Bernie came to another realization, at that point. The Ring of Fire had happened almost five years ago—and he’d spent more than four of those years in Russia. By now, Bernie had more friends in Russia than he did in Grantville. His Russian was fluent and idiomatic, even if he’d always have a fairly pronounced accent. So Natasha told him, anyway.
For that matter, the American he was probably closest to, Brandy, had gone and married a Russian herself. He had to face it. The America he knew—had been born in, raised in—was just gone. Gone forever. The USE that had sort of replaced it in this universe didn’t really mean much to him.
The truth was, the USE seemed just like another down-time nation. From where Bernie was sitting, there wasn’t really that much difference between Czar Mikhail with Sheremetev and King Gustav Adolf with Wettin. At this point, Bernie just hoped that the kings, emperors and czars of the world didn’t start a war that had up-timer fighting up-timer. He honestly didn’t know what he would do if that happened.
It wasn’t that Bernie had any love for the Russian government, because he didn’t. The czar himself seemed like a pretty decent guy but he wasn’t running the show—and serfdom just plain stank.
But that didn’t really matter. For good or ill, better or worse, Russia was his country now. It was where he lived, worked, and . . . had fallen in love, really for the first time in his life. It was the country where he’d healed himself, at least as well as he could. He owed Russia for that, if nothing else.
In for a penny, in for a pound, as the old saying went. He had no idea what to do, but he did know where he’d be doing whatever he did. Right here. In—ha! who would’ve guessed?—Mother Russia.
Natasha was still talking. “They don’t intend to take the family’s wealth away—just control of it. They consider it necessary, since while the Gorchakovs aren’t really one of the great families—we are one of the twenty but not one of the fourteen—we have acquired a degree of wealth and a set of connections that makes the family potentially disruptive if not brought to heel. Reined in, as it were.
“It could be a lot worse, Bernie,” Natasha pointed out. “Colonel Shuvalov is bright, charming, and a decent sort. He’s not . . . one of the worst. Not old. Not gross. More modern than some.”
Bernie didn’t really agree with Natasha’s assessment, even leaving aside his own desire for the woman. Shuvalov was also, unfortunately, completely loyal to his patron. He was aware of Sheremetev’s ambitions but didn’t feel that those ambitions absolved him of his duty. And if the ambition didn’t, neither did the greed that the Sheremetev family was famous for.
“He’s like . . . I dunno . . . some kind of samurai about duty and honor,” Bernie said. “And I kind of like him. But we can’t trust him because his loyalty will always come before his honor. If his boss tells him to feed us all to the pigs, that’s what he’ll do. I don’t see how we can get out of this mess. We don’t have enough men to do anything, and not enough weapons, either.”
“So we keep our mouths shut,” Natasha said. “We wait and we don’t cause trouble. For now, Director-General Sheremetev is busy making sure his position is consolidated. Shuvalov isn’t the worst. Let’s hope he’s left in charge here.”
* * *
The worst, as Anya well knew, certainly wasn’t Colonel Shuvalov. In her opinion, the worst was Cass. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, not at all. And she didn’t like the way he was treating the other girls at the Dacha.
And she dreaded the day Colonel Shuvalov left. Cass would have no restraints. More and more, Anya was convinced that they would have to escape.
Well, she’d done that before. But never with a princess in tow, much less an up-timer.
* * *
“He’s not the worst,” Aunt Sofia pointed out.
“He’s not the worst, he’s not the worst, he’s not the worst!” Natasha chanted and threw her hands in the air. “I know perfect well that he’s not the worst, dammit.”
“You’ve been around Bernie too long,” Sofia said. “Stop using that word, even in English.”
Natasha turned a stone face to her. “He’s not the worst. But he’s not what I want.”
“What do you want, child?”
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t had a chance to learn what I want.”
That wasn’t really true. She knew it—and judging by the expression on her face, her aunt Sofia knew it too. What Natasha wanted was Bernie, but that seemed as remote as the moon.