![]() 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. ![]()
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