The Crown's Game
Page 62
Vika furrowed her brow. “Actually . . . if you don’t mind, I was rather fancying a walk. I’ve been sitting here for a while. Or if you’d rather have some time alone with the benches—”
“No. A walk sounds perfect.” Pasha offered her his arm, and she linked hers through his.
They strolled down the rest of the promenade, past the last bench, the one that contained the dream of the steppe, and turned left onto another path.
“Why did you come to the island in the middle of the night?” Vika asked. “To experience it without Gavriil watching? And how did you escape his watch? I would think a tsesarevich would be closely guarded.”
“They try, but I know secret passageways in and out of the palace of which they are unaware. In general, they don’t report my absences, for at best they would appear to be fools, and at worst they would be disgraced and lose their positions. So in exchange for them ‘forgetting’ on many occasions to inform my father when they lose track of me, I return unscathed each time.”
“A risky bargain, but I suppose I understand. You haven’t answered my other question, though. Why are you here?”
“I may ask the same of you.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Nor could I.”
They walked on for a while without speaking. Vika looked up at the lanterns, while Pasha took pleasure in the weight of her arm against his. There were many layers of cloth that separated them, but he swore his skin tingled at her touch anyway. His pulse definitely thrummed faster. It was a welcome distraction from worrying about his mother.
When they turned onto another path—this one, Pasha recalled, led to a grove of maple trees—Vika said, “You have a great deal on your mind.”
Pasha started. It was the second time she had surprised him in half an hour. “Are you also a mind reader?”
“No. I hate to tell you, but your face gives everything away. There’s so much tension in your jaw, and you have a groove chiseled into your forehead. Not to mention your hair. Do you always pull it when you worry?”
Pasha shook his head. “You are remarkable.”
“Merely observant.”
He sighed as they stepped into the maple grove. “It’s just that my mother is very ill,” Pasha said. “It has been one thing after another, and the doctors are at their wits’ end. Their last hope is to send her to the South in hopes the warmer weather will do her good. I love her dearly, so I, too, hope it is the cure, but the truth is, I doubt it. Her problems began long before autumn arrived.”
Pasha released Vika’s arm and began to pace along the path. He thought of his mother’s life; it had not been easy to live in the Winter Palace with his father. The tsar had had many well-known affairs. Other children, borne by other women. The tsarina could have left and taken Yuliana with her, but Pasha would have had to remain behind as official heir to the throne. As such, his mother had stayed and abided a mountain of insult and indignity for the love of her son.
“I wish there were some miracle that could heal her.”
“Are you asking me to use magic on her?” Vika asked.
Pasha stopped his pacing. Hope caught in his throat. “Can you?”
Vika exhaled slowly and rubbed a spot just under the collar of her coat. She took several more breaths before she replied. “I can heal cuts and broken bones, but what ails your mother sounds much deeper. I think I’d do her more harm than good.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry. Magic is not always the answer. It’s old and very complicated, and comes tied with many strings. Even this”—she tapped the knot of the maple tree, which began to pour amber liquid into a bucket below—“one of Ludmila’s innocent ideas, has consequences greater than syrup.”
“What do you mean?”
Vika pointed up at the branches of the maple. The green leaves that swayed in the wind began to blur, then vanish. They were replaced by dead limbs.
“What . . . how did you do that?”
“The leaves are a mirage. These trees have actually been drained completely of life.”
“In order to create one thing, you had to sacrifice another.”
“Yes. Sometimes, magic is deadly.” She frowned.
Pasha eyed her. “Are you telling me you’re dangerous?”
Vika’s frown vanished, and she laughed, almost too wildly given what they’d just been talking about. “Quite so. But I’m no danger to you.”
The moon shifted then, and its light slivered through the bare maple branches and landed in pale stripes on Vika’s face. It highlighted her delicate cheekbones. It emphasized her otherness. Pasha couldn’t resist stepping closer to her. He reached out to touch her face.
“Please don’t,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, I just—”
She didn’t move away as his fingers hovered next to her cheek, aching to brush against her skin. But she said, “I mean, you don’t want this.”
“What if I do?” He wanted to kiss her. And not just her lips, although he wanted that, badly. He also wanted to kiss her neck, to peel away her coat and touch his mouth to her pale shoulders. He wanted to feel the softness and warmth of her skin. Pasha leaned closer.
This time, Vika backed away. “Trust me, you don’t. I’m too complicated. I am bound by too much not in my control.”
Pasha sighed. He, too, was bound. By his father. By duty. By the people of an entire empire. He wondered what trappings hindered Vika.
“There’s no such thing as simplicity,” he said.
She took off her glove and ran a finger through the trickle of maple syrup, frowning at the crystallized lumps in it. “I’m beginning to fully comprehend that.”
“I like you,” he said. “More than like you.”
She shook her head slightly, but more to herself than to him. “I don’t want to like you.”
“But you do?” Pasha went to run his hand through his hair, but caught himself before he gave his nerves away.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I’m only asking about you.”
Vika focused on a deformed crystal of syrup on her thumb. “I’m not in a position to fall in love. With you, or with anyone else.”
If he could, Pasha would have sucked the sugar off her finger. But it wasn’t appropriate, and she’d made it clear she wasn’t interested, so he settled for removing his glove and wiping the sugar crystal off her fingertip, lingering for a second as their hands touched. Even that sent sparks through every one of Pasha’s nerves.
“No. A walk sounds perfect.” Pasha offered her his arm, and she linked hers through his.
They strolled down the rest of the promenade, past the last bench, the one that contained the dream of the steppe, and turned left onto another path.
“Why did you come to the island in the middle of the night?” Vika asked. “To experience it without Gavriil watching? And how did you escape his watch? I would think a tsesarevich would be closely guarded.”
“They try, but I know secret passageways in and out of the palace of which they are unaware. In general, they don’t report my absences, for at best they would appear to be fools, and at worst they would be disgraced and lose their positions. So in exchange for them ‘forgetting’ on many occasions to inform my father when they lose track of me, I return unscathed each time.”
“A risky bargain, but I suppose I understand. You haven’t answered my other question, though. Why are you here?”
“I may ask the same of you.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Nor could I.”
They walked on for a while without speaking. Vika looked up at the lanterns, while Pasha took pleasure in the weight of her arm against his. There were many layers of cloth that separated them, but he swore his skin tingled at her touch anyway. His pulse definitely thrummed faster. It was a welcome distraction from worrying about his mother.
When they turned onto another path—this one, Pasha recalled, led to a grove of maple trees—Vika said, “You have a great deal on your mind.”
Pasha started. It was the second time she had surprised him in half an hour. “Are you also a mind reader?”
“No. I hate to tell you, but your face gives everything away. There’s so much tension in your jaw, and you have a groove chiseled into your forehead. Not to mention your hair. Do you always pull it when you worry?”
Pasha shook his head. “You are remarkable.”
“Merely observant.”
He sighed as they stepped into the maple grove. “It’s just that my mother is very ill,” Pasha said. “It has been one thing after another, and the doctors are at their wits’ end. Their last hope is to send her to the South in hopes the warmer weather will do her good. I love her dearly, so I, too, hope it is the cure, but the truth is, I doubt it. Her problems began long before autumn arrived.”
Pasha released Vika’s arm and began to pace along the path. He thought of his mother’s life; it had not been easy to live in the Winter Palace with his father. The tsar had had many well-known affairs. Other children, borne by other women. The tsarina could have left and taken Yuliana with her, but Pasha would have had to remain behind as official heir to the throne. As such, his mother had stayed and abided a mountain of insult and indignity for the love of her son.
“I wish there were some miracle that could heal her.”
“Are you asking me to use magic on her?” Vika asked.
Pasha stopped his pacing. Hope caught in his throat. “Can you?”
Vika exhaled slowly and rubbed a spot just under the collar of her coat. She took several more breaths before she replied. “I can heal cuts and broken bones, but what ails your mother sounds much deeper. I think I’d do her more harm than good.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry. Magic is not always the answer. It’s old and very complicated, and comes tied with many strings. Even this”—she tapped the knot of the maple tree, which began to pour amber liquid into a bucket below—“one of Ludmila’s innocent ideas, has consequences greater than syrup.”
“What do you mean?”
Vika pointed up at the branches of the maple. The green leaves that swayed in the wind began to blur, then vanish. They were replaced by dead limbs.
“What . . . how did you do that?”
“The leaves are a mirage. These trees have actually been drained completely of life.”
“In order to create one thing, you had to sacrifice another.”
“Yes. Sometimes, magic is deadly.” She frowned.
Pasha eyed her. “Are you telling me you’re dangerous?”
Vika’s frown vanished, and she laughed, almost too wildly given what they’d just been talking about. “Quite so. But I’m no danger to you.”
The moon shifted then, and its light slivered through the bare maple branches and landed in pale stripes on Vika’s face. It highlighted her delicate cheekbones. It emphasized her otherness. Pasha couldn’t resist stepping closer to her. He reached out to touch her face.
“Please don’t,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, I just—”
She didn’t move away as his fingers hovered next to her cheek, aching to brush against her skin. But she said, “I mean, you don’t want this.”
“What if I do?” He wanted to kiss her. And not just her lips, although he wanted that, badly. He also wanted to kiss her neck, to peel away her coat and touch his mouth to her pale shoulders. He wanted to feel the softness and warmth of her skin. Pasha leaned closer.
This time, Vika backed away. “Trust me, you don’t. I’m too complicated. I am bound by too much not in my control.”
Pasha sighed. He, too, was bound. By his father. By duty. By the people of an entire empire. He wondered what trappings hindered Vika.
“There’s no such thing as simplicity,” he said.
She took off her glove and ran a finger through the trickle of maple syrup, frowning at the crystallized lumps in it. “I’m beginning to fully comprehend that.”
“I like you,” he said. “More than like you.”
She shook her head slightly, but more to herself than to him. “I don’t want to like you.”
“But you do?” Pasha went to run his hand through his hair, but caught himself before he gave his nerves away.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I’m only asking about you.”
Vika focused on a deformed crystal of syrup on her thumb. “I’m not in a position to fall in love. With you, or with anyone else.”
If he could, Pasha would have sucked the sugar off her finger. But it wasn’t appropriate, and she’d made it clear she wasn’t interested, so he settled for removing his glove and wiping the sugar crystal off her fingertip, lingering for a second as their hands touched. Even that sent sparks through every one of Pasha’s nerves.
