The Crown's Game
Page 22
“The countess would have my head if she found out I ate any of this food.”
“The countess is indisposed. By a magical cyclone.”
Renata smirked.
Nikolai set down the tray on the tablecloth. “After you, mademoiselle.”
She hesitated.
“It’s quite all right, Renata. I promise. You won’t turn into a frog if you eat something.”
“It’s not that . . . it’s . . . I’ve never eaten anything prepared so beautifully before. But you wouldn’t understand.”
“Believe me, I do.” And he did. He still recalled his first formal dinner in this house after Galina had taken him from the steppe. Important-Someone-or-Other had been visiting from Moscow, and the Zakrevskys—the count had still been alive then—had served a feast of soups and oysters and roasted pheasant, so different from the sparse helpings of tough mutton Nikolai had grown up on. But what he remembered most was the crème brûlée, a decadent custard topped with a delicate pane of caramelized sugar “glass.” It was the most heavenly thing Nikolai had ever seen, let alone tasted, at that point in his young life.
“Have dessert first,” he said to Renata. “And eat it with your hands. Galina isn’t around.”
She smiled shyly, as if he had read in her mind exactly what she had been wanting to do. Then she picked up an apple tart and bit in.
Nikolai did not, though. He wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t been hungry since the oath. He’d eaten, of course, but only because he needed the energy to function, not because he found any pleasure in the consumption of his meals.
Instead, he walked back up to his window and unwedged Galina’s knife from the sill. Then he charmed open his desk drawer, unlocked the enchanted hidden panel he’d constructed within, and secured the knife back inside.
He rubbed the back of his neck. It was something he’d done for as long as he could remember, whenever he was stressed. It helped him focus. Although it was questionable whether it was doing any good now.
“All I can think about is how ugly the city is,” Nikolai said, “and how they ought to dress up the grandstands for Pasha’s birthday, and how Nevsky Prospect, one of the supposed gems of Saint Petersburg, ought to have been repainted. I should be focusing on the Game, but my mind keeps wandering to stupid details about birthdays.”
The scar beneath Nikolai’s collarbone flared at the mention of the Game. It had been burning hotter every hour, as if impatient that Nikolai had already taken three days after the oath and not made his move. But this first play would set the tone for the entire Game, and he wanted to get it right.
“Aren’t you supposed to do something for the tsesarevich’s birthday?” Renata said. “You could repaint Nevsky Prospect as your move. You’d kill two birds with one stone.”
“I’m not supposed to be killing birds. I’m supposed to be killing the girl.”
“Her name is Vika.”
“What?” Nikolai flinched.
“Her name is Vika. I overheard the countess saying it to herself in her rooms before you left for Bolshebnoie Duplo.”
“I . . . I don’t like the girl having a name.” Nikolai shook his head, as if he could shake her name right out of his skull. It made it harder to hurt her if she had a name. He could only kill her if he forgot she was a person. Maybe. Because he knew where she lived, and she didn’t know his identity. He could go to Ovchinin Island and find her house. Then when she least expected it, he could cause it to cave in on her. Or he could charm her pillow to smother her in her sleep. Impale her with a garden hoe.
The thoughts turned Nikolai a dismal shade of green.
Besides, it would never work. The girl would have cast protections on her home—if she hadn’t already relocated to Saint Petersburg—and she had already displayed far greater skill than Nikolai. And that had been in the woods when she had thought no one was watching, when her life was not even at stake.
But at the same time, Nikolai did not intend to lie down and accept loss without a fight. He had endured Galina’s tyranny in preparation for this. All that suffering needed to be worth it. If he won, he could finally be free of Galina, and he could finally have a place where he was respected and where he belonged. No more bartering for cloth or sharpening other people’s swords. He would be the tsar’s adviser.
Not to mention, Nikolai had no desire to die.
Renata put the remainder of the apple tart back on its plate and wiped her fingers on a cloth napkin. Then she walked back to Nikolai at the window. “You don’t have it in you to hurt the other enchanter.” She pulled his hands apart from each other. He hadn’t realized he’d been scrubbing at them again, still plagued by the memory of the tiger and the vipers and the lorises. So much blood.
“The Game ends when only one enchanter remains,” he said.
“Or until one proves he is better than the other. You don’t have to kill her. The Game will take care of that as long as there’s a clear winner.”
Nikolai retracted his hands from Renata’s. He leaned against the windowsill. It was true he wasn’t required to attack the other enchanter. But . . .
“I’ll only have more turns in the Game if the girl doesn’t kill me first.” Nikolai shuddered as he imagined his body pierced by hundreds of fiery arrows. Or spontaneously bursting into flame. Which would also happen if her moves were simply better than his. “What do my tea leaves instruct me to do?”
“Tea leaves never give instructions. Only observations. And I haven’t read your leaves since the time you forgot to lock your door.”
The very corner of Nikolai’s mouth smiled. But only the corner.
Renata reached up and brushed her finger against his dimple. She had always told him it looked like an accidental divot chipped out of the smooth planes of his face, for he only had one, not a matching pair. “There. I missed this dimple. This is a tiny bit of the Nikolai I know.” Her finger stayed for an extra second before it dropped away.
Nikolai tried not to think about the way she lingered. Instead, he tugged at his collar, where the scar seemed to threaten to burn through his cravat.
He could reface all the buildings on Nevsky Prospect as part of his move. Superficially, it would be a pretty gift to the city for Pasha’s birthday, and hopefully the tsar would appreciate the effort it would take to execute such detailed splendor.
“The countess is indisposed. By a magical cyclone.”
Renata smirked.
Nikolai set down the tray on the tablecloth. “After you, mademoiselle.”
She hesitated.
“It’s quite all right, Renata. I promise. You won’t turn into a frog if you eat something.”
“It’s not that . . . it’s . . . I’ve never eaten anything prepared so beautifully before. But you wouldn’t understand.”
“Believe me, I do.” And he did. He still recalled his first formal dinner in this house after Galina had taken him from the steppe. Important-Someone-or-Other had been visiting from Moscow, and the Zakrevskys—the count had still been alive then—had served a feast of soups and oysters and roasted pheasant, so different from the sparse helpings of tough mutton Nikolai had grown up on. But what he remembered most was the crème brûlée, a decadent custard topped with a delicate pane of caramelized sugar “glass.” It was the most heavenly thing Nikolai had ever seen, let alone tasted, at that point in his young life.
“Have dessert first,” he said to Renata. “And eat it with your hands. Galina isn’t around.”
She smiled shyly, as if he had read in her mind exactly what she had been wanting to do. Then she picked up an apple tart and bit in.
Nikolai did not, though. He wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t been hungry since the oath. He’d eaten, of course, but only because he needed the energy to function, not because he found any pleasure in the consumption of his meals.
Instead, he walked back up to his window and unwedged Galina’s knife from the sill. Then he charmed open his desk drawer, unlocked the enchanted hidden panel he’d constructed within, and secured the knife back inside.
He rubbed the back of his neck. It was something he’d done for as long as he could remember, whenever he was stressed. It helped him focus. Although it was questionable whether it was doing any good now.
“All I can think about is how ugly the city is,” Nikolai said, “and how they ought to dress up the grandstands for Pasha’s birthday, and how Nevsky Prospect, one of the supposed gems of Saint Petersburg, ought to have been repainted. I should be focusing on the Game, but my mind keeps wandering to stupid details about birthdays.”
The scar beneath Nikolai’s collarbone flared at the mention of the Game. It had been burning hotter every hour, as if impatient that Nikolai had already taken three days after the oath and not made his move. But this first play would set the tone for the entire Game, and he wanted to get it right.
“Aren’t you supposed to do something for the tsesarevich’s birthday?” Renata said. “You could repaint Nevsky Prospect as your move. You’d kill two birds with one stone.”
“I’m not supposed to be killing birds. I’m supposed to be killing the girl.”
“Her name is Vika.”
“What?” Nikolai flinched.
“Her name is Vika. I overheard the countess saying it to herself in her rooms before you left for Bolshebnoie Duplo.”
“I . . . I don’t like the girl having a name.” Nikolai shook his head, as if he could shake her name right out of his skull. It made it harder to hurt her if she had a name. He could only kill her if he forgot she was a person. Maybe. Because he knew where she lived, and she didn’t know his identity. He could go to Ovchinin Island and find her house. Then when she least expected it, he could cause it to cave in on her. Or he could charm her pillow to smother her in her sleep. Impale her with a garden hoe.
The thoughts turned Nikolai a dismal shade of green.
Besides, it would never work. The girl would have cast protections on her home—if she hadn’t already relocated to Saint Petersburg—and she had already displayed far greater skill than Nikolai. And that had been in the woods when she had thought no one was watching, when her life was not even at stake.
But at the same time, Nikolai did not intend to lie down and accept loss without a fight. He had endured Galina’s tyranny in preparation for this. All that suffering needed to be worth it. If he won, he could finally be free of Galina, and he could finally have a place where he was respected and where he belonged. No more bartering for cloth or sharpening other people’s swords. He would be the tsar’s adviser.
Not to mention, Nikolai had no desire to die.
Renata put the remainder of the apple tart back on its plate and wiped her fingers on a cloth napkin. Then she walked back to Nikolai at the window. “You don’t have it in you to hurt the other enchanter.” She pulled his hands apart from each other. He hadn’t realized he’d been scrubbing at them again, still plagued by the memory of the tiger and the vipers and the lorises. So much blood.
“The Game ends when only one enchanter remains,” he said.
“Or until one proves he is better than the other. You don’t have to kill her. The Game will take care of that as long as there’s a clear winner.”
Nikolai retracted his hands from Renata’s. He leaned against the windowsill. It was true he wasn’t required to attack the other enchanter. But . . .
“I’ll only have more turns in the Game if the girl doesn’t kill me first.” Nikolai shuddered as he imagined his body pierced by hundreds of fiery arrows. Or spontaneously bursting into flame. Which would also happen if her moves were simply better than his. “What do my tea leaves instruct me to do?”
“Tea leaves never give instructions. Only observations. And I haven’t read your leaves since the time you forgot to lock your door.”
The very corner of Nikolai’s mouth smiled. But only the corner.
Renata reached up and brushed her finger against his dimple. She had always told him it looked like an accidental divot chipped out of the smooth planes of his face, for he only had one, not a matching pair. “There. I missed this dimple. This is a tiny bit of the Nikolai I know.” Her finger stayed for an extra second before it dropped away.
Nikolai tried not to think about the way she lingered. Instead, he tugged at his collar, where the scar seemed to threaten to burn through his cravat.
He could reface all the buildings on Nevsky Prospect as part of his move. Superficially, it would be a pretty gift to the city for Pasha’s birthday, and hopefully the tsar would appreciate the effort it would take to execute such detailed splendor.
