Read Online The Lost Souls of Angelkov by Linda Holeman - Free Book Online

poisoning of the blood, and it’s working its way up his arm. We don’t want it to go into the rest of the body.”
    “Will he live?”
    The doctor shrugs. “It’s in the hands of God now. All we can do is wait.” He turns and starts down the staircase.
    Grisha watches him go.

    That night, Antonina dismisses Pavel to allow him a proper rest. She sits by Konstantin’s bed with Tinka in her lap; she knows that, for her, there’s no point in attempting to sleep. She had taken a number of spoonfuls of the laudanum throughout the day. The blended potion of opium and alcohol allowed her to drift, and she hadn’t wanted to emerge from the dull, dreamlike sensation the murky liquid gave her.
    Now she sits in the dark, her cheek resting on her palm, elbow propped on the wide arm of the chair. The other hand rests on Tinka’s head. At some point she thinks she hears Konstantin murmur something.
    She pulls herself up, holding Tinka against her with one hand, then kneels beside the bed. “Speak, husband,” she whispers. “If you can, for God’s sake speak.”
    In the darkness, she can’t tell whether Konstantin’s eyes are open or not, but she definitely hears him whispering something. “What is it? What are you trying to say?” She puts her hand on his shoulder. It feels bony, as if the flesh is falling away.
    And then she hears him say a name.
    “Grisha? But he’s not here—it’s the middle of the night. Why do you want Grisha?”
    “Grisha knows,” Konstantin says. The second word is a long-drawn-out sigh.
    “Knows what? What does he know? I’ve spoken to Grisha. He’s told me everything that’s happened.”
    “Knows,” Konstantin repeats, so quietly that Antonina has to put her ear to his mouth.
    “Knows what?” Antonina asks again, but Konstantin is silent. She firms her grip on his shoulder to try to wake him, but it’s no use; he has fallen back into a state of deep sleep, or unconsciousness.
    Antonina knows that the poison from the wound is making him this ill, that it might have been prevented had he allowed his hand to be looked after properly right away. Or if he would take in fluids. In effect, he’s killing himself. And in the manner Konstantin has always lived his life—with narrow-minded, dogged perseverance—she knows that in this, he also wants to complete what he has begun. He wants to die.
    “I see what you’re doing,” she whispers to him. “You can’t live with your guilt, and so are choosing the coward’s way out. You lost our son because you wouldn’t listen to me, and now you choose to leave me to deal with the aftermath. To leave me alone to hope, to watch at the window for Misha, to pray until my knees bleed. And as you force me to carry this unbearable weight, you also wish to put on me the burden of widowhood.”
    Of course, he doesn’t respond, and there is nothing for Antonina to do but rise and return to her chair.

    The next morning, Antonina doesn’t allow herself any more of the laudanum—she needs to be alert—although later in the morning she quickly drinks one glass of wine. She has sent for Grisha, and the wine is just to steady her hands while she waits for him in Konstantin’s study.
    “What now, Grisha?” she asks when he arrives, noticing the dark blotches of colour on his bruised face. She’s sitting on a chair in front of the fire, and Grisha stands near the fireplace. “What do we do now?”
    Grisha concentrates on kicking some ashes back towards the grate. “We will continue to search for Mikhail Konstantinovich, of course, madam. We were out all of yesterday, and Lyosha and the others are out again today. There were many issues for me to deal with here, but I gave instructions for the men to spread out in wider and wider circles among the hamlets and villages. And we have reported the kidnapping to the authorities in Pskov.”
    “Is there any news at all, Grisha?” Antonina speaks quietly. She has no energy to raise her voice.
    He