The Crown's Fate
Page 68
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Vika grinned.
She jumped up the base of the nearest streetlamp and latched onto the pole, hoisting herself up as nimbly as a tree squirrel (with a bit of help from the Christmas garlands twined around the lamp). The people closest to her gasped. One servant dropped her bag into the snow. A little girl whined, “Papa, I want to do that, too.”
You should, Vika thought. She winked at the girl. Don’t ever let the rules stop you.
Vika scanned the boulevard again. Black hat, narrow brim. Black hat, narrow brim. Black hat . . . shinier and darker than others. Fabric that caught the lamplight and at the right angles, rippled and shimmered like ink reflecting a candle flame. The hat also had a decidedly wider brim.
“Aha,” Vika said. “Got you.” She hopped down from the streetlamp and threaded through the crowd.
Nikolai turned along the embankments of the Fontanka River. Vika veered after him and followed.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
There were innumerable bridges along the waterways of Saint Petersburg, but the Chernyshev Bridge over the Fontanka River had always been Nikolai’s favorite, especially in the evening. It had four Doric pavilions carved from stone that housed the drawbridge mechanism—being the mechanical sort, Nikolai particularly liked this fact—and the pavilions themselves looked like miniature palaces against the deep blue twilight sky. He leaned against the railing, staring out over the river frozen in jeweled green. The color was the same shade as Vika’s eyes, almost too deep and too mesmerizing to be real.
But of course, the ice wasn’t real, or at least its greenness wasn’t, for it was the wintered result of one of Vika’s earlier enchantments. Yet even though the water was frozen, Nikolai could still sense her magic floating off it, wild and powerful and scented with cinnamon, incongruent yet perfectly right. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and thought of their kiss in the volcano dream.
It only made him more morose. She’d turned him down again.
People bustled behind him across the bridge. Nikolai kept himself well concealed, and the blue-purple darkness of the gloaming made short work of any lingering curiosity about the gentleman at the edge of the bridge.
Eventually, footsteps approached Nikolai that were, in fact, meant for him.
“Your Imperial Highness,” Ilya said into his own coat, so that no passersby would hear.
Nikolai nodded in greeting but continued to look out over the river.
Ilya came close enough that they could talk, but he, too, looked straight out over the river, such that it appeared the two boys were not conversing at all, but rather, lost in thought over the sight of emerald ice.
“Our forces are shaping up beautifully,” Ilya said. “Trubetskoy has been officially appointed the leader of our movement, with Volkonsky and some of the others reporting directly to him. The soldiers are already predisposed to join us because so many of them are afraid of magic; thus, our proposal for a constitution appeals to them, for it prevents sole power from resting in the tsar and by association, his witch. I think it’s looking good. The Decembrists are twenty thousand strong.”
Nikolai cocked his head. “The Decembrists?”
Ilya grinned. “It has a daring sound to it, don’t you think? I came up with it. It will unite us, make the soldiers feel a part of something important and grand.”
“The Decembrists,” Nikolai said, letting the name tarry on his tongue. “I do like it. But I thought our plan was to move against Pasha in January? Why name us after this month?”
“The timetable has moved up,” Ilya said. “The tsesarevich and grand princess learned of our original plans to block the coronation.”
Nikolai looked away from the river at Ilya. “Yuliana?”
He shook his head. “It was actually the tsesarevich this time. I overheard him telling his sister.”
“Right. You’re one of his Guard.” Nikolai tapped his fingers on the bridge’s railing. “So then . . . ?”
“We’ll continue to use the plan to block the coronation as a decoy,” Ilya said.
“Don’t tell the soldiers it’s a ruse, though,” Nikolai said. “The crown has its ears everywhere.” He gestured at Ilya, case in point.
Ilya laughed under his breath. “Of course. We will continue to tell the soldiers that the plan is to target the coronation. But we have another, different opportunity the day after tomorrow. That’s when the army is supposed to swear an oath of allegiance to the tsesarevich. But we’ll refuse it.”
Nikolai drummed his fingers on the railing of the bridge as he contemplated this. He knew what Ilya was talking about—before the ascension of every new tsar, the Imperial Army held a symbolic ceremony during which they swore their allegiance to the crown. There would be multiple ceremonies throughout Saint Petersburg, held at each garrison.
This was a better idea, actually. The problem with trying to block Pasha’s coronation was the distance. The road to Moscow was long, and it would be difficult to coordinate the actions of the men from afar. But if the coup could happen right here in Saint Petersburg . . .
Then Nikolai wouldn’t have to wait weeks. He could secure the crown two days from now.
“I like the new plan,” Nikolai said, pushing off from the railing. “But what do you mean to do after refusing the oath?”
“Demand a constitution, and that you be put on the throne.”
Nikolai shook his head. “Talk won’t be enough. We need to march against Pasha to show our physical force, just as in our original plan to block his coronation.”
Ilya looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening, then back out onto the river. “What do you suggest?”
“The ceremonies will be spread out all over the city. We need to assemble our forces together in one place after they reject the oath.”
“Palace Square?” Ilya suggested.
Nikolai pictured where his Jack and ballerina had been. “No . . . if we have twenty thousand men, the space is too small. We’d be trapped if a fight ensued.” He thumbed the brim of his hat as he thought. “What about Peter’s Square?”
Ilya nodded eagerly. “It’s bigger.”
Vika had returned the statue of Peter the Great to its place after its rampage on Nevsky Prospect. “Peter the Great came to life once to tell the people of the tsesarevich’s wrongs,” Nikola said. “The statue is the protector of our city. I like the symbolism of Peter the Great watching over us and our cause.”
She jumped up the base of the nearest streetlamp and latched onto the pole, hoisting herself up as nimbly as a tree squirrel (with a bit of help from the Christmas garlands twined around the lamp). The people closest to her gasped. One servant dropped her bag into the snow. A little girl whined, “Papa, I want to do that, too.”
You should, Vika thought. She winked at the girl. Don’t ever let the rules stop you.
Vika scanned the boulevard again. Black hat, narrow brim. Black hat, narrow brim. Black hat . . . shinier and darker than others. Fabric that caught the lamplight and at the right angles, rippled and shimmered like ink reflecting a candle flame. The hat also had a decidedly wider brim.
“Aha,” Vika said. “Got you.” She hopped down from the streetlamp and threaded through the crowd.
Nikolai turned along the embankments of the Fontanka River. Vika veered after him and followed.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
There were innumerable bridges along the waterways of Saint Petersburg, but the Chernyshev Bridge over the Fontanka River had always been Nikolai’s favorite, especially in the evening. It had four Doric pavilions carved from stone that housed the drawbridge mechanism—being the mechanical sort, Nikolai particularly liked this fact—and the pavilions themselves looked like miniature palaces against the deep blue twilight sky. He leaned against the railing, staring out over the river frozen in jeweled green. The color was the same shade as Vika’s eyes, almost too deep and too mesmerizing to be real.
But of course, the ice wasn’t real, or at least its greenness wasn’t, for it was the wintered result of one of Vika’s earlier enchantments. Yet even though the water was frozen, Nikolai could still sense her magic floating off it, wild and powerful and scented with cinnamon, incongruent yet perfectly right. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and thought of their kiss in the volcano dream.
It only made him more morose. She’d turned him down again.
People bustled behind him across the bridge. Nikolai kept himself well concealed, and the blue-purple darkness of the gloaming made short work of any lingering curiosity about the gentleman at the edge of the bridge.
Eventually, footsteps approached Nikolai that were, in fact, meant for him.
“Your Imperial Highness,” Ilya said into his own coat, so that no passersby would hear.
Nikolai nodded in greeting but continued to look out over the river.
Ilya came close enough that they could talk, but he, too, looked straight out over the river, such that it appeared the two boys were not conversing at all, but rather, lost in thought over the sight of emerald ice.
“Our forces are shaping up beautifully,” Ilya said. “Trubetskoy has been officially appointed the leader of our movement, with Volkonsky and some of the others reporting directly to him. The soldiers are already predisposed to join us because so many of them are afraid of magic; thus, our proposal for a constitution appeals to them, for it prevents sole power from resting in the tsar and by association, his witch. I think it’s looking good. The Decembrists are twenty thousand strong.”
Nikolai cocked his head. “The Decembrists?”
Ilya grinned. “It has a daring sound to it, don’t you think? I came up with it. It will unite us, make the soldiers feel a part of something important and grand.”
“The Decembrists,” Nikolai said, letting the name tarry on his tongue. “I do like it. But I thought our plan was to move against Pasha in January? Why name us after this month?”
“The timetable has moved up,” Ilya said. “The tsesarevich and grand princess learned of our original plans to block the coronation.”
Nikolai looked away from the river at Ilya. “Yuliana?”
He shook his head. “It was actually the tsesarevich this time. I overheard him telling his sister.”
“Right. You’re one of his Guard.” Nikolai tapped his fingers on the bridge’s railing. “So then . . . ?”
“We’ll continue to use the plan to block the coronation as a decoy,” Ilya said.
“Don’t tell the soldiers it’s a ruse, though,” Nikolai said. “The crown has its ears everywhere.” He gestured at Ilya, case in point.
Ilya laughed under his breath. “Of course. We will continue to tell the soldiers that the plan is to target the coronation. But we have another, different opportunity the day after tomorrow. That’s when the army is supposed to swear an oath of allegiance to the tsesarevich. But we’ll refuse it.”
Nikolai drummed his fingers on the railing of the bridge as he contemplated this. He knew what Ilya was talking about—before the ascension of every new tsar, the Imperial Army held a symbolic ceremony during which they swore their allegiance to the crown. There would be multiple ceremonies throughout Saint Petersburg, held at each garrison.
This was a better idea, actually. The problem with trying to block Pasha’s coronation was the distance. The road to Moscow was long, and it would be difficult to coordinate the actions of the men from afar. But if the coup could happen right here in Saint Petersburg . . .
Then Nikolai wouldn’t have to wait weeks. He could secure the crown two days from now.
“I like the new plan,” Nikolai said, pushing off from the railing. “But what do you mean to do after refusing the oath?”
“Demand a constitution, and that you be put on the throne.”
Nikolai shook his head. “Talk won’t be enough. We need to march against Pasha to show our physical force, just as in our original plan to block his coronation.”
Ilya looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening, then back out onto the river. “What do you suggest?”
“The ceremonies will be spread out all over the city. We need to assemble our forces together in one place after they reject the oath.”
“Palace Square?” Ilya suggested.
Nikolai pictured where his Jack and ballerina had been. “No . . . if we have twenty thousand men, the space is too small. We’d be trapped if a fight ensued.” He thumbed the brim of his hat as he thought. “What about Peter’s Square?”
Ilya nodded eagerly. “It’s bigger.”
Vika had returned the statue of Peter the Great to its place after its rampage on Nevsky Prospect. “Peter the Great came to life once to tell the people of the tsesarevich’s wrongs,” Nikola said. “The statue is the protector of our city. I like the symbolism of Peter the Great watching over us and our cause.”
