The Crown's Game
Page 49
“Why do we have to go?” Ludmila asked.
“We just do.” Vika flew up the stairs and out the doors of the ballroom, with Ludmila panting to catch up behind her. Vika didn’t even bid farewell to the imperial family. She certainly did not look back at Nikolai.
For it was too cruel of life to bring him to her now, only to remind her that one of them would soon be taken away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“What in the tsar’s name is wrong with you?” Galina asked, as she brought a steaming bowl of borscht to Sergei’s bedside. He lay on the mattress with his eyelids barely open, his book on medicinal herbs splayed on the pillow next to him but untouched in the last day. “I’m . . . tired.”
“You had better not have a contagious disease while I’m locked up in this cabin with you.” Galina helped prop her brother up against the wall. It was like lifting two hundred pounds of deadweight. If it weren’t for her magic, she would not have been able to manage. “Here, at least eat something.” She scooped up a spoonful of the dark-red borscht and lifted it to his mouth.
Sergei opened and swallowed the soup. He screwed up his face. “What is that?”
“Borscht.”
“It absolutely is not.”
“Well, I tried my best!” Since Sergei had been in bed the last two days, Galina had had to do the cooking, which was a near-impossible task, seeing as she had a full kitchen staff at home and had never lifted a paring knife in her life. Add in the fact that most of her meals were French in nature, so she had forgotten what a proper Russian beet soup ought to taste like. She had attempted to make the borscht herself, but she couldn’t figure out how to get the hairy little roots off the beets, and the beets stained her hands and rolled off the cutting board onto the floor. In a huff, she had finally resorted to conjuring the dish, even though she knew Sergei despised conjured food. Still, she had made an effort.
Sergei pushed her hand and the bowl away and slumped back onto the mattress. His bare wrist hung off the edge of the bed.
That was when Galina remembered the leather bracelet that had been there at the oath. “Mon frere . . . what exactly did you give Vika that day in Bolshebnoie Duplo?”
“A bracelet,” he muttered.
“But not any bracelet. It was charmed, wasn’t it?”
“Of course it was. I’m sure the dagger you gave Nikolai was also enchanted.”
Galina set the soup bowl on the nightstand. “I would be a fool if it wasn’t. But the bracelet is the problem. It must be. What is it? What is it doing to you?”
Sergei grumbled and turned away from her to face the wall.
“Sergei!”
He rolled back and scowled. “What does it matter?”
“Because I need to know how to help my brother.” Whether he knew it or not, she did actually care about him. She remembered how much it pained her when they were children, when she watched him trying to keep his pet chinchilla alive and suffering with each failure. It died at least five times, surviving a month in their home only because Sergei kept half succeeding in resurrecting it by siphoning some of his own energy into it. The chinchilla just had not had much will to live. Finally, after the sixth death, their father had ordered the chinchilla be left in peace, partly in pity for the poor beast, but mostly because every resurrection left Sergei weakened and susceptible to pneumonia or other illness. He had always been so attached to animals.
Which was precisely the problem now, wasn’t it? Sergei was too attached to Vika. Because she’d come into his life as a helpless baby, she must have seemed more like one of his gentle forest animals than the preening people of Saint Petersburg society he so despised. And his current fatigued state must have very much to do with that bracelet he’d given his adopted daughter.
“You’re giving her your energy, aren’t you? The bracelet is a magical conduit you’ve created?”
Sergei sighed. “She’s strong, but this way, she’ll have even more stamina.”
“Oh, Sergei. Is there a limit?”
“No.”
Galina sank to her brother’s bedside. “So if the Game continues for much longer, she could drain your entire life away.”
Sergei shrugged. “If she wins, it will have been worth it.” His eyelids drooped, and he buried his face into the rough pillow.
“But the problem is, she won’t win.”
Sergei didn’t answer. Instead, he sang himself a wistful lullaby that their mother had sung to them when they were children.
Na ulitse dozhdik,
S vedra polivaet,
S vedra polivaet,
Zemlyu pribivaet.
It is raining, outdoors,
As if from a bucket.
Pouring from a bucket,
Rain is settling dirt down.
Galina stirred the borscht, around and around, with no intention of eating it. She stayed by her brother’s bed until he fell asleep.
The fact was, she did not care a mite about the girl. Nikolai, whom she had trained to be a fighter, would ultimately prevail. But for Sergei’s sake, she hoped the Game ended sooner rather than later.
The snow kept falling endlessly outside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Nikolai slept the entire day after the masquerade. When he woke thirty or so hours later, he was groggy and felt as if he could sleep another day more. But his scar throbbed, and the realization that he was still in the Game—that the dance with Vika had changed everything and yet changed nothing at all—catapulted him out of bed. He had thought, during the mazurka, that they’d had something. Their touch had both frenzied and frozen the ballroom. Their breathing had synchronized, heatedly. And then they’d had all the dances afterward, where she’d let him charm her feet and he’d felt as if they’d spent the entire evening wrapped around each other, the warm silk of his magic against the strangely comforting chill of her dress, their magic and their bodies moving as one.
But then she’d suddenly run away without so much as a “Thank you for the dances” or even “I’ll see you again in the Game.” It was as if the mazurka had never happened at all.
And now Nikolai’s scar burned again. She had already made her move. But how? How could she have the energy to play the Game after the exhausting night at the ball? He splashed cold water on his face. Of course, it had been his powers used during her dances, but conjuring those two dresses—the blizzard and the chocolate gowns—would have been enough to take Nikolai out completely. How had she managed not only to create them, but also to appear so fresh-faced at the ball, full of wit and vibrance? And then to follow it up with a move in the Game? He shook his head at his reflection in the mirror.
“We just do.” Vika flew up the stairs and out the doors of the ballroom, with Ludmila panting to catch up behind her. Vika didn’t even bid farewell to the imperial family. She certainly did not look back at Nikolai.
For it was too cruel of life to bring him to her now, only to remind her that one of them would soon be taken away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“What in the tsar’s name is wrong with you?” Galina asked, as she brought a steaming bowl of borscht to Sergei’s bedside. He lay on the mattress with his eyelids barely open, his book on medicinal herbs splayed on the pillow next to him but untouched in the last day. “I’m . . . tired.”
“You had better not have a contagious disease while I’m locked up in this cabin with you.” Galina helped prop her brother up against the wall. It was like lifting two hundred pounds of deadweight. If it weren’t for her magic, she would not have been able to manage. “Here, at least eat something.” She scooped up a spoonful of the dark-red borscht and lifted it to his mouth.
Sergei opened and swallowed the soup. He screwed up his face. “What is that?”
“Borscht.”
“It absolutely is not.”
“Well, I tried my best!” Since Sergei had been in bed the last two days, Galina had had to do the cooking, which was a near-impossible task, seeing as she had a full kitchen staff at home and had never lifted a paring knife in her life. Add in the fact that most of her meals were French in nature, so she had forgotten what a proper Russian beet soup ought to taste like. She had attempted to make the borscht herself, but she couldn’t figure out how to get the hairy little roots off the beets, and the beets stained her hands and rolled off the cutting board onto the floor. In a huff, she had finally resorted to conjuring the dish, even though she knew Sergei despised conjured food. Still, she had made an effort.
Sergei pushed her hand and the bowl away and slumped back onto the mattress. His bare wrist hung off the edge of the bed.
That was when Galina remembered the leather bracelet that had been there at the oath. “Mon frere . . . what exactly did you give Vika that day in Bolshebnoie Duplo?”
“A bracelet,” he muttered.
“But not any bracelet. It was charmed, wasn’t it?”
“Of course it was. I’m sure the dagger you gave Nikolai was also enchanted.”
Galina set the soup bowl on the nightstand. “I would be a fool if it wasn’t. But the bracelet is the problem. It must be. What is it? What is it doing to you?”
Sergei grumbled and turned away from her to face the wall.
“Sergei!”
He rolled back and scowled. “What does it matter?”
“Because I need to know how to help my brother.” Whether he knew it or not, she did actually care about him. She remembered how much it pained her when they were children, when she watched him trying to keep his pet chinchilla alive and suffering with each failure. It died at least five times, surviving a month in their home only because Sergei kept half succeeding in resurrecting it by siphoning some of his own energy into it. The chinchilla just had not had much will to live. Finally, after the sixth death, their father had ordered the chinchilla be left in peace, partly in pity for the poor beast, but mostly because every resurrection left Sergei weakened and susceptible to pneumonia or other illness. He had always been so attached to animals.
Which was precisely the problem now, wasn’t it? Sergei was too attached to Vika. Because she’d come into his life as a helpless baby, she must have seemed more like one of his gentle forest animals than the preening people of Saint Petersburg society he so despised. And his current fatigued state must have very much to do with that bracelet he’d given his adopted daughter.
“You’re giving her your energy, aren’t you? The bracelet is a magical conduit you’ve created?”
Sergei sighed. “She’s strong, but this way, she’ll have even more stamina.”
“Oh, Sergei. Is there a limit?”
“No.”
Galina sank to her brother’s bedside. “So if the Game continues for much longer, she could drain your entire life away.”
Sergei shrugged. “If she wins, it will have been worth it.” His eyelids drooped, and he buried his face into the rough pillow.
“But the problem is, she won’t win.”
Sergei didn’t answer. Instead, he sang himself a wistful lullaby that their mother had sung to them when they were children.
Na ulitse dozhdik,
S vedra polivaet,
S vedra polivaet,
Zemlyu pribivaet.
It is raining, outdoors,
As if from a bucket.
Pouring from a bucket,
Rain is settling dirt down.
Galina stirred the borscht, around and around, with no intention of eating it. She stayed by her brother’s bed until he fell asleep.
The fact was, she did not care a mite about the girl. Nikolai, whom she had trained to be a fighter, would ultimately prevail. But for Sergei’s sake, she hoped the Game ended sooner rather than later.
The snow kept falling endlessly outside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Nikolai slept the entire day after the masquerade. When he woke thirty or so hours later, he was groggy and felt as if he could sleep another day more. But his scar throbbed, and the realization that he was still in the Game—that the dance with Vika had changed everything and yet changed nothing at all—catapulted him out of bed. He had thought, during the mazurka, that they’d had something. Their touch had both frenzied and frozen the ballroom. Their breathing had synchronized, heatedly. And then they’d had all the dances afterward, where she’d let him charm her feet and he’d felt as if they’d spent the entire evening wrapped around each other, the warm silk of his magic against the strangely comforting chill of her dress, their magic and their bodies moving as one.
But then she’d suddenly run away without so much as a “Thank you for the dances” or even “I’ll see you again in the Game.” It was as if the mazurka had never happened at all.
And now Nikolai’s scar burned again. She had already made her move. But how? How could she have the energy to play the Game after the exhausting night at the ball? He splashed cold water on his face. Of course, it had been his powers used during her dances, but conjuring those two dresses—the blizzard and the chocolate gowns—would have been enough to take Nikolai out completely. How had she managed not only to create them, but also to appear so fresh-faced at the ball, full of wit and vibrance? And then to follow it up with a move in the Game? He shook his head at his reflection in the mirror.
