The Crown's Game
Page 61
“Yuliana does not need taking care of.”
The tsarina laughed then, and her wrinkles unpinched. But her laughter was punctuated with hacking coughs.
Pasha winced.
She waved off his concern with her handkerchief. “I shall see you soon, all right?”
“All right.” Pasha kissed his mother’s hand again. For what could he say? She was his mother, but she was also the tsarina, and other than the tsar, the tsarina had the final word.
“Now if you will help me up, I need to check on how the staff is handling my luggage.”
He stood and pulled her up. She needed a second to steady herself, and then he led her out of the room, into the hall. She clung to him for support the entire way to her rooms.
Pasha rowed toward the island with long, even strokes. It was not hard to know where to go; the island was lit with twinkling lanterns, luminescent against the black sky. He had been back to the island only once—the tsar had been trying his hardest to keep Pasha occupied—but unlike the first time, Pasha’s second visit had been crowded, since the new dock allowed the rest of Saint Petersburg access.
And everyone had known he was the tsesarevich, for his Guard had accompanied him. It was impossible to enjoy the Dream Benches when he knew everyone would watch him, and besides that, Gavriil had refused to allow the tsesarevich to “fall under the influence of hallucinatory drugs.” Pasha shook his head. As if the benches could be explained so simply! But the people of Saint Petersburg had convinced themselves that the colorful mists surrounding each bench were hallucinogens, and then they’d shown a surprising willingness to throw themselves into the experience anyway. That in itself, thought Pasha, could be construed as magic. He laughed aloud at the memory of the crowds of ordinarily staid Petersburgers, packing themselves ten people to a bench.
But at least now, in the middle of the night, Pasha would have the island to himself.
Or so he thought. When he rowed up to the dock, there was something else tied to the pier. It was not a boat, per se. But rather, a leaf. A yellow birch leaf with its edges turned up, enlarged to the size of a small boat.
“Vika,” he whispered.
He leaped out of his own skiff and secured it to the pier. Of course, it could be the other enchanter who was here, but Pasha had a feeling it was Vika. It was a birch leaf at the dock, and Vika came from an island covered in birches. It had to be her.
He ran toward the main path, leaving his dignity at the dock, the gravel crunching under his boots as he approached the promenade. The lanterns appeared to dance with the leaves in the breeze, the moonlight somehow not detracting from their brilliance, but adding to it. Pasha emerged from the trees to the center of the island, and it was there that he stopped short, on the walkway lined with benches.
Vika sat on the bench for Ovchinin Island.
Pasha slowed as he walked toward her so that he would not startle her with his presence. But she didn’t look up, even though his boots seemed to pound on the path no matter how lightly he tried to tread, and he knew she must be immersed in a dream.
He hovered. He could sit next to her, and perhaps join her. He didn’t know if each person had their own separate dream, or if you shared the same vision on the same bench. Of course, if he sat down, it might surprise her, and he had been attempting to avoid that all along.
“It’s a tad eerie of you to stand there and watch me sleep,” Vika said, her eyes still closed.
Pasha jumped. Ironic that he had been the one trying not to startle her.
She opened her eyes and smiled.
Pasha recovered himself and bowed. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Vika.”
“And you as well, Pasha.”
He straightened. “How did you know I was here?”
“I have a knack for sensing anomalies in my magic.”
“Ah. So I am an anomaly. And the benches are yours, not the other enchanter’s.”
She laughed. “Oh, goodness, no to both. You’re an anomaly only to the extent that you are not my magic, and thus, I can feel when you—or anyone—is there, if I so choose. And the benches are not mine. The island, yes. But the benches . . . I couldn’t create something so magnificent.”
“I would venture to say the island itself is quite magnificent.”
“Thank you.” Vika stood and straightened her skirt. “I’m rather pleased with it myself.”
“Is that your leaf at the dock?” Pasha pointed in the direction from which he’d come.
“Yes, I’ve been experimenting with different modes of transportation. Do you like it?”
“Very much.”
“I could make one for you.”
“I think Gavriil would die of fright.”
Vika tilted her head. “Gavriil?”
“The captain of my Guard. He doesn’t like it when I try new things. A boat made of a leaf, I think, may push him to the limits of his tolerance.”
“You may assure him it is entirely safe.”
“I have no doubt. Perhaps I ought to send him out on the leaf first, to prove its sturdiness.”
Vika laughed, and Pasha did, too. She sparkled like the lanterns under the moonlight.
“Have you tried the benches?” she asked.
“No. Gavriil wouldn’t let me when so many people were around during the day. Have you been through all the dreams?”
“Yes, and some more than once. They are all astounding.”
Pasha glanced over his shoulder at the benches he had passed on his way to Vika. “Which is your favorite? Besides the obvious?” He dipped his head toward the Ovchinin Island bench on which she sat.
“The steppe,” she said without pause.
“Interesting. I have a friend who is originally from the steppe. You met him, actually, at the ball. Nikolai. He was the harlequin.”
Vika paused, and for a moment she seemed as frozen as her dress had been that night. But then she was herself again. “Right. The harlequin. I think I remember him. Remarkable dancer.”
“Indeed. He is always popular with the girls at balls.” Pasha watched her closely for her reaction.
“Is he?” Vika’s expression remained even and bland. It was as if she were neither impressed nor unimpressed, as if Nikolai wasn’t memorable to her at all. Pasha exhaled.
“But enough about Nikolai. Could we sit on the bench with the steppe dream? Would you show me around?”
The tsarina laughed then, and her wrinkles unpinched. But her laughter was punctuated with hacking coughs.
Pasha winced.
She waved off his concern with her handkerchief. “I shall see you soon, all right?”
“All right.” Pasha kissed his mother’s hand again. For what could he say? She was his mother, but she was also the tsarina, and other than the tsar, the tsarina had the final word.
“Now if you will help me up, I need to check on how the staff is handling my luggage.”
He stood and pulled her up. She needed a second to steady herself, and then he led her out of the room, into the hall. She clung to him for support the entire way to her rooms.
Pasha rowed toward the island with long, even strokes. It was not hard to know where to go; the island was lit with twinkling lanterns, luminescent against the black sky. He had been back to the island only once—the tsar had been trying his hardest to keep Pasha occupied—but unlike the first time, Pasha’s second visit had been crowded, since the new dock allowed the rest of Saint Petersburg access.
And everyone had known he was the tsesarevich, for his Guard had accompanied him. It was impossible to enjoy the Dream Benches when he knew everyone would watch him, and besides that, Gavriil had refused to allow the tsesarevich to “fall under the influence of hallucinatory drugs.” Pasha shook his head. As if the benches could be explained so simply! But the people of Saint Petersburg had convinced themselves that the colorful mists surrounding each bench were hallucinogens, and then they’d shown a surprising willingness to throw themselves into the experience anyway. That in itself, thought Pasha, could be construed as magic. He laughed aloud at the memory of the crowds of ordinarily staid Petersburgers, packing themselves ten people to a bench.
But at least now, in the middle of the night, Pasha would have the island to himself.
Or so he thought. When he rowed up to the dock, there was something else tied to the pier. It was not a boat, per se. But rather, a leaf. A yellow birch leaf with its edges turned up, enlarged to the size of a small boat.
“Vika,” he whispered.
He leaped out of his own skiff and secured it to the pier. Of course, it could be the other enchanter who was here, but Pasha had a feeling it was Vika. It was a birch leaf at the dock, and Vika came from an island covered in birches. It had to be her.
He ran toward the main path, leaving his dignity at the dock, the gravel crunching under his boots as he approached the promenade. The lanterns appeared to dance with the leaves in the breeze, the moonlight somehow not detracting from their brilliance, but adding to it. Pasha emerged from the trees to the center of the island, and it was there that he stopped short, on the walkway lined with benches.
Vika sat on the bench for Ovchinin Island.
Pasha slowed as he walked toward her so that he would not startle her with his presence. But she didn’t look up, even though his boots seemed to pound on the path no matter how lightly he tried to tread, and he knew she must be immersed in a dream.
He hovered. He could sit next to her, and perhaps join her. He didn’t know if each person had their own separate dream, or if you shared the same vision on the same bench. Of course, if he sat down, it might surprise her, and he had been attempting to avoid that all along.
“It’s a tad eerie of you to stand there and watch me sleep,” Vika said, her eyes still closed.
Pasha jumped. Ironic that he had been the one trying not to startle her.
She opened her eyes and smiled.
Pasha recovered himself and bowed. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Vika.”
“And you as well, Pasha.”
He straightened. “How did you know I was here?”
“I have a knack for sensing anomalies in my magic.”
“Ah. So I am an anomaly. And the benches are yours, not the other enchanter’s.”
She laughed. “Oh, goodness, no to both. You’re an anomaly only to the extent that you are not my magic, and thus, I can feel when you—or anyone—is there, if I so choose. And the benches are not mine. The island, yes. But the benches . . . I couldn’t create something so magnificent.”
“I would venture to say the island itself is quite magnificent.”
“Thank you.” Vika stood and straightened her skirt. “I’m rather pleased with it myself.”
“Is that your leaf at the dock?” Pasha pointed in the direction from which he’d come.
“Yes, I’ve been experimenting with different modes of transportation. Do you like it?”
“Very much.”
“I could make one for you.”
“I think Gavriil would die of fright.”
Vika tilted her head. “Gavriil?”
“The captain of my Guard. He doesn’t like it when I try new things. A boat made of a leaf, I think, may push him to the limits of his tolerance.”
“You may assure him it is entirely safe.”
“I have no doubt. Perhaps I ought to send him out on the leaf first, to prove its sturdiness.”
Vika laughed, and Pasha did, too. She sparkled like the lanterns under the moonlight.
“Have you tried the benches?” she asked.
“No. Gavriil wouldn’t let me when so many people were around during the day. Have you been through all the dreams?”
“Yes, and some more than once. They are all astounding.”
Pasha glanced over his shoulder at the benches he had passed on his way to Vika. “Which is your favorite? Besides the obvious?” He dipped his head toward the Ovchinin Island bench on which she sat.
“The steppe,” she said without pause.
“Interesting. I have a friend who is originally from the steppe. You met him, actually, at the ball. Nikolai. He was the harlequin.”
Vika paused, and for a moment she seemed as frozen as her dress had been that night. But then she was herself again. “Right. The harlequin. I think I remember him. Remarkable dancer.”
“Indeed. He is always popular with the girls at balls.” Pasha watched her closely for her reaction.
“Is he?” Vika’s expression remained even and bland. It was as if she were neither impressed nor unimpressed, as if Nikolai wasn’t memorable to her at all. Pasha exhaled.
“But enough about Nikolai. Could we sit on the bench with the steppe dream? Would you show me around?”
