The Crown's Fate
Page 30
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I don’t know how to do this, Pasha thought, as he leaned back, head tilted against the chilly church walls. The wind bit into his cheeks, stinging him with sharp needles of sleet.
I don’t know how to be tsar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After Galina fired her, Renata had scrambled to find work. It was only through the connection of another girl who’d worked at Ludmila’s temporary Saint Petersburg kiosk last fall that she secured a position at Madame Boulangère, the Parisian-style bakery on Nevsky Prospect. It wasn’t a glorious job, although no bakery job could ever be called such. The air was always sweltering from the constant heat of the ovens, the hours were grueling, and the owner of the shop, the so-called Madame Boulangère herself, had lost her taste buds in a childhood accident but refused to acknowledge it, and thus complained constantly of the lack of flavor in the store’s pastries, when any lack thereof was the fault of her own tongue.
Still, it was employment. Besides, Renata had weathered much worse working under Galina all those years. A tasteless proprietor was nothing remarkable to bear.
Renata was often the last at the bakery, for she was also the newest employee, and thus had the dubious honor of cleaning the shop. She was about to light more lamps—it was only early evening, but the sun set by late afternoon in the winter in Saint Petersburg—when the front door opened and closed again.
“Uh, hello?” she called into the near dark. She thought she’d locked the door. Perhaps Inessa, the girl who’d helped her secure the job, had come in to help? Although Renata had no idea why anyone would volunteer to do so.
“Renata Galygina, I’ve wanted to meet you,” a raspy voice said.
Definitely not Inessa. Renata backed up behind the bakery counter. “I—I’m sorry. We’re closed for the evening.” She looked around for a knife, a spatula, anything with which to defend herself, but either the girls had tidied up too well during the previous shift, or there wasn’t enough light in the shop for Renata to see. Or both.
“Do not be afraid, my dear. I mean no harm. I am Nikolai’s mother, Aizhana Karimova. I am here to ask for your assistance with my son.” Aizhana did not advance, but rather remained near the entrance of the bakery.
“Nikolai’s gone,” Renata said. She had returned to the steppe bench after he’d wiped most of it away, but she hadn’t found him there again. She hadn’t worried, though. If he could survive the Game, he must’ve survived the bench. But she wouldn’t tell this stranger of a woman any of it. Not until she knew for certain who she was.
Renata wrapped her fingers around a rolling pin. Finally, some measure of defense.
“On the contrary,” Aizhana said, “he’s come back.”
He’s come back . . . so she does know that he’s alive but was elsewhere for a while.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Renata asked.
“It’s your choice whether you believe me or not.” Aizhana laughed. “After Nikolai escaped the bench, he went to his old home to seek shelter and to find you. His former mentor turned him out, and you had been relieved of your duties there. Since then, he has been, shall we say, preoccupied, but I know he would like to see you again.” And then Aizhana proceeded to tell Renata about Nikolai’s challenge to Pasha.
Renata dropped the rolling pin on the counter. It clattered and fell onto the floor.
Nikolai threatened to destroy Pasha and take away the throne? That didn’t sound like the Nikolai she knew at all.
“You will assist him,” Aizhana said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am not asking you. I am telling you.” Aizhana began to limp toward the bakery counter. She crossed into a sliver of light cast from the streetlamp outside, and Renata saw her skeletal face and the patches of long, greasy hair.
“Wh-what are you?”
Aizhana paused. “I am a faith healer. A woman who clawed her way back from ante-death. A mother who cares for nothing else in the world but her son. Nikolai needs energy, Renata. He may have returned to reality, but his hold on this life is tenuous. If he is to have a chance of defeating the tsesarevich, Nikolai will need more energy soon.”
“How am I the answer?”
“You are merely the means. I possess the energy he needs, but he refuses to take it from me. You, however . . . he thinks it was your presence that helped him escape the steppe dream, and you must mean a great deal to him if he sought you out at the countess’s house. Therefore, I am going to transfer some of the energy I possess to you. You, in turn, will find a way to convince him to take it from you.”
“I—”
“No more idle chatter. Will you assist my son willingly, or shall I force it upon you?” Aizhana brandished her hand in the air. Her fingernails extended like blades, all save the one on her index finger, which appeared to have broken off. She began her advance toward Renata again.
Renata’s foot found the rolling pin on the floor next to a sack of flour. But it would be no use. There was no stopping a mother motivated by love, even if the love was awry. Or especially if it was awry.
There was also no reasoning with a girl who was in love. Even if the boy she loved wanted to do something with which she did not agree. It was Nikolai. Renata would give herself to whatever he needed.
She stepped over the rolling pin and around the counter. She put on her bravest face. “I’ll help Nikolai willingly,” Renata said. “Just tell me what to do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Nikolai had slept nearly an entire day, and when he woke in the early evening, he felt brighter and more buoyant than before. Yet, paradoxically, he also appeared deeper gray. He rolled out of his bed at the Black Moth and tried to use his revitalized power to cast a shroud about himself, such that he would appear like an ordinary person, but his silhouette form seemed to fight back, and the shroud kept sputtering. Nikolai furrowed his brow. It was both a relief that his edges were no longer blurred and a concern that his shadow form seemed to be growing more stubborn. And how? Was it simply rest that reenergized him? Yet he’d slept plenty in the steppe dream, and he had woken only once feeling more powerful, as he did today.
But did it matter? The more powerful the energy that coursed within him, the less Nikolai seemed to care. In fact, as he stretched himself fully awake, a cold swell rushed inside him, and he laughed as he remembered he had a throne to take. And a tsesarevich to kill.
I don’t know how to be tsar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After Galina fired her, Renata had scrambled to find work. It was only through the connection of another girl who’d worked at Ludmila’s temporary Saint Petersburg kiosk last fall that she secured a position at Madame Boulangère, the Parisian-style bakery on Nevsky Prospect. It wasn’t a glorious job, although no bakery job could ever be called such. The air was always sweltering from the constant heat of the ovens, the hours were grueling, and the owner of the shop, the so-called Madame Boulangère herself, had lost her taste buds in a childhood accident but refused to acknowledge it, and thus complained constantly of the lack of flavor in the store’s pastries, when any lack thereof was the fault of her own tongue.
Still, it was employment. Besides, Renata had weathered much worse working under Galina all those years. A tasteless proprietor was nothing remarkable to bear.
Renata was often the last at the bakery, for she was also the newest employee, and thus had the dubious honor of cleaning the shop. She was about to light more lamps—it was only early evening, but the sun set by late afternoon in the winter in Saint Petersburg—when the front door opened and closed again.
“Uh, hello?” she called into the near dark. She thought she’d locked the door. Perhaps Inessa, the girl who’d helped her secure the job, had come in to help? Although Renata had no idea why anyone would volunteer to do so.
“Renata Galygina, I’ve wanted to meet you,” a raspy voice said.
Definitely not Inessa. Renata backed up behind the bakery counter. “I—I’m sorry. We’re closed for the evening.” She looked around for a knife, a spatula, anything with which to defend herself, but either the girls had tidied up too well during the previous shift, or there wasn’t enough light in the shop for Renata to see. Or both.
“Do not be afraid, my dear. I mean no harm. I am Nikolai’s mother, Aizhana Karimova. I am here to ask for your assistance with my son.” Aizhana did not advance, but rather remained near the entrance of the bakery.
“Nikolai’s gone,” Renata said. She had returned to the steppe bench after he’d wiped most of it away, but she hadn’t found him there again. She hadn’t worried, though. If he could survive the Game, he must’ve survived the bench. But she wouldn’t tell this stranger of a woman any of it. Not until she knew for certain who she was.
Renata wrapped her fingers around a rolling pin. Finally, some measure of defense.
“On the contrary,” Aizhana said, “he’s come back.”
He’s come back . . . so she does know that he’s alive but was elsewhere for a while.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Renata asked.
“It’s your choice whether you believe me or not.” Aizhana laughed. “After Nikolai escaped the bench, he went to his old home to seek shelter and to find you. His former mentor turned him out, and you had been relieved of your duties there. Since then, he has been, shall we say, preoccupied, but I know he would like to see you again.” And then Aizhana proceeded to tell Renata about Nikolai’s challenge to Pasha.
Renata dropped the rolling pin on the counter. It clattered and fell onto the floor.
Nikolai threatened to destroy Pasha and take away the throne? That didn’t sound like the Nikolai she knew at all.
“You will assist him,” Aizhana said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am not asking you. I am telling you.” Aizhana began to limp toward the bakery counter. She crossed into a sliver of light cast from the streetlamp outside, and Renata saw her skeletal face and the patches of long, greasy hair.
“Wh-what are you?”
Aizhana paused. “I am a faith healer. A woman who clawed her way back from ante-death. A mother who cares for nothing else in the world but her son. Nikolai needs energy, Renata. He may have returned to reality, but his hold on this life is tenuous. If he is to have a chance of defeating the tsesarevich, Nikolai will need more energy soon.”
“How am I the answer?”
“You are merely the means. I possess the energy he needs, but he refuses to take it from me. You, however . . . he thinks it was your presence that helped him escape the steppe dream, and you must mean a great deal to him if he sought you out at the countess’s house. Therefore, I am going to transfer some of the energy I possess to you. You, in turn, will find a way to convince him to take it from you.”
“I—”
“No more idle chatter. Will you assist my son willingly, or shall I force it upon you?” Aizhana brandished her hand in the air. Her fingernails extended like blades, all save the one on her index finger, which appeared to have broken off. She began her advance toward Renata again.
Renata’s foot found the rolling pin on the floor next to a sack of flour. But it would be no use. There was no stopping a mother motivated by love, even if the love was awry. Or especially if it was awry.
There was also no reasoning with a girl who was in love. Even if the boy she loved wanted to do something with which she did not agree. It was Nikolai. Renata would give herself to whatever he needed.
She stepped over the rolling pin and around the counter. She put on her bravest face. “I’ll help Nikolai willingly,” Renata said. “Just tell me what to do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Nikolai had slept nearly an entire day, and when he woke in the early evening, he felt brighter and more buoyant than before. Yet, paradoxically, he also appeared deeper gray. He rolled out of his bed at the Black Moth and tried to use his revitalized power to cast a shroud about himself, such that he would appear like an ordinary person, but his silhouette form seemed to fight back, and the shroud kept sputtering. Nikolai furrowed his brow. It was both a relief that his edges were no longer blurred and a concern that his shadow form seemed to be growing more stubborn. And how? Was it simply rest that reenergized him? Yet he’d slept plenty in the steppe dream, and he had woken only once feeling more powerful, as he did today.
But did it matter? The more powerful the energy that coursed within him, the less Nikolai seemed to care. In fact, as he stretched himself fully awake, a cold swell rushed inside him, and he laughed as he remembered he had a throne to take. And a tsesarevich to kill.
