'To one day support Alexander when he becomes Count.' 'Your place is with a husband,' Papa snapped. 'Is that what you want?' 'Son or not-my place is with you and the dogs,' I said. Papa quickly stood up and folded his arms across his chest. In Mama's mind, just uttering the mere words could summon the evil house spirits, and take the baby away. 'What if Mama doesn't give you a son?' I shouldn't have said such a thing aloud. His touch usually brought me comfort, but my rattled nerves spread, like weeds in an untended garden.

Your training will come to good use-as nursemaid-when your mama gives birth.' I glanced down at Zar in horror and mouthed, Nursemaid! Zar nudged my hand and leaned his long, thin body against me. 'Everything I've learned will be wasted.' Papa gave me a look-the one that said I'd better watch myself. While he checked Borei's paws for cracks, I tried to muster up my most respectful voice. He turned away from me to dote on his favorite dog. Trust me, Lara, I'm thinking of your future.' Up until now, I had never thought Papa would really take away my dream. All of that will have to change, if your mama gives birth to a boy. And it's true I've been grooming you to become the next kennel steward. 'But you've been grooming me to take over.' Papa twisted the long, dark hairs of his beard. The Woronzova trio were the strongest and swiftest hunting dogs on the estate.

'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. 'One day that horn will be mine,' I said to Zar, patting him on the head. It had been in our family for generations-passed down from one kennel steward to the next. More than anything, Papa cherished his hunting horn and forbade anyone to touch it-including me, for it wasn't just any horn. Just as Papa always did, right before the hunters set off into the woods and open fields, led by Kyrgyz stallions dragging long, open sledges filled with dogs and hunters. 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. My favorite image was one of a borzoi running. Still, I could imagine holding the horn in my hands with its decorative gold pieces along the side.

Chapter One The Hunting Horn Four Years Later 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.

Lara's Gift by Annemarie O'Brien