Lara's Gift Read Free

and a red-orange flame roared around them. Then he wagged his finger at me. “Remember, Lara. Not a word of your vision to anyone.”
    Even though it would kill me to keep it from Alexander, I answered, “Of course not. I wouldn’t dare break my promise.”
    With a pleased look on his face, Papa left to ring the bells.
    “Be careful what you promise,” Mama said to me. She peeled away the cloth towel covering the black bread. From it she cut a thick slice, slathered butter on it, and then handed it to me. “Eat,
dorogusha
. You’ll need yourstrength to prove your papa wrong about Zar and to help him find the truth.”
    “What truth?” I asked.
    Mama took a deep breath. “The truth behind your visions. He’s afraid of them.”
    Afraid? Papa didn’t fear anything.
    “Don’t you see?” Mama’s face brightened with hope. “God has chosen you. Accept his gift and learn to trust it.”
    As the
zvon
of stable bells, decorated in legendary borzoi images, clanged—
ding ding dong, ding ding dong
—the inside of my head felt like two mismatched pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
    Mama held one piece called Gift, and Papa held the other called Evil.
    Neither piece interlocked with the other.
    “I’m confused,
Matushka
. None of this makes sense,” I said.
    “Patience,
dorogusha
. One day it’ll become clear to you which path to take.”
    While the crackling fire warmed my back, I peered down at Zarya and stroked her fine, lean head. Everything about it was pure borzoi, down to her long, straight nose, her dark, almond-shaped eyes, and her well-placed ears—tucked and hidden among soft, wavy curls. And just as Zarya had inherited these traits from a long borzoi ancestry, Zar would inherit them, too, as well as beauty and grace, speed and strength, and a keen eye to hunt.
    A life without these splendid dogs I could not bear. Nor could I imagine living my life any differently than the way Papa lived his. Just as Grandfather had once served as the kennel steward for the late Count Roman Vorontsov, and just as Papa now served the current Count Vorontsov, I would one day serve as kennel steward to Alexander when he became the next Count. I’d be the first girl in my family to become kennel steward.
    I would never risk losing that.
    It became clear which path I had to choose.
    I must keep my promise to Papa and get rid of the evil inside of me.
    Suddenly the wind died down and the tug-of-war battle in my head ended. It became eerily quiet, as if … God had heard me.
    Mama placed her hand on my shoulder. “It’s a sign, Larochka.”
    I pushed that notion away. I couldn’t let myself get sucked in by Mama’s silly signs.

CHAPTER ONE
 
    The Hunting Horn
    F OUR Y EARS L ATER
    Russia, 1914
    Like the moon, far from my reach, Papa’s hunting horn hung high up on the tack wall in the stable, just above the birch-bark scroll inscribed with the Eight Golden Rules for breeding borzoi. Still, I could imagine holding the horn in my hands with its decorative gold pieces along the side. My favorite image was one of a borzoi running. It reminded me of Zar.
    I could also imagine putting the horn to my lips, taking a deep breath, and blowing through it to signal the start of a hunt. Just as Papa always did, right before the hunters set off into the woods and open fields, led byKyrgyz stallions dragging long, open sledges filled with dogs and hunters.
    More than anything, Papa cherished his hunting horn and forbade anyone to touch it—including me, for it wasn’t just any horn. It had been in our family for generations—passed down from one kennel steward to the next.
    “One day that horn will be mine,” I said to Zar, patting him on the head.
    “Not if our prayers are answered.” Papa stepped into the tack room, with the Count’s Gold Medal team of borzoi—Borei, Bistri, and Sila—prancing at his heels. The Woronzova trio were the strongest and swiftest hunting dogs on the estate.
    “But you’ve been grooming me to take