The Crown's Game
Page 75
And so in Saint Petersburg, women wept openly and collapsed on the icy cobblestones. Men bowed their heads and occasionally dabbed their eyes with their handkerchiefs. The pews in the churches overflowed.
“What do you think is happening inside the palace?” Renata asked. She had insisted on accompanying Nikolai to Palace Square, even though he had wanted to be alone ever since Pasha lashed out at him two weeks ago at the Magpie and the Fox. Before news arrived of the tsar’s death, Nikolai had attempted to apologize many times, waiting outside the palace and sending letters every day. But the Guard refused to admit him, and each of his messages was declined by the imperial secretary and returned to Nikolai unopened.
After the tsar’s death, Pasha locked the palace down. Nikolai hadn’t been able to think of anything but Pasha since then. He couldn’t even focus on the Game, despite the fact that it felt as if the scar were about to char him straight through his skin to his collarbone.
“I haven’t a clue what’s happening in the palace,” Nikolai said to Renata. “I imagine they are not only mourning but also making preparations for Pasha’s coronation.” Although it was widely accepted that Pasha would become the next tsar, his official coronation wouldn’t take place until January, in Moscow. Tsars were always crowned in the old capital of Russia, but it took time to plan a coronation, especially an unexpected one. It was only the last day of November now. Nikolai slumped. He’d always thought he’d be one of the first invited when Pasha became tsar. Not so anymore.
“There is also a third item on the tsesarevich’s agenda,” a sharp but familiar woman’s voice said behind them. Nikolai and Renata whipped around, and upon seeing Galina, Renata fell into a curtsy and almost tumbled into the snow.
Nikolai had a slightly better grasp of his composure and managed not to give away too much in his expression. Still, he could see a hint of victory in Galina’s eyes at having caught him by surprise.
“I thought you were exiled until the end of the Game,” he said.
“As did I,” she said. “But the Game’s whirlwind brought me back. Which is fine by me. I tired of Siberia. It was too cold.” Of course, she didn’t mention her brother’s death. How like Galina. And yet, there was something different about her since the last time Nikolai had seen her. She was thinner, and the lines on her face were more pronounced. Perhaps her brother’s death had affected her in some way. Or perhaps it was just the black clothes, which were unflattering to her pale complexion.
“The tsesarevich has requested your presence,” she said offhandedly, as if this were something that occurred on a regular basis. “Or is he the tsar now? No, I suppose not. He hasn’t been made official.”
“Pasha wants to see me?”
“Not for a hand of cards. Official business.”
Nikolai crumbled inside. He had been so focused on his falling-out with Pasha, and then with the death of the tsar and tsarina, that he hadn’t thought through the implications of the Game.
If Pasha was going to be tsar, then he would also inherit the role of final arbiter of the Game. He would be the one to decide if Vika and Nikolai lived or died.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Pasha strode down the hallway of the Winter Palace toward his mother’s former audience room. They were the same chambers in which he’d caught his breath during the ball, but today’s purpose would be far different. Then, he’d just been an heir, training for a seemingly distant future. But now that future had come. There would be no hiding to catch his breath today. Yuliana marched beside him, and the Tsar’s Guard followed close behind. That was another difference to which Pasha would have to grow accustomed. He’d kept on a couple of his own men—Gavriil, his captain, and Ilya, the one with a knack for sensing where Pasha went when he needed to get away—but otherwise, these guards were his father’s men. It made it even more clear that Pasha’s life had drastically changed.
“Are you ready?” Yuliana asked, tilting her head at the wooden chest that Ilya carried behind them. The Russe Quill and Scroll had come back to Saint Petersburg with the rest of their father’s and mother’s personal effects. Immediately, Yuliana had urged Pasha to conclude the Game. There was too much unrest in the empire, and their enemies would take advantage of the transition in the tsardom if Pasha was not strong. He needed an Imperial Enchanter now.
“I’m ready.” Pasha smiled on the outside. But on the inside, he laughed cruelly—sadly—at himself. How could he ever be ready to sentence people to their deaths? Especially people he’d once loved? For that was what he was about to do: demand the end of the Game, and in so doing, command either Nikolai’s or Vika’s death. If only his heart were made of stone rather than quivering humanity.
Yuliana touched him gently on his sleeve, as if she knew his smile was mere deception. But of course she knew. She was his sister, who knew all his flaws. She was his strength where he was weak. “I will be right there beside you,” Yuliana said. “Remember, this is for something greater than the two enchanters. This is for Russia.”
Pasha swallowed and nodded. And as they continued their march down the hall, he repeated it to himself. This is for Russia. This is no longer only about me.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Vika arrived at the Winter Palace alone. She had expected an opulent throne room, or perhaps a grand hall like the one that had hosted the masquerade. But instead, the guard escorted her to a small chamber with lilac walls and unembellished cream drapes, the room bare of furniture except for a desk and a few simple chairs. Vika relaxed a little. The unpretentious grace of the room seemed more like Pasha than a massive hall lined with red and gold and double-headed eagles along the walls.
Nikolai and Galina Zakrevskaya were already there. Neither of them sat, but rather stood several feet apart, as if it were unbearable for them to stand any closer together.
As Vika entered, Nikolai gave her a cursory bow. She had desecrated his home, and she knew she deserved not even a nod of acknowledgment. It was all she could do not to fly across the room and beg his forgiveness.
Then another guard entered the room. He cleared his throat and announced, “The Tsesarevich Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov, and the Grand Princess Yuliana Alexandrovna Romanova.”
“What do you think is happening inside the palace?” Renata asked. She had insisted on accompanying Nikolai to Palace Square, even though he had wanted to be alone ever since Pasha lashed out at him two weeks ago at the Magpie and the Fox. Before news arrived of the tsar’s death, Nikolai had attempted to apologize many times, waiting outside the palace and sending letters every day. But the Guard refused to admit him, and each of his messages was declined by the imperial secretary and returned to Nikolai unopened.
After the tsar’s death, Pasha locked the palace down. Nikolai hadn’t been able to think of anything but Pasha since then. He couldn’t even focus on the Game, despite the fact that it felt as if the scar were about to char him straight through his skin to his collarbone.
“I haven’t a clue what’s happening in the palace,” Nikolai said to Renata. “I imagine they are not only mourning but also making preparations for Pasha’s coronation.” Although it was widely accepted that Pasha would become the next tsar, his official coronation wouldn’t take place until January, in Moscow. Tsars were always crowned in the old capital of Russia, but it took time to plan a coronation, especially an unexpected one. It was only the last day of November now. Nikolai slumped. He’d always thought he’d be one of the first invited when Pasha became tsar. Not so anymore.
“There is also a third item on the tsesarevich’s agenda,” a sharp but familiar woman’s voice said behind them. Nikolai and Renata whipped around, and upon seeing Galina, Renata fell into a curtsy and almost tumbled into the snow.
Nikolai had a slightly better grasp of his composure and managed not to give away too much in his expression. Still, he could see a hint of victory in Galina’s eyes at having caught him by surprise.
“I thought you were exiled until the end of the Game,” he said.
“As did I,” she said. “But the Game’s whirlwind brought me back. Which is fine by me. I tired of Siberia. It was too cold.” Of course, she didn’t mention her brother’s death. How like Galina. And yet, there was something different about her since the last time Nikolai had seen her. She was thinner, and the lines on her face were more pronounced. Perhaps her brother’s death had affected her in some way. Or perhaps it was just the black clothes, which were unflattering to her pale complexion.
“The tsesarevich has requested your presence,” she said offhandedly, as if this were something that occurred on a regular basis. “Or is he the tsar now? No, I suppose not. He hasn’t been made official.”
“Pasha wants to see me?”
“Not for a hand of cards. Official business.”
Nikolai crumbled inside. He had been so focused on his falling-out with Pasha, and then with the death of the tsar and tsarina, that he hadn’t thought through the implications of the Game.
If Pasha was going to be tsar, then he would also inherit the role of final arbiter of the Game. He would be the one to decide if Vika and Nikolai lived or died.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Pasha strode down the hallway of the Winter Palace toward his mother’s former audience room. They were the same chambers in which he’d caught his breath during the ball, but today’s purpose would be far different. Then, he’d just been an heir, training for a seemingly distant future. But now that future had come. There would be no hiding to catch his breath today. Yuliana marched beside him, and the Tsar’s Guard followed close behind. That was another difference to which Pasha would have to grow accustomed. He’d kept on a couple of his own men—Gavriil, his captain, and Ilya, the one with a knack for sensing where Pasha went when he needed to get away—but otherwise, these guards were his father’s men. It made it even more clear that Pasha’s life had drastically changed.
“Are you ready?” Yuliana asked, tilting her head at the wooden chest that Ilya carried behind them. The Russe Quill and Scroll had come back to Saint Petersburg with the rest of their father’s and mother’s personal effects. Immediately, Yuliana had urged Pasha to conclude the Game. There was too much unrest in the empire, and their enemies would take advantage of the transition in the tsardom if Pasha was not strong. He needed an Imperial Enchanter now.
“I’m ready.” Pasha smiled on the outside. But on the inside, he laughed cruelly—sadly—at himself. How could he ever be ready to sentence people to their deaths? Especially people he’d once loved? For that was what he was about to do: demand the end of the Game, and in so doing, command either Nikolai’s or Vika’s death. If only his heart were made of stone rather than quivering humanity.
Yuliana touched him gently on his sleeve, as if she knew his smile was mere deception. But of course she knew. She was his sister, who knew all his flaws. She was his strength where he was weak. “I will be right there beside you,” Yuliana said. “Remember, this is for something greater than the two enchanters. This is for Russia.”
Pasha swallowed and nodded. And as they continued their march down the hall, he repeated it to himself. This is for Russia. This is no longer only about me.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Vika arrived at the Winter Palace alone. She had expected an opulent throne room, or perhaps a grand hall like the one that had hosted the masquerade. But instead, the guard escorted her to a small chamber with lilac walls and unembellished cream drapes, the room bare of furniture except for a desk and a few simple chairs. Vika relaxed a little. The unpretentious grace of the room seemed more like Pasha than a massive hall lined with red and gold and double-headed eagles along the walls.
Nikolai and Galina Zakrevskaya were already there. Neither of them sat, but rather stood several feet apart, as if it were unbearable for them to stand any closer together.
As Vika entered, Nikolai gave her a cursory bow. She had desecrated his home, and she knew she deserved not even a nod of acknowledgment. It was all she could do not to fly across the room and beg his forgiveness.
Then another guard entered the room. He cleared his throat and announced, “The Tsesarevich Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov, and the Grand Princess Yuliana Alexandrovna Romanova.”
