The Darkling takes his kefta from a waiting oprichnik and shrugs it on. I fall into step beside him on one of the narrow paths that wends through the grove.
“What else?” he asks.
“The Apparat visited her last night to rant about Saints and saviors. From what I could piece together, he was either trying to scare her senseless or bore her to death.”
“I may need to have a word with the priest.”
“I told her he’s harmless.”
“Hardly that,” says the Darkling, “but he has the King’s ear. For now that’s all that matters.”
An uneasy silence descends as we emerge from the trees onto the dirt path that leads to the training rooms and the stables. The Darkling knows there’s more to tell and that I’m not quite ready to say it.
It’s deserted here at this time of day, no sound but the nicker of horses in their paddocks. The winter air carries their warm animal smell and, beneath it, the sweet scent of hay. I wrinkle my nose. Just steps from the Little Palace, and this place feels positively rural.
Six black horses are in the western paddock—the matched team that pulls the Darkling’s coach. When we reach the fence, the Darkling gives a low whistle and one of the horses ambles over to us, twitching its silky mane.
I slip the piece of paper from my sleeve and hand it to the Darkling.
“The tracker again,” he says, unsurprised.
“She’s afraid he was killed in action and hasn’t shown up on the lists yet.” I hesitate, then say, “But I think she’s almost as scared that he’s alive and well and through with her.”
He studies the paper for a moment, then gives it back to me. He strokes a hand over the horse’s long, velvety nose.
“What should I tell her?” I ask.
He glances at me. “The truth. Tell her where the boy is stationed.”
“She’ll think—”
“I know what she’ll think, Genya.”
I lean against the fence, my back to the paddock, fingers worrying the scrap of paper as the Darkling murmurs softly to the horse, low words I can’t make out.
I can’t meet his eyes, but somehow I summon the courage to say, “Do you care about her at all?”
There’s the briefest pause.
“What are you really asking, Genya?”
I shrug. “I like her. When this is all over—”
“You want to know if she’ll forgive you.”
I run my thumb over Alina’s choppy writing, all graceless slashes and blunt lines. She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in a long time.
“Maybe,” I say.
“She won’t.”
I suspect he’s right. I certainly wouldn’t. I just didn’t think it would matter to me as much as it does.
“You decide,” he says. “I’ll have the letters brought to you.”
“You kept them?”
“Post them. Give them back to her. Do whatever you think best.”
I watch him closely. This feels like some kind of trick. “You can’t mean that.”
He looks at me over his shoulder, his gray eyes cool. “Old bonds,” he says as he gives the horse a final pat and pushes off from the fence. “They can do nothing for Alina but tie her to a life long gone.”
The paper is starting to fray beneath my fingers. “She’s suffering.”
He stops my fidgeting with the briefest touch of his hand. His power flows through me, calming, the steady rush of a river. Best not to think where the current may take me.
“You’ve suffered, too,” he says.
He leaves me standing by the paddock, the tracker’s name folding and unfolding in my hands.
The Queen does have a party to attend that night. After I’ve changed my mud-spattered slippers and rid myself of the scent of the stables, I find her seated at her dressing table, a maid tending to her hair. There was a time when she wouldn’t let anyone else but me see to her preparations. “Genya does it better than any of you,” she would say, waving the servants away. “Go and bring us tea and something sweet.”
I’m pleased to see that the maid is doing a terrible job of it. The style is nice nough, but it isn’t suited to the Queen’s face. I would place the pins higher, leave a strand free to curl around her cheek.
“You’re late,” she snaps as she catches sight of me in the mirror.
I curtsy. “Apologies, moya tsaritsa.”
It takes me over an hour to finish working on her face and neck, and the maid is long gone by then. The skin pulls strangely at the Queen’s cheekbones, and the blue of her eyes is an indigo too vibrant to be believed. But she wanted the shade to match her gown, and I no longer argue. Still, it drives me nearly mad. It’s that itch again. I can’t walk by a crooked picture frame and not set it right. The Queen always pushes too far—a bit more, a bit more, until the angle is all wrong.
She hums to herself, sucking on a waxy bit of lokum flavored with rosewater, and coos to the dog curled in her lap. When I bend to adjust the bows on her slippers, she absently rests a hand on my shoulder—almost a caress, or maybe a scratch behind the ears. Sometimes it’s as if she forgets to hate me. It’s as if I were still the girl she treasured, the doll she loved to dress up and show off to her friends. I’d like to say I resisted such treatment, but I loved every minute of it.
I’d been ordinary among the Grisha, a pretty girl with a modicum of talent. At the Grand Palace, I was cherished. In the mornings, I would arrive with the Queen’s tea and she’d throw open her arms. “Pretty thing!” she’d exclaim, and I’d run to her.
“What else?” he asks.
“The Apparat visited her last night to rant about Saints and saviors. From what I could piece together, he was either trying to scare her senseless or bore her to death.”
“I may need to have a word with the priest.”
“I told her he’s harmless.”
“Hardly that,” says the Darkling, “but he has the King’s ear. For now that’s all that matters.”
An uneasy silence descends as we emerge from the trees onto the dirt path that leads to the training rooms and the stables. The Darkling knows there’s more to tell and that I’m not quite ready to say it.
It’s deserted here at this time of day, no sound but the nicker of horses in their paddocks. The winter air carries their warm animal smell and, beneath it, the sweet scent of hay. I wrinkle my nose. Just steps from the Little Palace, and this place feels positively rural.
Six black horses are in the western paddock—the matched team that pulls the Darkling’s coach. When we reach the fence, the Darkling gives a low whistle and one of the horses ambles over to us, twitching its silky mane.
I slip the piece of paper from my sleeve and hand it to the Darkling.
“The tracker again,” he says, unsurprised.
“She’s afraid he was killed in action and hasn’t shown up on the lists yet.” I hesitate, then say, “But I think she’s almost as scared that he’s alive and well and through with her.”
He studies the paper for a moment, then gives it back to me. He strokes a hand over the horse’s long, velvety nose.
“What should I tell her?” I ask.
He glances at me. “The truth. Tell her where the boy is stationed.”
“She’ll think—”
“I know what she’ll think, Genya.”
I lean against the fence, my back to the paddock, fingers worrying the scrap of paper as the Darkling murmurs softly to the horse, low words I can’t make out.
I can’t meet his eyes, but somehow I summon the courage to say, “Do you care about her at all?”
There’s the briefest pause.
“What are you really asking, Genya?”
I shrug. “I like her. When this is all over—”
“You want to know if she’ll forgive you.”
I run my thumb over Alina’s choppy writing, all graceless slashes and blunt lines. She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in a long time.
“Maybe,” I say.
“She won’t.”
I suspect he’s right. I certainly wouldn’t. I just didn’t think it would matter to me as much as it does.
“You decide,” he says. “I’ll have the letters brought to you.”
“You kept them?”
“Post them. Give them back to her. Do whatever you think best.”
I watch him closely. This feels like some kind of trick. “You can’t mean that.”
He looks at me over his shoulder, his gray eyes cool. “Old bonds,” he says as he gives the horse a final pat and pushes off from the fence. “They can do nothing for Alina but tie her to a life long gone.”
The paper is starting to fray beneath my fingers. “She’s suffering.”
He stops my fidgeting with the briefest touch of his hand. His power flows through me, calming, the steady rush of a river. Best not to think where the current may take me.
“You’ve suffered, too,” he says.
He leaves me standing by the paddock, the tracker’s name folding and unfolding in my hands.
The Queen does have a party to attend that night. After I’ve changed my mud-spattered slippers and rid myself of the scent of the stables, I find her seated at her dressing table, a maid tending to her hair. There was a time when she wouldn’t let anyone else but me see to her preparations. “Genya does it better than any of you,” she would say, waving the servants away. “Go and bring us tea and something sweet.”
I’m pleased to see that the maid is doing a terrible job of it. The style is nice nough, but it isn’t suited to the Queen’s face. I would place the pins higher, leave a strand free to curl around her cheek.
“You’re late,” she snaps as she catches sight of me in the mirror.
I curtsy. “Apologies, moya tsaritsa.”
It takes me over an hour to finish working on her face and neck, and the maid is long gone by then. The skin pulls strangely at the Queen’s cheekbones, and the blue of her eyes is an indigo too vibrant to be believed. But she wanted the shade to match her gown, and I no longer argue. Still, it drives me nearly mad. It’s that itch again. I can’t walk by a crooked picture frame and not set it right. The Queen always pushes too far—a bit more, a bit more, until the angle is all wrong.
She hums to herself, sucking on a waxy bit of lokum flavored with rosewater, and coos to the dog curled in her lap. When I bend to adjust the bows on her slippers, she absently rests a hand on my shoulder—almost a caress, or maybe a scratch behind the ears. Sometimes it’s as if she forgets to hate me. It’s as if I were still the girl she treasured, the doll she loved to dress up and show off to her friends. I’d like to say I resisted such treatment, but I loved every minute of it.
I’d been ordinary among the Grisha, a pretty girl with a modicum of talent. At the Grand Palace, I was cherished. In the mornings, I would arrive with the Queen’s tea and she’d throw open her arms. “Pretty thing!” she’d exclaim, and I’d run to her.
