The Crown's Game
Page 41
“We’ll have to decide on our costumes.” Ludmila held two green macarons over her eyes.
Vika groaned. “Not that. You look like a murky-eyed frog.”
“Then what will we wear?” She lowered the macarons. “Can you conjure costumes for us?”
“I could. . . .” Which was true. But Vika had never been any good at tailoring clothes. It was part of the reason why her dresses were not up to the standard of the gowns worn by Saint Petersburg girls. Perhaps it was because cloth was not a living thing, which made it more difficult for her to manipulate. Or perhaps it was because she had never much cared what she wore. She was very much like Sergei in that way. But no matter what the reason, Vika had only ever mastered making the simplest of clothes.
Yet there was another option: the armoire. Assuming it functioned like the one at Bissette & Sons, she and Ludmila could throw in old garments and voilà! New costumes would appear. Vika had seen a woman at Bissette & Sons leave with a dress made of white swan feathers and a black-and-white mask to match. Another left with a gown that was red at the hem but orange and pink near the bodice, with a yellow veil for her face like the rising sun. It would be easy to use the armoire.
It would also mean trusting her opponent.
“What are you thinking about?” Ludmila asked.
“The armoire.”
“It’s still in the hall.”
“I know.”
“It wouldn’t fit through the front door.”
“That’s because I have protections on the flat.” Vika had cast double protections, actually, ever since the day Nikolai’s Nevsky Prospect magic almost seeped in. “The armoire is enchanted. My charms wouldn’t let it in.”
“Ah . . . that makes so much sense. We measured and remeasured, and the dimensions seemed as if it ought to easily fit, so we couldn’t figure out what was wrong.” Ludmila finished assembling the last of the macarons. She offered one to Vika. Vika declined. “So the armoire from the other enchanter? What does it do?”
“If it is anything like the other one at the tailor shop down the street, you fill it with old clothes, and it changes them into something new. But not something ordinary. Something extravagant, for the masquerade.”
Ludmila clapped her hands, and cookie crumbs sprinkled down from them. “So we should use it.”
If only they could. If only Vika could give in and trust her opponent, enjoy his magic as a complement to her own. If only the Game did not exist. But no. She had allowed herself the pleasure of enjoying the wardrobe’s wood carvings, but only with her shields intact. Using it to clothe themselves was a more intimate matter. A dangerous matter.
“No,” she said to Ludmila. “We cannot use it.”
“Why not? It would save you some work.”
But that was another reason Vika couldn’t allow herself to utilize the armoire. She didn’t want to depend on the other enchanter. She didn’t need his help.
This couldn’t be explained adequately to Ludmila, though, without telling her about the Game.
Instead, she said, “I’m not the sort of girl who likes to be dressed by a man, as if I were his doll. I think it would be best if the costumes we wore were our own.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
At thirty minutes past eight on Saturday evening, Nikolai arrived at the Winter Palace. He had enough pride not to arrive at the very beginning of the masquerade but also enough awareness that, despite being Pasha’s friend, he was enough of a nobody to require appearing before the real nobility arrived. At the threshold of the ballroom, Nikolai adjusted his mask over his eyes. It had red and black diamonds in a harlequin pattern, which matched his waistcoat and also matched the jack-in-the-box outside in Palace Square. Other than this small splash of color, however, his clothing was unremarkable—a starched white shirt, a black cravat, charcoal trousers, white gloves, and a formal dress coat. He did not feel like being particularly visible. Besides, it would be lovely to blend in for once. Tonight, he didn’t have to be Galina’s “charitable project,” the poor orphan she’d refined into a gentleman and paraded around at her friends’ balls. He could be anyone.
The majordomo announced his presence—simply “Harlequin,” for at a masquerade there were no real names—and he smiled to himself as he proceeded down the carpeted steps.
The tsarina had had the ballroom decorated lavishly. The ceilings were draped with richly hued fabrics, deep burgundy and midnight blue, giving the effect of being inside a sumptuous tent. The chandeliers were adorned with wreaths of tiger lilies and red dahlias, and the walls were hung thickly with curtains and garlands of peacock feathers. Divans with deep cushions sat around the edges of the room, a departure from the staid chairs that usually lined the perimeter, and one corner of the ballroom had been transformed into a miniature café, complete with quiches and petits fours and coffee and tea from an army of copper samovars.
Many guests had already arrived, and a veritable menagerie whirled around the dance floor. A tuxedoed brown bear soared to the string ensemble with a butterfly. A rhinoceros wearing a bowler hat waltzed with a bejeweled mouse. And a white tigress prowled the ballroom with a tottering dodo bird in tow. Nikolai shuddered at the memory of the tiger he’d had to slaughter.
Of course, Pasha and the rest of the imperial family had not yet appeared. They would wait until nine o’clock, or even later. Then again, it being a masquerade, they could very well be hidden among the guests. Nikolai scanned the room again. No, it was impossible that Yuliana or the tsar or tsarina would do such a thing. It was highly likely, however, that Pasha would.
Nikolai smirked. How easy would it be to pick Pasha out of the crowd?
The majordomo announced General Sergei Volkonsky, a hero of the Napoleonic Wars, and his wife, Maria. I did arrive just in time, Nikolai thought. Indeed, only seconds before the real nobility.
Behind Nikolai, a man whispered, “I hear Volkonsky is not as loyal to the imperial family as the tsar believes. Some say he is in league with Pavel Pestel.”
“Pestel?” another man said. “The agitator who has been calling for democracy?”
“The very one.”
“Mon dieu! What a state Russia is in these days.”
Nikolai turned around, curious as to the identities of the speakers. But both the men were masked, and one of them, upon seeing Nikolai, said, “Let’s not discuss this tonight,” before he herded his friend away.
Vika groaned. “Not that. You look like a murky-eyed frog.”
“Then what will we wear?” She lowered the macarons. “Can you conjure costumes for us?”
“I could. . . .” Which was true. But Vika had never been any good at tailoring clothes. It was part of the reason why her dresses were not up to the standard of the gowns worn by Saint Petersburg girls. Perhaps it was because cloth was not a living thing, which made it more difficult for her to manipulate. Or perhaps it was because she had never much cared what she wore. She was very much like Sergei in that way. But no matter what the reason, Vika had only ever mastered making the simplest of clothes.
Yet there was another option: the armoire. Assuming it functioned like the one at Bissette & Sons, she and Ludmila could throw in old garments and voilà! New costumes would appear. Vika had seen a woman at Bissette & Sons leave with a dress made of white swan feathers and a black-and-white mask to match. Another left with a gown that was red at the hem but orange and pink near the bodice, with a yellow veil for her face like the rising sun. It would be easy to use the armoire.
It would also mean trusting her opponent.
“What are you thinking about?” Ludmila asked.
“The armoire.”
“It’s still in the hall.”
“I know.”
“It wouldn’t fit through the front door.”
“That’s because I have protections on the flat.” Vika had cast double protections, actually, ever since the day Nikolai’s Nevsky Prospect magic almost seeped in. “The armoire is enchanted. My charms wouldn’t let it in.”
“Ah . . . that makes so much sense. We measured and remeasured, and the dimensions seemed as if it ought to easily fit, so we couldn’t figure out what was wrong.” Ludmila finished assembling the last of the macarons. She offered one to Vika. Vika declined. “So the armoire from the other enchanter? What does it do?”
“If it is anything like the other one at the tailor shop down the street, you fill it with old clothes, and it changes them into something new. But not something ordinary. Something extravagant, for the masquerade.”
Ludmila clapped her hands, and cookie crumbs sprinkled down from them. “So we should use it.”
If only they could. If only Vika could give in and trust her opponent, enjoy his magic as a complement to her own. If only the Game did not exist. But no. She had allowed herself the pleasure of enjoying the wardrobe’s wood carvings, but only with her shields intact. Using it to clothe themselves was a more intimate matter. A dangerous matter.
“No,” she said to Ludmila. “We cannot use it.”
“Why not? It would save you some work.”
But that was another reason Vika couldn’t allow herself to utilize the armoire. She didn’t want to depend on the other enchanter. She didn’t need his help.
This couldn’t be explained adequately to Ludmila, though, without telling her about the Game.
Instead, she said, “I’m not the sort of girl who likes to be dressed by a man, as if I were his doll. I think it would be best if the costumes we wore were our own.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
At thirty minutes past eight on Saturday evening, Nikolai arrived at the Winter Palace. He had enough pride not to arrive at the very beginning of the masquerade but also enough awareness that, despite being Pasha’s friend, he was enough of a nobody to require appearing before the real nobility arrived. At the threshold of the ballroom, Nikolai adjusted his mask over his eyes. It had red and black diamonds in a harlequin pattern, which matched his waistcoat and also matched the jack-in-the-box outside in Palace Square. Other than this small splash of color, however, his clothing was unremarkable—a starched white shirt, a black cravat, charcoal trousers, white gloves, and a formal dress coat. He did not feel like being particularly visible. Besides, it would be lovely to blend in for once. Tonight, he didn’t have to be Galina’s “charitable project,” the poor orphan she’d refined into a gentleman and paraded around at her friends’ balls. He could be anyone.
The majordomo announced his presence—simply “Harlequin,” for at a masquerade there were no real names—and he smiled to himself as he proceeded down the carpeted steps.
The tsarina had had the ballroom decorated lavishly. The ceilings were draped with richly hued fabrics, deep burgundy and midnight blue, giving the effect of being inside a sumptuous tent. The chandeliers were adorned with wreaths of tiger lilies and red dahlias, and the walls were hung thickly with curtains and garlands of peacock feathers. Divans with deep cushions sat around the edges of the room, a departure from the staid chairs that usually lined the perimeter, and one corner of the ballroom had been transformed into a miniature café, complete with quiches and petits fours and coffee and tea from an army of copper samovars.
Many guests had already arrived, and a veritable menagerie whirled around the dance floor. A tuxedoed brown bear soared to the string ensemble with a butterfly. A rhinoceros wearing a bowler hat waltzed with a bejeweled mouse. And a white tigress prowled the ballroom with a tottering dodo bird in tow. Nikolai shuddered at the memory of the tiger he’d had to slaughter.
Of course, Pasha and the rest of the imperial family had not yet appeared. They would wait until nine o’clock, or even later. Then again, it being a masquerade, they could very well be hidden among the guests. Nikolai scanned the room again. No, it was impossible that Yuliana or the tsar or tsarina would do such a thing. It was highly likely, however, that Pasha would.
Nikolai smirked. How easy would it be to pick Pasha out of the crowd?
The majordomo announced General Sergei Volkonsky, a hero of the Napoleonic Wars, and his wife, Maria. I did arrive just in time, Nikolai thought. Indeed, only seconds before the real nobility.
Behind Nikolai, a man whispered, “I hear Volkonsky is not as loyal to the imperial family as the tsar believes. Some say he is in league with Pavel Pestel.”
“Pestel?” another man said. “The agitator who has been calling for democracy?”
“The very one.”
“Mon dieu! What a state Russia is in these days.”
Nikolai turned around, curious as to the identities of the speakers. But both the men were masked, and one of them, upon seeing Nikolai, said, “Let’s not discuss this tonight,” before he herded his friend away.
