The Crown's Game
Page 37
“No, Your Imperial Highness. It’s just . . . I was confused because you informed me of your intended whereabouts rather than . . .” He trailed off.
“Rather than sneaking out?” Pasha grinned even more brightly. “It’s only because I have greater roguishness planned.”
Pasha could see the line stretching from the bakery kiosk before he saw the pumpkin itself. Word had spread quickly about Madame Fanina’s incredible confections, and the carriage had to stop a block away because the crowd was too thick to pass through.
A handful of his guards dismounted their horses while Pasha disembarked from the carriage.
“Make way for His Imperial Highness, the Tsesarevich Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov!” Gavriil called.
Pasha flushed. “I could have waited in line,” he muttered.
But it was too late for that, for everyone on the street had turned to catch a glimpse of the crown prince. And then the entire queue bowed low, like a line of dominoes tumbling onto its knees. The Ekaterinsky Canal glittered red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet beside them.
As Pasha walked past, men and women rose and reached to kiss his hand. He smiled kindly as they declared their love for him and prayed for his health, and his heart swelled to span the far reaches of the empire. He loved it, not because they kissed his hand, but because the people of his country were infinitely more real in the flesh than in Imperial Council meetings and reports.
Halfway through the line, the pumpkin rose into view. Pasha bounced in his boots. I knew it! It was the glass pumpkin he’d had commissioned for the baker on Ovchinin Island! Well, a very enlarged version of it. Pasha recognized the crystalline curl of the green vines around the stem, and the ripples the imperial glassblower had chosen to incorporate into the pumpkin’s orange ribs. The only modifications that had been made to the pumpkin—other than its size—were a window cut out of it and a counter tiled with enormous pumpkin seeds from which to serve Ludmila’s patrons.
Pasha could hardly wait to reach the kiosk. He had to force himself to slow down and not plow through the men and women who still wanted to kiss his hand.
Eventually, his guards led the way to the counter, and Gavriil once again announced, “His Imperial Highness, the Tsesarevich Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov!” Pasha grimaced.
Inside the pumpkin, Ludmila and a dark-haired girl were already curtseying. Had they been in that position since he was announced when the carriage arrived? He hoped not. That had been fifteen minutes ago.
“Bonjour, mesdames,” he said, remembering how he had greeted the women in the island bakery not too long ago. “Please rise.”
Ludmila perked up immediately at the sound of his voice, and when she stood, her face exploded in a gap-toothed grin. “It’s you!” But just as quickly, her mouth contorted. “Oh, heaven forgive me, Your Imperial Highness, the things I said the last time . . . I didn’t know . . . your appearance was so different . . . I—”
“Madame Fanina, I take no offense,” Pasha said in Russian. He reached across the counter and patted her hand. “It is I who deceived you. You are not at all to blame.”
The other girl in the pumpkin gaped at Pasha. He turned to her. She seemed familiar. “Are you one of the girls who works in the Zakrevsky household?” Pasha glanced down the street, where he could just make out the corner of the building in which Nikolai lived.
“Yes, Your Imperial Highness. My name is Renata Galygina.” She looked at her feet as she spoke. “When I saw Madame Fanina’s kiosk here, I, um, thought I could earn some additional wages. I have some free time, as Countess Zakrevskaya is away, and my services are not in high demand.”
Pasha nodded. This, he knew. Countess Zakrevskaya had declared a sudden trip abroad, and no one knew when she would return. It was not at all out of character, for she was rather . . . eccentric, to put it politely. Pasha hoped, for Nikolai’s sake, that the countess was gone a very long while.
“Well, it’s a lovely surprise to see you here,” Pasha said to Renata.
She curtsied.
“What may I get Your Imperial Highness this morning?” Ludmila asked.
“I liked it better when you called me Frenchie.”
“I will do no such thing, Your French Highness.” She winked.
Pasha laughed.
“You may have anything you see.” Ludmila spread her arms wide, showcasing not only the Russian staples—honey poppy-seed rolls, Tula gingerbread, walnut-shaped oreshki cookies filled with caramel—but also a special glass case behind her.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Madame Fanina.”
She curtsied, although it appeared more like an amiable bear bobbing than a proper curtsy. “I admit I had some help from another girl,” she said. “I made all the components, but the assembly . . . let’s say that girl has a magic touch.”
Pasha stood taller. “Magic touch, you say? Show me everything you have.”
Renata scooted out of the way, and Ludmila began to describe the confections on each shelf. “Here,” she said, pointing at the bottom row, “we have chocolate truffles filled not with ganache, but with steaming-hot cocoa that doesn’t cool until it touches your tongue.”
“Incredible.”
She dipped her head in gratitude. “Next, we have a pear pie, but as you can see, it’s no ordinary pie, for the pastry is shaped like the fruit itself.”
“Exquisite.” The pie was not merely shaped with pear-like curved edges. It looked truly like a three-dimensional pear, round and tall and narrowing at the stem, the kind you could pick off a tree and bite into. The large crystals of sugar on its “peel” even approximated morning dew. Magic, indeed. The laws of gravity would not allow such a pie to bake without falling.
“And finally”—Ludmila pointed at the top shelf—“we have cream puffs light as air.”
Pasha gasped because they were indeed as light as air, or even lighter, for the puffs floated and had to be tied to the shelf with colorful strings, like mini pâte à choux balloons.
“If I may, I would like one of those,” Pasha said. Ludmila nodded so emphatically, all her chins wobbled. Renata opened the glass case and retrieved one on a violet ribbon and passed it to Pasha. He couldn’t stop smiling as he held the tiny balloon’s string between his fingers.
“Would Your Imperial Highness like something else?”
“Rather than sneaking out?” Pasha grinned even more brightly. “It’s only because I have greater roguishness planned.”
Pasha could see the line stretching from the bakery kiosk before he saw the pumpkin itself. Word had spread quickly about Madame Fanina’s incredible confections, and the carriage had to stop a block away because the crowd was too thick to pass through.
A handful of his guards dismounted their horses while Pasha disembarked from the carriage.
“Make way for His Imperial Highness, the Tsesarevich Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov!” Gavriil called.
Pasha flushed. “I could have waited in line,” he muttered.
But it was too late for that, for everyone on the street had turned to catch a glimpse of the crown prince. And then the entire queue bowed low, like a line of dominoes tumbling onto its knees. The Ekaterinsky Canal glittered red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet beside them.
As Pasha walked past, men and women rose and reached to kiss his hand. He smiled kindly as they declared their love for him and prayed for his health, and his heart swelled to span the far reaches of the empire. He loved it, not because they kissed his hand, but because the people of his country were infinitely more real in the flesh than in Imperial Council meetings and reports.
Halfway through the line, the pumpkin rose into view. Pasha bounced in his boots. I knew it! It was the glass pumpkin he’d had commissioned for the baker on Ovchinin Island! Well, a very enlarged version of it. Pasha recognized the crystalline curl of the green vines around the stem, and the ripples the imperial glassblower had chosen to incorporate into the pumpkin’s orange ribs. The only modifications that had been made to the pumpkin—other than its size—were a window cut out of it and a counter tiled with enormous pumpkin seeds from which to serve Ludmila’s patrons.
Pasha could hardly wait to reach the kiosk. He had to force himself to slow down and not plow through the men and women who still wanted to kiss his hand.
Eventually, his guards led the way to the counter, and Gavriil once again announced, “His Imperial Highness, the Tsesarevich Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov!” Pasha grimaced.
Inside the pumpkin, Ludmila and a dark-haired girl were already curtseying. Had they been in that position since he was announced when the carriage arrived? He hoped not. That had been fifteen minutes ago.
“Bonjour, mesdames,” he said, remembering how he had greeted the women in the island bakery not too long ago. “Please rise.”
Ludmila perked up immediately at the sound of his voice, and when she stood, her face exploded in a gap-toothed grin. “It’s you!” But just as quickly, her mouth contorted. “Oh, heaven forgive me, Your Imperial Highness, the things I said the last time . . . I didn’t know . . . your appearance was so different . . . I—”
“Madame Fanina, I take no offense,” Pasha said in Russian. He reached across the counter and patted her hand. “It is I who deceived you. You are not at all to blame.”
The other girl in the pumpkin gaped at Pasha. He turned to her. She seemed familiar. “Are you one of the girls who works in the Zakrevsky household?” Pasha glanced down the street, where he could just make out the corner of the building in which Nikolai lived.
“Yes, Your Imperial Highness. My name is Renata Galygina.” She looked at her feet as she spoke. “When I saw Madame Fanina’s kiosk here, I, um, thought I could earn some additional wages. I have some free time, as Countess Zakrevskaya is away, and my services are not in high demand.”
Pasha nodded. This, he knew. Countess Zakrevskaya had declared a sudden trip abroad, and no one knew when she would return. It was not at all out of character, for she was rather . . . eccentric, to put it politely. Pasha hoped, for Nikolai’s sake, that the countess was gone a very long while.
“Well, it’s a lovely surprise to see you here,” Pasha said to Renata.
She curtsied.
“What may I get Your Imperial Highness this morning?” Ludmila asked.
“I liked it better when you called me Frenchie.”
“I will do no such thing, Your French Highness.” She winked.
Pasha laughed.
“You may have anything you see.” Ludmila spread her arms wide, showcasing not only the Russian staples—honey poppy-seed rolls, Tula gingerbread, walnut-shaped oreshki cookies filled with caramel—but also a special glass case behind her.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Madame Fanina.”
She curtsied, although it appeared more like an amiable bear bobbing than a proper curtsy. “I admit I had some help from another girl,” she said. “I made all the components, but the assembly . . . let’s say that girl has a magic touch.”
Pasha stood taller. “Magic touch, you say? Show me everything you have.”
Renata scooted out of the way, and Ludmila began to describe the confections on each shelf. “Here,” she said, pointing at the bottom row, “we have chocolate truffles filled not with ganache, but with steaming-hot cocoa that doesn’t cool until it touches your tongue.”
“Incredible.”
She dipped her head in gratitude. “Next, we have a pear pie, but as you can see, it’s no ordinary pie, for the pastry is shaped like the fruit itself.”
“Exquisite.” The pie was not merely shaped with pear-like curved edges. It looked truly like a three-dimensional pear, round and tall and narrowing at the stem, the kind you could pick off a tree and bite into. The large crystals of sugar on its “peel” even approximated morning dew. Magic, indeed. The laws of gravity would not allow such a pie to bake without falling.
“And finally”—Ludmila pointed at the top shelf—“we have cream puffs light as air.”
Pasha gasped because they were indeed as light as air, or even lighter, for the puffs floated and had to be tied to the shelf with colorful strings, like mini pâte à choux balloons.
“If I may, I would like one of those,” Pasha said. Ludmila nodded so emphatically, all her chins wobbled. Renata opened the glass case and retrieved one on a violet ribbon and passed it to Pasha. He couldn’t stop smiling as he held the tiny balloon’s string between his fingers.
“Would Your Imperial Highness like something else?”
