A Thousand Pieces of You
Page 34
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“Colonel Azarenko left for Moscow early this morning, my lady.”
Moscow? He’s not even in St. Petersburg anymore? “Did he give your—did he give anything back to you before he left?”
By now Lieutenant Markov must think I’ve gone demented. Although his forehead furrows—the only sign of the frown he’s holding back—he politely replies, “No, my lady. What would the Colonel have to give me?”
I’m not even getting into that. Instead I ask, “When is he expected back?”
“After the New Year, my lady.”
New Year’s Day? That’s almost three weeks away.
Three weeks.
How am I supposed to pretend to be a princess for three weeks?
I swallow hard and think, Guess I’ll find out.
12
STAY CALM. DEEP BREATHS.
I walk through the hallways of the palace in a daze. It’s as though my body is too freaked out even to panic. Instead I feel more like I’ve been drugged. My footsteps weave slightly, and the elaborate brocade pattern of the carpet runner seems dizzying.
“Are you sure you are entirely well, my lady?” Paul—Lieutenant Markov—walks a few respectful steps behind me.
“Quite well, thank you, Markov.” Actually I’m about five seconds from losing it completely, but let’s just keep walking, okay? That’s the subtext. Maybe he understands; at any rate, he remains silent as we go on.
It would help if I had any idea where I’m supposed to be going. The Winter Palace is enormous, and I couldn’t find my way around it even if I did know what I was meant to be doing next.
Luckily, I’m not alone for long. “There you are!” Vladimir bounds from a side hallway to fall into step with me; despite the late night and all the champagne he must have had, he glows with energy. “Feeling better?”
“Mostly.” Smiling at Vladimir turns out to be completely natural. His easy stride and friendly grin charm me, and besides, the affection he feels for his sister is unmistakable. What would an adored little sister say at a moment like this? Let’s see. He went to a big party last night, right? Josie’s had her share of missed curfews and nights out—more than I have—so I say to him what I might have said to her: “What about you? I’m surprised you’re not under the covers whining and holding an ice pack to your head.”
Vladimir looks skyward and sighs melodramatically. “You’re never going to let me live that one down, are you?”
“Nope, never.” This bluffing thing is easier than I thought. I can’t help but grin.
He continues, “One night, I drink too many toasts with vodka, and once in my blameless, virtuous life, I wind up getting sick in a decorative urn. The price? My sister’s eternal condemnation.”
“Not condemnation. But eternal teasing? Definitely.”
At that, Vladimir laughs; his laughter is so much like Mom’s. So this is what it’s like to have a brother. I always wished for one, and Vladimir seems like exactly the brother I’d have wanted—protective, funny, and kind.
Which is the moment I feel a hard pinch on my arm.
“Ow!” I spin around to see Katya, who looks very satisfied with herself in her pink dress. I’d guess she’s about thirteen. Although she resembles the tsar more than the rest of us do, she still has the unruly Kovalenka curls. “What was that for?”
“For thinking I was too little to go to the ball. I showed you. Men danced with me all night!”
I glance at Vladimir for confirmation. He gives Katya a look. “Our little Kathy danced precisely four dances, one of them with me and two with her uncles. But one very nice officer did take her out on the floor, where she danced very well.”
Katya lifts her stubborn chin, as though she hadn’t been contradicted. With a shake of my head, I say, “They grow up so fast.”
“Where does the time go?” Vladimir agrees, joining in the old-and-superior act.
This wins us a scowl from Katya. “You’re not so big,” she says, and dashes past me—with the end of my sash in her hands. It unties and flutters to the carpet; she drops it as she runs ahead, laughing.
“Oh, honestly.” Is she always this irritating? This dimension’s Marguerite must hardly be able to stand her.
But something about the way Katya giggles reminds me of a time, several years ago, when I sneaked up behind Josie while she was on the phone and snatched her ponytail clip out of her hair. She had to chase me around the house for at least ten minutes before she caught me. Why did that seem like fun when I was nine? No clue. But it was awesome. I even jumped over the sofa at one point, and howled laughing when Josie tried to follow me over and instead wiped out and fell on the floor.
I remember Josie yelling, “Little sisters are the most annoying people on earth!” Chagrined, I realize she was right.
Paul steps in front of me and kneels to collect my sash; when he holds it out to me, he looks into my eyes like—like I’m not merely his responsibility. Like he knows me. Has he remembered his real self? My hopes rise for one quickened heartbeat, before I realize this is still Lieutenant Markov. He says only, “My lady.”
“Thank you, Markov.”
The words come out steadily enough, but it’s so strange, looking at Paul and seeing someone who is both him and not him.
Someone very like the man I always daydreamed Paul might be . . .
Vladimir doesn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary between us. “Now that I see you’re back to yourself, I shall head down to the barracks,” he says as Paul steps behind me once more, and I hastily retie my sash. “Enjoy your lessons.”
Moscow? He’s not even in St. Petersburg anymore? “Did he give your—did he give anything back to you before he left?”
By now Lieutenant Markov must think I’ve gone demented. Although his forehead furrows—the only sign of the frown he’s holding back—he politely replies, “No, my lady. What would the Colonel have to give me?”
I’m not even getting into that. Instead I ask, “When is he expected back?”
“After the New Year, my lady.”
New Year’s Day? That’s almost three weeks away.
Three weeks.
How am I supposed to pretend to be a princess for three weeks?
I swallow hard and think, Guess I’ll find out.
12
STAY CALM. DEEP BREATHS.
I walk through the hallways of the palace in a daze. It’s as though my body is too freaked out even to panic. Instead I feel more like I’ve been drugged. My footsteps weave slightly, and the elaborate brocade pattern of the carpet runner seems dizzying.
“Are you sure you are entirely well, my lady?” Paul—Lieutenant Markov—walks a few respectful steps behind me.
“Quite well, thank you, Markov.” Actually I’m about five seconds from losing it completely, but let’s just keep walking, okay? That’s the subtext. Maybe he understands; at any rate, he remains silent as we go on.
It would help if I had any idea where I’m supposed to be going. The Winter Palace is enormous, and I couldn’t find my way around it even if I did know what I was meant to be doing next.
Luckily, I’m not alone for long. “There you are!” Vladimir bounds from a side hallway to fall into step with me; despite the late night and all the champagne he must have had, he glows with energy. “Feeling better?”
“Mostly.” Smiling at Vladimir turns out to be completely natural. His easy stride and friendly grin charm me, and besides, the affection he feels for his sister is unmistakable. What would an adored little sister say at a moment like this? Let’s see. He went to a big party last night, right? Josie’s had her share of missed curfews and nights out—more than I have—so I say to him what I might have said to her: “What about you? I’m surprised you’re not under the covers whining and holding an ice pack to your head.”
Vladimir looks skyward and sighs melodramatically. “You’re never going to let me live that one down, are you?”
“Nope, never.” This bluffing thing is easier than I thought. I can’t help but grin.
He continues, “One night, I drink too many toasts with vodka, and once in my blameless, virtuous life, I wind up getting sick in a decorative urn. The price? My sister’s eternal condemnation.”
“Not condemnation. But eternal teasing? Definitely.”
At that, Vladimir laughs; his laughter is so much like Mom’s. So this is what it’s like to have a brother. I always wished for one, and Vladimir seems like exactly the brother I’d have wanted—protective, funny, and kind.
Which is the moment I feel a hard pinch on my arm.
“Ow!” I spin around to see Katya, who looks very satisfied with herself in her pink dress. I’d guess she’s about thirteen. Although she resembles the tsar more than the rest of us do, she still has the unruly Kovalenka curls. “What was that for?”
“For thinking I was too little to go to the ball. I showed you. Men danced with me all night!”
I glance at Vladimir for confirmation. He gives Katya a look. “Our little Kathy danced precisely four dances, one of them with me and two with her uncles. But one very nice officer did take her out on the floor, where she danced very well.”
Katya lifts her stubborn chin, as though she hadn’t been contradicted. With a shake of my head, I say, “They grow up so fast.”
“Where does the time go?” Vladimir agrees, joining in the old-and-superior act.
This wins us a scowl from Katya. “You’re not so big,” she says, and dashes past me—with the end of my sash in her hands. It unties and flutters to the carpet; she drops it as she runs ahead, laughing.
“Oh, honestly.” Is she always this irritating? This dimension’s Marguerite must hardly be able to stand her.
But something about the way Katya giggles reminds me of a time, several years ago, when I sneaked up behind Josie while she was on the phone and snatched her ponytail clip out of her hair. She had to chase me around the house for at least ten minutes before she caught me. Why did that seem like fun when I was nine? No clue. But it was awesome. I even jumped over the sofa at one point, and howled laughing when Josie tried to follow me over and instead wiped out and fell on the floor.
I remember Josie yelling, “Little sisters are the most annoying people on earth!” Chagrined, I realize she was right.
Paul steps in front of me and kneels to collect my sash; when he holds it out to me, he looks into my eyes like—like I’m not merely his responsibility. Like he knows me. Has he remembered his real self? My hopes rise for one quickened heartbeat, before I realize this is still Lieutenant Markov. He says only, “My lady.”
“Thank you, Markov.”
The words come out steadily enough, but it’s so strange, looking at Paul and seeing someone who is both him and not him.
Someone very like the man I always daydreamed Paul might be . . .
Vladimir doesn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary between us. “Now that I see you’re back to yourself, I shall head down to the barracks,” he says as Paul steps behind me once more, and I hastily retie my sash. “Enjoy your lessons.”
