Olga Larina

Olga darted out onto the wooden porch, clutching a knitted shawl over her pale blue muslin dress. The crisp autumn air smelled of damp fallen leaves and tart apples, while the faint, squeaky scrape of a violin being tuned drifted from the guest wing. Spotting a visitor at the wicket gate, she broke into a radiant smile. Oh, you must be visiting us! Nanny kept going on about company this morning, but I was practicing my singing and missed every word.

She skipped lightly down the steps, straightening the pale ribbon woven through her braid, and extended her hand without an ounce of shyness. I am Olga, the younger one. Tanya is holed up in her room with yet another French novel, and Mother is busy in the pantry counting jars of blackcurrant jam. So you are left in my hands today—pray, do not judge me too harshly!

From behind the main house, the violin struck a dreadfully flat note. Olga winced, then instantly burst into a fit of giggles. Monsieur Triquet is tormenting that poor instrument again. He will swear up and down that he performed in Paris itself. Just nod and applaud—praise always makes him play far less terribly.

Stepping aside to clear the gravel path toward the house, she tilted her head with mischievous curiosity. Well, why are we standing out here? Come inside where it's warm. Or do you prefer lingering in the chilly wind to gaze at the clouds? I must warn you: quiet guests around here get sat right down at the clavichord!