The Crown's Fate
Page 53
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“My men have made all the preparations you requested. We will offer to help anyone who wants your protection.”
“Be careful, Gavriil. Evacuate them under cover of night, and remember, head east. A number of witch burnings have already been reported in the south, and the traders coming through the outposts there are not helping. They’re passing off their ordinary trinkets now as wards against demons and black magic.”
“East, then, Your Imperial Highness.”
Pasha nodded wearily. “Thank you. Shut the door on your way out, please.”
Gavriil saluted again and left to carry out his orders, closing the door to the tsar’s study behind him.
Pasha sank back into the chair. His own brother had tried to kill him again, while he was still trying to recover from the first attempt. And having to take magic away from Vika had only compounded what was already an unimaginably horrifying day. He wanted to lie on the floor and throw up, like he’d done at the end of the Game when he’d been filled with a similar whirlpool of conflicting emotions—anger at the betrayal by Nikolai and sadness that it all had to end, that someone would have to die. But this time, there was also anger at himself, along with remorse, for Pasha knew that none of this would have started but for his decisions.
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Shakespeare had it right. And Pasha didn’t even have a crown yet.
Of course, if he didn’t find a way to stop Nikolai, Pasha might never even have the chance to be tsar. And if he did, there would still be trouble, for the city had now been reminded again that his mother had had a lover around the time he was conceived. Even Pasha wasn’t sure of his own legitimacy.
His nausea grew keener, but only in part due to fear of death. It was also due to the possibility of never achieving what he’d been groomed for his entire life. Pasha clutched the edge of the desk as the realization hit him: he actually wanted to be tsar. He’d traveled abroad with his father and visited courts in England and khanates on the steppe. He had studied foreign policy, economics, and war, and although they weren’t his favorites, they were in his blood as much as hunting or reading Greek tragedies or sneaking out of the palace were. Pasha loved Russia with the entirety of his being.
And he wanted to throw up because of the immensity of it.
He retired soon afterward to his rooms and did not leave the rest of the afternoon. Meanwhile, Gavriil and Ilya crisscrossed Saint Petersburg, announcing for everyone to hear:
“By order of Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov, Tsesarevich of all Russia: The use of magic is hereby forbidden and the position of Imperial Enchanter eliminated.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Come in, it’s freezing out there,” Renata said as she ushered Nikolai into Madame Boulangère. There was no one else in the bakery—shopgirl or customer—for most were still too ill from the Neva fete. Renata shut the door behind Nikolai, flipped the sign to indicate the bakery was closed, and fastened the lock. Nikolai looked around at the floral French wallpaper and the small café tables surrounded by brocaded chairs. “Not much different from Galina’s.”
Renata laughed. “In some regards, not much at all. Tea?” She darted behind the counter and began to fill a porcelain cup. She placed it on a tray, along with sugar and lemon and cream, and a pain aux raisins, since she knew it was one of Nikolai’s favorites. In less than a minute, Renata came back around the counter and set everything down on one of the café tables.
“You don’t need to serve me, you know,” he said as he hung the greatcoat and top hat on a brass hook near the door. “Please sit.”
Renata blushed and stood for a few seconds, unsure whether to keep her apron on or take it off. But given that the last time she saw Nikolai, they’d kissed, perhaps taking off her apron in front of him now would seem too suggestive? Or was she making too much of nothing? Heavens, she was probably making much too much.
Why are you here? she wanted to ask. Perhaps it was only a friendly visit. She and Nikolai used to chat every day when they lived at the Zakrevsky house. Or perhaps he wanted more energy from her. Which would mean he might kiss her again . . . Renata felt her cheeks grow redder.
“Are you going to sit?” Nikolai asked.
“What? Oh. Yes. Thank you.” She sat on the chair, apron still on, hands balled up in the ties because she didn’t know what to do with them. Either the ties or her hands.
Nikolai exhaled audibly as he lowered himself into one of the chairs opposite her. He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. His mouth turned downward in a frown.
Renata gasped in surprise as she realized what she was seeing. His mouth. His actual mouth. Nikolai wasn’t a shadow anymore.
Nikolai opened his eyes again and raised his brows. “Why are you staring?”
Renata blinked. “Because I can see you!”
“Ah, right. My mother’s dead. I took most of her energy before she passed, which finally gave me enough power that I’m able to cast a facade that looks like a facsimile of myself.”
“I . . .” There was too much in those few sentences to know which to respond to first. Renata shook her head to sort them out. “Your mother died?” she decided to ask.
“Yes. She was arrested for murdering the tsar and sentenced to death, but I took care of it before she was hanged.”
Renata’s mouth hung open.
Nikolai took a sip of his tea. “No need to be alarmed. She asked me to kill her out of mercy.”
“Er . . . um, I see,” Renata said, although she didn’t see at all. Why was he so casual about this? Her brain scrambled to keep up with Nikolai’s reasoning, but it couldn’t seem to do it. She defaulted to her most common sentiment instead. “Are you all right?”
He let out a short bark of a laugh. “She wasn’t much of a mother, and I’m not sure she was entirely human, either. It’s no great loss that she’s dead.”
Renata recoiled from the table. This boy before her looked like Nikolai, but he wasn’t the one she knew and loved. That Nikolai was so vulnerable to emotion, it actually tortured him. But this Nikolai . . .
“You said you’ve cast a facade,” Renata said carefully. “Does that mean you’re still a shadow underneath it?”
Nikolai smiled, but in a way Renata didn’t recognize. It was too cunning, and it didn’t invoke the dimple in his cheek like Nikolai’s real smile would.
“Be careful, Gavriil. Evacuate them under cover of night, and remember, head east. A number of witch burnings have already been reported in the south, and the traders coming through the outposts there are not helping. They’re passing off their ordinary trinkets now as wards against demons and black magic.”
“East, then, Your Imperial Highness.”
Pasha nodded wearily. “Thank you. Shut the door on your way out, please.”
Gavriil saluted again and left to carry out his orders, closing the door to the tsar’s study behind him.
Pasha sank back into the chair. His own brother had tried to kill him again, while he was still trying to recover from the first attempt. And having to take magic away from Vika had only compounded what was already an unimaginably horrifying day. He wanted to lie on the floor and throw up, like he’d done at the end of the Game when he’d been filled with a similar whirlpool of conflicting emotions—anger at the betrayal by Nikolai and sadness that it all had to end, that someone would have to die. But this time, there was also anger at himself, along with remorse, for Pasha knew that none of this would have started but for his decisions.
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Shakespeare had it right. And Pasha didn’t even have a crown yet.
Of course, if he didn’t find a way to stop Nikolai, Pasha might never even have the chance to be tsar. And if he did, there would still be trouble, for the city had now been reminded again that his mother had had a lover around the time he was conceived. Even Pasha wasn’t sure of his own legitimacy.
His nausea grew keener, but only in part due to fear of death. It was also due to the possibility of never achieving what he’d been groomed for his entire life. Pasha clutched the edge of the desk as the realization hit him: he actually wanted to be tsar. He’d traveled abroad with his father and visited courts in England and khanates on the steppe. He had studied foreign policy, economics, and war, and although they weren’t his favorites, they were in his blood as much as hunting or reading Greek tragedies or sneaking out of the palace were. Pasha loved Russia with the entirety of his being.
And he wanted to throw up because of the immensity of it.
He retired soon afterward to his rooms and did not leave the rest of the afternoon. Meanwhile, Gavriil and Ilya crisscrossed Saint Petersburg, announcing for everyone to hear:
“By order of Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov, Tsesarevich of all Russia: The use of magic is hereby forbidden and the position of Imperial Enchanter eliminated.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Come in, it’s freezing out there,” Renata said as she ushered Nikolai into Madame Boulangère. There was no one else in the bakery—shopgirl or customer—for most were still too ill from the Neva fete. Renata shut the door behind Nikolai, flipped the sign to indicate the bakery was closed, and fastened the lock. Nikolai looked around at the floral French wallpaper and the small café tables surrounded by brocaded chairs. “Not much different from Galina’s.”
Renata laughed. “In some regards, not much at all. Tea?” She darted behind the counter and began to fill a porcelain cup. She placed it on a tray, along with sugar and lemon and cream, and a pain aux raisins, since she knew it was one of Nikolai’s favorites. In less than a minute, Renata came back around the counter and set everything down on one of the café tables.
“You don’t need to serve me, you know,” he said as he hung the greatcoat and top hat on a brass hook near the door. “Please sit.”
Renata blushed and stood for a few seconds, unsure whether to keep her apron on or take it off. But given that the last time she saw Nikolai, they’d kissed, perhaps taking off her apron in front of him now would seem too suggestive? Or was she making too much of nothing? Heavens, she was probably making much too much.
Why are you here? she wanted to ask. Perhaps it was only a friendly visit. She and Nikolai used to chat every day when they lived at the Zakrevsky house. Or perhaps he wanted more energy from her. Which would mean he might kiss her again . . . Renata felt her cheeks grow redder.
“Are you going to sit?” Nikolai asked.
“What? Oh. Yes. Thank you.” She sat on the chair, apron still on, hands balled up in the ties because she didn’t know what to do with them. Either the ties or her hands.
Nikolai exhaled audibly as he lowered himself into one of the chairs opposite her. He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. His mouth turned downward in a frown.
Renata gasped in surprise as she realized what she was seeing. His mouth. His actual mouth. Nikolai wasn’t a shadow anymore.
Nikolai opened his eyes again and raised his brows. “Why are you staring?”
Renata blinked. “Because I can see you!”
“Ah, right. My mother’s dead. I took most of her energy before she passed, which finally gave me enough power that I’m able to cast a facade that looks like a facsimile of myself.”
“I . . .” There was too much in those few sentences to know which to respond to first. Renata shook her head to sort them out. “Your mother died?” she decided to ask.
“Yes. She was arrested for murdering the tsar and sentenced to death, but I took care of it before she was hanged.”
Renata’s mouth hung open.
Nikolai took a sip of his tea. “No need to be alarmed. She asked me to kill her out of mercy.”
“Er . . . um, I see,” Renata said, although she didn’t see at all. Why was he so casual about this? Her brain scrambled to keep up with Nikolai’s reasoning, but it couldn’t seem to do it. She defaulted to her most common sentiment instead. “Are you all right?”
He let out a short bark of a laugh. “She wasn’t much of a mother, and I’m not sure she was entirely human, either. It’s no great loss that she’s dead.”
Renata recoiled from the table. This boy before her looked like Nikolai, but he wasn’t the one she knew and loved. That Nikolai was so vulnerable to emotion, it actually tortured him. But this Nikolai . . .
“You said you’ve cast a facade,” Renata said carefully. “Does that mean you’re still a shadow underneath it?”
Nikolai smiled, but in a way Renata didn’t recognize. It was too cunning, and it didn’t invoke the dimple in his cheek like Nikolai’s real smile would.
