and crispy at the edges, and she got that exactly right. My eyes shift in her direction as I chew, and it’s like she can feel me looking. She meets my gaze, with that nearly ever-present smile on her face. My eyes narrow.

Typically, this look sends people running. But she’s completely unfazed, sending an even brighter smile my way.

“I think you’ve met your match,” Igor comments, keeping his voice low enough that only I can hear.

“We’ll see about that,” I reply, taking another bite of the food.

This mission is too important for it to go astray because of a pretty stranger. Whatever her deal is, we’ll thank her for the food and the cleaning and send her on her way.

We spent the last two days on a recon mission to a nearby village, and what we heard doesn’t sit well with me at all. We need to make a plan, figure out what to do next, and get to the castle without raising suspicions. We don’t have time to help a damsel in distress, regardless of how well she makes breakfast.

“So, miss,” Igor speaks up, causing the rest of the table to sit up at attention. “Care to tell us your story?”

IVANKA

I knew it was coming, and I’m still nervous. While they were eating, I’d been trying to perfect the story in my head. It has to be just right or they won’t let me stay. And I’ve decided I want to stay.

There’s something about them that makes me feel…well, not exactly safe, because I know nothing about them, but more like they have a good energy about them. Granted, I could have this all wrong, and they could be raging lunatics waiting to murder me the moment I turn my back. But…somehow that doesn’t seem to be true. I’m trusting that gut feeling. For now.

I keep my guard up, but I want to see if I can trust them. I may be naive and sheltered, but I’m not stupid.

“I know it must seem so strange to replace someone in your home, cooking and cleaning. I simply had nowhere to go, and I was taught that food bridges misunderstandings. It was the best I could do.” I give them a genuine smile, because I am genuinely grateful for replaceing this place. Three of the men seem like they’re on the verge of returning that smile, while one of them continues glaring. One guess about which one.

“What is your name?” the grumpy one demands, his eyes not leaving my face. I have the unfamiliar desire to glare right back. Instead, I raise my chin a little.

“Ivan…ka.” I catch myself at the last moment, and if I didn’t have seven men staring at me, I would hit myself on the head. I’m supposed to give them a fake name, not a nickname for my given one! Clearly, I’m not as smart as I think I am. I’ll need to work on that. But it was my first thought, a name I haven’t heard since my father passed away. And here it will become my secret identity. Maybe I need lessons on how to be sneaky. But too late now.

“Ivanka?”

“Da. It’s my father’s name.”

“So you are Ivanka Ivannovna?” The older one speaks, and I immediately want to smack myself again. In order to greet someone respectfully, it is proper to use the first name followed by a patronymic. I had to go ahead and make it sound like both of my names are the same—which isn’t how a daughter would usually be named, that honor is typically reserved for sons. But too late to back down now. I have to stick with this story.

“Da, my father wanted a son to carry his name, but he had me instead.”

That sounds plausible enough. I study the faces in front of me, wondering if I took it too far, but they seem content with that explanation. That’s probably the least strange thing they’ve encountered today, considering they found a stranger napping on their couch.

“Well, Ivanka Ivannovna, I am Igor Petrovich,” the giant man at the head of the table says, inclining his head in a nod, which I return. His size should make him intimidating, he’s at least one hundred and ninety centimeters—I mean, six six, with broad shoulders and large hands that are probably the size of two of mine. He towers over the rest of them, even though all of them have to be at least six feet tall. But while the others look like warriors, he seems more like a dad, than a fighter. The man on his right pipes up immediately.

“Konstantin Andreevich. You may call me Kostya,” he says. I give him a quick once over as I commit his name to memory. He’s the only one with blond hair, and his eyes are brown and warm. He looks like he’s deep in thought, even right now.

“I’m Maxim!” the man next to him says, grinning and Igor grunts, which makes Maxim glance at him quickly, before returning his gaze to me. “Maxim Romanovich. You make fantastic oladi.”

He was the first to offer a smile and had accepted my offer of food almost immediately. He has a sense of ease around him, which makes me want to smile back.

“Excuse my brother’s childish manners. He’s the baby,” the man next to him says, giving Maxim a look I can’t quite see with his head turned, before he transfers his gaze to me. “Arseniy Romanovich. Please to meet you.” He’s also quick to offer me a smile, but it feels more calculated somehow and very older brother of him. He seems almost polished in his delivery, a bit more like the noblemen I’ve observed visiting the queen. But effortless and not creepy like them.

“And I you.” Now that I know they’re brothers, I can see the resemblance clearly. Even though Maxim’s hair is on the lighter side of brown, while Arseniy’s is dark chocolate colored, they have the same strong nose and cut jaw. They also share similar laugh lines around their eyes and mouth.

“I’m Pavel Vasilich,” the man on the right says, even as Maxim opens his mouth to say something else. “I am typically the one to cook, so I thank you for relieving me of that burden for a day.”

“Burden?” Maxim exclaims immediately.

“Don’t lie, old man,” Arseniy speaks up, matter of fact, “we all know you love it.”

“To cook for you ungrateful lot? It’s a chore every day, but I grin and bear it.”

The others break out in laughter, and even Igor cracks a smile at their antics. I’d have to be blind not to see the comradeship between this group. They seem like a family.

The longing within my heart is quick and sudden, and I push it back down into the depths of my soul, because now is not the time to deal with those big emotions. I turn my attention to the next man on my right instead.

“Yakov Alexandrovich. I prefer Yasha,” he says, with a small nod. He’s got hair nearly the same color as Arseniy, except he’s much darker in complexion, with a full mouth and amber eyes that carry a bit of mischief in them. He’s also holding a balalaika and even now, his fingers move over the strings, without making any sound, almost like he doesn’t want to disturb whatever is happening here, but still needs to be fiddling the instrument. It seems like a habit, and I’m not about to question it right now.

Especially now that we’ve circled back to the head of the table and blue eyes, which I’m thinking of renaming to the grumpy one. He seems determined to stare a hole through me, and I imagine him scrutinizing every single breath I take. The combination of his midnight blue eyes, framed by longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a man, and dark brown hair that looks nearly black and is a little too long and keeps falling into his eyes—da, I would need to be dead not to notice just how handsome he is.

He’s as handsome as he is irritating. He reminds me of this really stubborn cat that lived in the garden when I was younger. It would only show up when it wanted to, glare at all of us if we dared to approach it, and then proceed to perch in the tree and judge whatever was happening in the garden.

“Dimitri,” Igor nudges the other man. “Introduce yourself.”

“It seems you have done it for me,” the man replies. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything else. Okay, I guess a first name is all I’m getting from him.

“Thank you for taking the time to introduce yourselves,” I say, addressing the other much nicer six men. I can feel grumpy—Dimitri’s gaze on me, but I ignore it.

“Gospodin Igor Petrovich.” I turn my full attention—and charm—on the one who seems to be in charge. “I understand this is completely unorthodox, but I would ask of you this one thing. I have nowhere else to go. Would you give me sanctuary for the time being? I can earn my keep.” I motion to the food. “I can cook and clean, and I don’t require much space. I have suffered a tragedy and am left all alone in this world, and I—” My voice chokes up, making all seven of them sit a little straighter, and for a second, I wonder if I should let the tears spill but decide against it. No one has seen me cry in ten years. I’m not about to let these strangers be the first. Instead, I use the diplomatic approach. I clear my throat and continue.

“I understand that I am imposing on you, but you seem like honorable men, and therefore, I must make this request. I ask you, in the name of the land we stand upon, to show me this kindness.”

I place my hands over my heart, holding Igor’s gaze, and trying to ignore the stare from the man on his left. Technically, I understand I’ll have to deal with him if I end up staying, but right now, I’ll take this irritating man over the stepmother who’s trying to kill me.

Igor stands suddenly and the other men follow, bringing my full attention back to them.

“Please stay here, Ivanka Ivannovna, while we discuss your request.”

With that, the men leave, while I stay at the table. Maybe I should be concerned they didn’t ask more questions. Maybe I shouldn’t have so readily told them I’m all alone, and there’s no one to come and rescue me—I suppose there’s a possibility the prince would come for me, but if he thinks I’m dead there isn’t much choice of a rescue. Plus, we don’t have that close of a relationship. No, I refuse to believe anything bad about the men outside. I have to put good energy out into the world. My stepmother has released plenty of bad energy already.

I just hope my positive mindset is enough to convince them to let me stay, because I honestly have no idea what I’ll do if they say no.