The Crown's Game
Page 82
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He even tried blowing energy out through his mouth, to no avail.
Go, go, go.
Vika’s head drooped in his arms.
He propped her up and cradled her tighter, so close it was as if they were waltzing rather than dying. The panic rose in his chest; his own heartbeat accelerated to the speed of a mazurka.
And then . . . yes.
Like a dance. Like my enchantment at the masquerade.
But this time, instead of the rhythm of the orchestra, it would be the rhythm of Nikolai’s own heart. And instead of charming Vika’s feet to follow the tune of the mazurka, he would charm her stumbling pulse to follow his stronger one. Like any good dancer, he would lead her where he needed her to go.
Please work.
Nikolai closed his eyes. He focused on the steady beat of his heart. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. He charmed Vika’s heart next, convincing himself it was the same as charming her feet, and he channeled the rhythm of his pulse like music into her veins.
Her heart tripped.
“Listen to the rhythm,” he whispered. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.
Her heart stumbled again.
No. Like this: Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.
There was a pause. And then hers went, Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. The raggedness of Vika’s breath smoothed a little.
Yes. Nikolai kept his eyes closed. Now, beat harder, he urged, like a conductor asking his drummers to play louder. Ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP.
He felt her shift in his arms. Ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP.
The frigid wind whipped around him. It was like the snow flurry of Vika’s dress in the ballroom, lifting their dancing to a frenzy. Nikolai harnessed the memory of that energy—the blistering tempo of the orchestra, the rapid movements of their feet—and propelled it into Vika’s body.
She gasped and sat upright.
Nikolai linked his arms around her and pulled her close again. There was no telling what would happen if he lost the connection with her heart.
“Vika, listen. I’m going to extract the knife. But I don’t know how to stanch the bleeding, so you’ll have to do it. Can you manage?” He continued to listen to their rhythms as he spoke.
She blinked at him twice. Weakly.
It was all she could muster. He would have to take that as a yes.
“Don’t worry. We can do this,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure if it was true. “I’ll keep your heart strong.”
Nikolai held her tight. Then he took a deep breath and wrenched the knife from her chest. He felt the sickening give of soft flesh as he did it, and it was only because he had to keep rhythm for Vika’s heart that he didn’t throw up.
As the blade came out, Vika shrieked, and the sound was a thousand banshees ripping Nikolai’s soul apart. He trembled as he pinned down her arms to keep her from flailing. Vika’s pulse stuttered, and a torrent of fresh blood surged from the wound.
We are not at Death’s door, he told himself. We are at Pasha’s ball. Our feet are stamping and skipping, our hearts kicking and leaping. “Remember the masquerade,” he whispered into Vika’s ear. “Remember how we danced.”
Ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP.
Her heart reluctantly rejoined the mazurka.
She took in saw-toothed gulps of air. Her lungs were as fragile as the unlit paper lanterns in the sky. But Nikolai would not let her heart stop dancing.
And then he felt her tense against him, the muscles in her shoulders drawn back and growing strong. She doubled over again, then stretched out, twisted, and unwound. She moaned and cried. He held her tight as she carried out her work.
But soon Nikolai’s arms began to quiver, and he was cold. So very, very cold. He had felt like this when he created the benches, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. “Hurry . . . ,” he whispered.
Vika took in a sharp inhale in response.
Now her heartbeat was solid, and his was flimsy, but still he continued to pour his energy into her. Her body kept contracting and writhing and contorting against his.
After what seemed an eternity, all her muscles relaxed. She collapsed against his neck and whispered, “I did it. I . . . I closed the wound.” Her voice was her own again. “You can let go now, Nikolai.”
His head was cloudy, and he didn’t have the strength to unlink his arms from her. So he chose instead to open his eyes.
The knife was discarded by her side. She was alive.
But he felt as if he were not.
Vika sat up on her own. Then she let out a plaintive cry. “Nikolai.” Her hand fluttered to her mouth. “Nikolai, what have you done?”
He shook his head. He didn’t know.
He crumpled in a heap.
At least I die with her in my arms.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
The Russe Quill began to scratch on the Scroll. Pasha’s stomach turned. He grabbed the vase again. The Quill had written something else earlier in the morning, not long after dawn. But Pasha had not been able to muster the courage to look at it, to see what Nikolai’s first play had been. He had lain on the floor instead, waiting for Vika to make a move.
The ensuing silence of the Quill had been too loud.
Now there was something new, and Pasha clenched his fists and forced himself to rise. Were they fighting, as Yuliana had told Pasha needed to be done? Or had Vika and Nikolai found a way around the rules of the Game? Please let it be the latter. . . .
But deep inside, Pasha knew there was no way out other than victory for one and death for the other.
He wrung his hands as he walked to his desk, dragging his feet to make the distance across the room longer. But he was there before he knew it. He hesitated before he picked up the parchment, looking around his bedroom for another excuse. Perhaps he ought to wait for Yuliana? But she was occupied with entertaining the English ambassador’s wife, and if Pasha waited, she would only yell at him that if he was going to be tsar, he had better find the backbone soon to act like it.
So he reached for the Scroll, hands shaking. The parchment crinkled in his grasp. He didn’t want to look, but there was nothing else to do.
1 December 1825: Winner—Vika Andreyeva
Pasha dropped his head to his hands and sobbed.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
One week after the end of the Game, Vika sat on the steppe bench and immersed herself in the dream. Soon, she would have to return to Saint Petersburg to take her post as Imperial Enchanter, but for now, she watched Nikolai’s golden eagle fly over the barren plains. It was so unfair that his benches were still here when he wasn’t. And yet, it was something. So she listened to the rustle of the dry grasses and felt the cool breeze on her face and remembered him.
Go, go, go.
Vika’s head drooped in his arms.
He propped her up and cradled her tighter, so close it was as if they were waltzing rather than dying. The panic rose in his chest; his own heartbeat accelerated to the speed of a mazurka.
And then . . . yes.
Like a dance. Like my enchantment at the masquerade.
But this time, instead of the rhythm of the orchestra, it would be the rhythm of Nikolai’s own heart. And instead of charming Vika’s feet to follow the tune of the mazurka, he would charm her stumbling pulse to follow his stronger one. Like any good dancer, he would lead her where he needed her to go.
Please work.
Nikolai closed his eyes. He focused on the steady beat of his heart. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. He charmed Vika’s heart next, convincing himself it was the same as charming her feet, and he channeled the rhythm of his pulse like music into her veins.
Her heart tripped.
“Listen to the rhythm,” he whispered. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.
Her heart stumbled again.
No. Like this: Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.
There was a pause. And then hers went, Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. The raggedness of Vika’s breath smoothed a little.
Yes. Nikolai kept his eyes closed. Now, beat harder, he urged, like a conductor asking his drummers to play louder. Ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP.
He felt her shift in his arms. Ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP.
The frigid wind whipped around him. It was like the snow flurry of Vika’s dress in the ballroom, lifting their dancing to a frenzy. Nikolai harnessed the memory of that energy—the blistering tempo of the orchestra, the rapid movements of their feet—and propelled it into Vika’s body.
She gasped and sat upright.
Nikolai linked his arms around her and pulled her close again. There was no telling what would happen if he lost the connection with her heart.
“Vika, listen. I’m going to extract the knife. But I don’t know how to stanch the bleeding, so you’ll have to do it. Can you manage?” He continued to listen to their rhythms as he spoke.
She blinked at him twice. Weakly.
It was all she could muster. He would have to take that as a yes.
“Don’t worry. We can do this,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure if it was true. “I’ll keep your heart strong.”
Nikolai held her tight. Then he took a deep breath and wrenched the knife from her chest. He felt the sickening give of soft flesh as he did it, and it was only because he had to keep rhythm for Vika’s heart that he didn’t throw up.
As the blade came out, Vika shrieked, and the sound was a thousand banshees ripping Nikolai’s soul apart. He trembled as he pinned down her arms to keep her from flailing. Vika’s pulse stuttered, and a torrent of fresh blood surged from the wound.
We are not at Death’s door, he told himself. We are at Pasha’s ball. Our feet are stamping and skipping, our hearts kicking and leaping. “Remember the masquerade,” he whispered into Vika’s ear. “Remember how we danced.”
Ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP.
Her heart reluctantly rejoined the mazurka.
She took in saw-toothed gulps of air. Her lungs were as fragile as the unlit paper lanterns in the sky. But Nikolai would not let her heart stop dancing.
And then he felt her tense against him, the muscles in her shoulders drawn back and growing strong. She doubled over again, then stretched out, twisted, and unwound. She moaned and cried. He held her tight as she carried out her work.
But soon Nikolai’s arms began to quiver, and he was cold. So very, very cold. He had felt like this when he created the benches, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. “Hurry . . . ,” he whispered.
Vika took in a sharp inhale in response.
Now her heartbeat was solid, and his was flimsy, but still he continued to pour his energy into her. Her body kept contracting and writhing and contorting against his.
After what seemed an eternity, all her muscles relaxed. She collapsed against his neck and whispered, “I did it. I . . . I closed the wound.” Her voice was her own again. “You can let go now, Nikolai.”
His head was cloudy, and he didn’t have the strength to unlink his arms from her. So he chose instead to open his eyes.
The knife was discarded by her side. She was alive.
But he felt as if he were not.
Vika sat up on her own. Then she let out a plaintive cry. “Nikolai.” Her hand fluttered to her mouth. “Nikolai, what have you done?”
He shook his head. He didn’t know.
He crumpled in a heap.
At least I die with her in my arms.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
The Russe Quill began to scratch on the Scroll. Pasha’s stomach turned. He grabbed the vase again. The Quill had written something else earlier in the morning, not long after dawn. But Pasha had not been able to muster the courage to look at it, to see what Nikolai’s first play had been. He had lain on the floor instead, waiting for Vika to make a move.
The ensuing silence of the Quill had been too loud.
Now there was something new, and Pasha clenched his fists and forced himself to rise. Were they fighting, as Yuliana had told Pasha needed to be done? Or had Vika and Nikolai found a way around the rules of the Game? Please let it be the latter. . . .
But deep inside, Pasha knew there was no way out other than victory for one and death for the other.
He wrung his hands as he walked to his desk, dragging his feet to make the distance across the room longer. But he was there before he knew it. He hesitated before he picked up the parchment, looking around his bedroom for another excuse. Perhaps he ought to wait for Yuliana? But she was occupied with entertaining the English ambassador’s wife, and if Pasha waited, she would only yell at him that if he was going to be tsar, he had better find the backbone soon to act like it.
So he reached for the Scroll, hands shaking. The parchment crinkled in his grasp. He didn’t want to look, but there was nothing else to do.
1 December 1825: Winner—Vika Andreyeva
Pasha dropped his head to his hands and sobbed.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
One week after the end of the Game, Vika sat on the steppe bench and immersed herself in the dream. Soon, she would have to return to Saint Petersburg to take her post as Imperial Enchanter, but for now, she watched Nikolai’s golden eagle fly over the barren plains. It was so unfair that his benches were still here when he wasn’t. And yet, it was something. So she listened to the rustle of the dry grasses and felt the cool breeze on her face and remembered him.
