Tsarina Page 2

  Anger rippled through me. How dare they? They disrespected their tsar, their capitol, but more importantly, their country. This was not the way Russians behaved. Like insolent children throwing tantrums, crying out and pointing fingers. It was shameful.

  “They’re saying we might need to return to Alexander Palace, permanently,” Alexei said, looking drawn. “That our distance might calm the Reds down. Though the Octobrists are suggesting my father abdicate the throne—they say if he doesn’t, the Reds won’t stop till there’s a fight.”

  “Does it matter?” I said, glowering out the window. “You have the Constellation Egg. You’ll win.”

  “Father Grigori didn’t win,” Alexei said. “He was a powerful man, Natalya, but I’d rather not test the mystic’s magic against a nation of Reds. If my father abdicates, I become the tsar. I’m too young to rule, especially when Russia is at war, I know that. But if I abdicate . . .”

  I tried to hide the shock in my eyes—it was lunacy for Alexei to talk this way. He was the tsarevich; the crown was his birthright. He couldn’t simply give it away. I swallowed as Alexei turned to face me.

  “If I abdicate,” he began again, “then the monarchy is over. We lose the egg’s power entirely. I go back to being . . . like before.”

  “Sick.”

  “Yes. I worry there’s no way for my family to win, even with the egg. We keep the throne; the Reds test the egg’s limits. We give the throne away and . . .” Alexei shifted, lost in the memories of how he was before, when his life revolved around blood and doctors and being treated like a porcelain doll.

  But was moving to the Alexander Palace the solution? It wasn’t far, but it hurt my pride to see Russia run and hide from the Reds, especially since my father led one of the strongest divisions of the tsar’s White Army. Can’t he stop this nonsense? Alexei must have seen the hurt on my face—hiding my thoughts from him was nearly impossible. He saw every blink, every fidget, every half-sigh. I suspect it was because, given his condition, he spent much of his life being watched and worried about; he learned to be equally aware of others’ pain, be it of the body or the heart.

  “You think we should stay,” he said. I nodded, but Alexei sighed and shook his head. “Perhaps if we’re gone, the Reds will disband. They can’t keep this up forever. I wish they knew how hard we’re trying. We don’t want them to be hungry . . .” Alexei’s heart was often heavy when mine was lit with frustration. I was certain that if the rioters outside the palace knew Alexei, really knew the boy who would one day rule them, they’d put down their sticks and cries for revolution. If only they understood that Alexei would be the greatest thing to ever happen to Russia.

  “Do you have a hiding place for the egg in the Alexander Palace?” I asked.

  “We leave it here,” Alexei said. “It’s not safe to travel with it and risk getting intercepted by Reds or thieves. No one knows about this room, Natalya. No one—except you, now.”

  This made me smile—I couldn’t help it. I looked at his reflection in the window, saw he was returning the expression. My hand crept out, my fingers brushing along his palm gently.

  The automobile honked its horn. I jumped at the sound, then scowled. “Can’t the soldiers fire a warning shot, at least?” I asked as the automobile finally cleared the bulk of the mob and hurried down the street. “Just to scatter them? Or perhaps we could lock the worst of them up in the Fortress. They’re ruining the party.”

  “I don’t think they care much about the party,” Alexei said, reaching out and intertwining his fingers with mine. “Come on. We shouldn’t stand here—they’ll see us.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I said. “Look at them. Some are barely older than us—how can their parents allow them to take part in this? They’re not even old enough to fight for Russia, much less against it.”

  “In that case, am I not old enough to lead Russia?” Alexei said. I whirled around, and his eyes were sparkling, clever.

  “You’re different,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” I said, trying not to laugh as he ran his fingers from my hand, up my forearm, against the skin where my dress sleeve split. I stepped forward so that his hand on my elbow became his hand on my waist. “You’re the tsarevich. You were born to lead Russia.” I could barely feel his fingertips through the thick velvet, but knowing they were there made my heart feel too small for my body.

  “I suppose,” he said, though the sound barely made it from his throat. He hesitated. “My family would be so angry if they knew I showed you the egg already.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “Not for a second,” he said. “I’ve wanted to show you since Father Grigori made it. My secrets are yours. And besides, I don’t want you to be afraid of the Reds, Natalya. The egg protects me. And it means I can protect you.” Alexei pressed his palm harder against my waist, let it slide to the small of my back. He lifted his other hand; I jumped, smiled when he ran the back of his fingers down my cheek and stepped so close I could now feel his breath on my face. Air refused to let itself out of my lungs as he urged me forward, till I was inches from his chest. He’d grown so tall over the last year, more and more like his father every day.

  I lifted a hand, wished it would stop shaking as I let it wander up to and around his neck. His skin was hot, his pulse racing, which was a relief—it meant mine wasn’t the only fluttering heart in the room. He inhaled, dipped his head, and the sounds of the rioters outside faded. Indeed, everything faded except the warmth that was pulling us closer together.

  It’s us, I thought, and I could tell he was thinking the same. In the end, it’s always us. His lips found mine, and it felt like stars were swimming through me. It was our first kiss, and it was brief, so brief, but so perfect. Even after our lips parted, we held each other close, afraid to step away and sever the tiny heartstrings binding us together.

  “Forgive me,” Alexei said through a smile, eyes locking on mine in a way that told me he wasn’t really sorry. He slowly released my waist, inhaled like he was coming up for air. I reluctantly pulled away from his neck, brought my fingers to my lips—I could still feel his mouth on mine. Alexei smiled at me like I was doing something wondrous, then motioned to the door. “Come on. They’ll miss us. I suspect Emilia’s uncle came all the way up from Moscow just to steal you for a dance.”

  “Oh . . . him . . . He won’t stop telling me about his new post. Something to do with patrolling the Kremlin in Moscow. It sounds terribly boring,” I said, rolling my eyes a bit—Emilia’s uncle knew about Alexei and I as much as the next person, but he persisted in quietly attempting to win my heart at every opportunity, which was rather exhausting. It never bothered Alexei quite as much as it bothered me, though I wasn’t certain if that was because the tsarevich had no need to feel threatened, or because he was simply that confident in our relationship. Alexei moved back to the bookcase and pushed the Tolstoy book into its spot. The door to the secret room closed, and I found myself wishing I’d gotten to see the egg a moment longer.

  “I can hardly blame the man,” Alexei said of Emilia’s uncle, smiling as he walked up beside me. He held the door to the salon open, and we retreated back into the hallway. The space felt massive, having been in the egg’s secret room. My heels clicked against the ground loudly as we made our way back through the tsarina’s garden, me clutching my arms against the now potent cold. Just as we were about to go back inside, Alexei stopped, took my hands in his.

  “You won’t—I know you won’t, but just in case—you won’t tell anyone?” He looked sheepish, like he was embarrassed to even ask me.

  “Of course not,” I said, squeezing his fingertips lightly. I wanted to draw his hands to my lips so badly. “You know I won’t.”

  “I do,” he admitted. “But I had to ask. After all, you told your friends about me crying over Anastasia’s dog dying.” He tried to fight a smile
, but it didn’t work; I blushed hard nonetheless, laughed a little.

  “That was different,” I said. “It made you seem especially sweet. And besides, the dog wasn’t really a secret . . . a magical Fabergé egg is different. I promise—”

  I froze, looked over Alexei’s shoulder. He turned around to follow my gaze to the place where the walkway met a garden bed. A waiter was standing there, basket of unfolded napkins in his arms. His eyes were hard on mine, pale gray in the moonlight. He was enormously tall and broad shouldered; when Alexei turned, he dropped the basket, spilling napkins everywhere, and sunk down in a bow.

  “Your highness,” he said swiftly.

  “Relax,” Alexei said, motioning with his hand and sounding somewhat irritated. “You know you don’t have to bow to me unless it’s an official event.”

  The boy slowly rose, dwarfing the both of us. “My apologies. Old habits die hard I suspect, sir.” He hurried ahead of Alexei and me, letting his eyes flit to mine a few more times than was entirely appropriate. The boy opened the door for us, now staring at the ground.

  “Come on, Natalya,” Alexei said, brushing past the boy without a second thought. I followed him, glancing back over my shoulder as we made our way down the hall. The waiter was closing the door behind us, shutting out the moonlight. He turned, met my eyes for a flicker of a moment, but then Alexei and I were around the corner. Back through the kitchen, into the ballroom and into the glitter and laughter and scent of champagne that rose from every surface.

  Back where I belonged—at least, so I thought.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Saint Petersburg was a city of illusions.

  There were the little ones, the sorts of illusions that most would simply call lies: The couples dressed in finery, invited into fancy shops only to quietly slip jewelry and silver spoons into their pockets. The groups of boys who acted like wealthy students in order to sneak into parties. The women who dressed as messengers to enter their lovers’ homes without suspicion. These were the illusions—the lies—the newspapers talked about, sensationalized, splashed on their front covers. These were the tales turned into cheap books that workers read on the streetcars every morning, hummed about in marketplaces, whispered over wrestling matches at the circus.

  Then there were the bigger illusions, the ones so dangerous we never uttered them aloud. The illusion that the sparkling, flashing, gold and cream and burgundy version of the city was all that existed. The illusion that the war with Germany wasn’t going poorly. The illusion the war with Japan hadn’t gone worse. The illusion that the tsar would prevail, that Russia would go on being a place of fine wines and ballets, and we would never fall, never gray, never be anything but glittering. These were the sorts of illusions that most would call fantasies.

  Perhaps the biggest of these sorts of illusions was also the simplest—the illusion that we were a single city. Saint Petersburg was naturally divided, a series of islands and canals laced together into a capital by Peter the Great centuries ago. There were bridges from one to the next, and the canals were deep, maintained with stone walls that held the Neva River at bay. But we divided ourselves with harsher lines than the land did: the rich and the poor, the merchants and the nobles, the Whites and the Reds. When the river would occasionally flood the canals and blur the lines between islands and districts, we would hastily fix it, tighten things, firm up the boundaries and make sure the illusion, the lie, the fantasy held.

  Lately, upholding the fantasy was harder and harder. It was a cold October, though we’d had little snow, which seemed particularly cruel—what was the point of the low temperatures without a blanket of white to coat the rooftops like sugar icing?

  Mornings were the worst. I creaked my eyes open, stared at my bedroom’s crosshatched gold stripes that covered the lavender ceiling. Alexei’s eyes were still in the forefront of my mind, bright blue like sapphires, like the sky, like the Constellation Egg he showed me the last time we were together. It had been months now since he and his family moved to the Alexander Palace, but I could still hear the sound of his voice, could still feel his hands, his gaze, his lips . . . I closed my eyes, kept Alexei’s face in my mind and tried to lull myself back to sleep, to dictate a dream of Alexei and I married, living in the palace, with parties and jewels and laughter and happiness and all the things we planned.

  But no. I was in my bed, alone, and my mind refused to drift off to any place happier. I sighed and crept from under the layers of fur and velvet blankets, cold snapping at my skin. The hardwoods creaked under my feet as I stepped out of bed and pulled a pale dressing gown over my silk chemise. The chemise was probably a little more mature an article than my father would have wanted me wearing—namely, the lace and black ribbon detailing. He didn’t know I had it, however—as he was a military man with little fashion sense and my mother was in heaven, I was largely left to my own devices when it came to clothing.

  There was a gold clock on my mantel wedged between enormous vases and candlesticks with flowers carved into their bodies. It was nine o’clock. So late, and no one woke me? That was never a good sign; it meant the staff was busy, and when the staff was busy, it often meant . . .

  I cringed, hurried to the arched window, and peeled one of the curtains back. It was difficult to see much of anything through the layer of frost; I put my lips close to the glass and exhaled, warming it just enough that I could spy onto the street below. I prepared myself for the worst—soldiers on horseback, men carrying banners, the sound of guns firing and clubs cracking against bodies. I’d slept through riots before—they were so common, now. Worse than waking to a riot, however, was waking to the aftermath of such an event: loose articles of clothing, bloodstains like roses in the fresh snow, the empty, quiet feeling in the streets . . .

  I exhaled in relief. Sadovaya Street was normal—not quiet, as we lived at the center of Saint Petersburg, after all—but normal, full of citizens bundled up, hurrying about on errands or visits, to and from appointments and—given the neighborhood I was in—teas and shopping trips. I sighed in relief, let the heavy curtain fall shut. Today marked three weeks without a riot . . . were the Reds giving up? The idea burned inside me, warmed me—though not so much that I could wait to ring for Kache to come start the fireplace.

  “And what will you do today, Miss Natalya?” Kache asked absently as she poked at the flames, coaxed them until they grew strong. The room gradually thawed, though my toes continued to feel like blocks of ice stuck to my feet. I walked to my closet, retrieved a dark blue dress that I draped over one of the chairs by the fire. Kache was slightly older than me, my compromise with my father—I didn’t want a governess, but I wasn’t yet old enough to justify a lady’s maid. Kache was the in-between, a slight girl with a big nose from an unlanded noble family.

  “I suppose I’ll visit Emilia,” I answered, sighing and slipping off my nightclothes. “Again.” Kache nodded, tugged a little step stool over to stand on so she could help me slip my dress over my head.

  “Shall I have them ready a carriage for you? It’s bitter out today. October is certainly here.” Kache laced the back of my dress, pulling silvery ribbon through what felt like a million little eyelets. Her fingers were quick, practiced; I pinned my hair up as she finished, then sat down so she could tame the stray bits. It hardly seemed worth it to go through the trouble of looking pretty. There were no parties, no balls—no one to throw them, really, as most of the other nobles had gone to France on account of the riots. Those of us who remained were orphaned, wandering about, waiting for the world we’d always known to spin back around and claim us. It was lonely now, our houses islands amid broken seas of our old lives. Sometimes I darkly envied my father, off with his troops—at least he had a purpose. He wasn’t just shipwrecked, stranded.

  “I’ll walk,” I said, fiddling with the bustline of my dress.

  “Shall I join you? Or call for the driver?” Kache asked. Her voice alwa
ys hinged carefully between hopeful and bored; I found it difficult to tell, at times like this, if she was asking my permission to come or permission to stay home. I couldn’t imagine wanting to go sit at Emilia’s all day, so I assumed the latter, shook my head to both questions.

  “I’ll be fine. It’s not far.” Like most of my social group, Emilia also lived in Upper Nevsky. For ages, we’d been little more than formal acquaintances, but as more and more nobles left Saint Petersburg, we became friends, despite the fact that she was of a higher ranking than me—a countess, the youngest in the Russian court. Now that most of the houses in Upper Nevsky were closed up and our neighborhood felt ghostly, we clung to each other, like together we could fight off the Reds. They made walking to Emilia’s alone uncomfortable, and yet, I did it often. The Reds needed to see we were not afraid. That we were not all rushing to Paris to hide in the countryside.

  Kache stepped back, having finished my hair. I rose, smoothed the front of my dress; my nails pricked along the paisley brocade. Kache glanced at me, made sure everything was in order, and I smiled at her. She and I rarely talked politics but I suspected our opinions were similar. For a noble girl, I thought myself quite liberal; after all, I wanted many things the Reds wanted. I wanted the people to have food, money. I wanted people to be happy. But the Reds thought their happiness meant tearing down the nobility, destroying people like me. Like the other Whites, this notion left me far more angry than piteous. I didn’t make them poor, nor did I make my family wealthy. If we handed over our wealth, who would employ them? Who would give them work? Were there not the wealthy and the poor in France, in England, in America?

  The tsar always said to pity the Reds, that they simply did not understand. I found it increasingly more difficult to feel anything but hate.

  Kache made my bed as I left the room, wound my way through the halls and downstairs, to the dining room. It was painted aqua blue, with yellow-gold banister railings and oil paintings along the walls. Only a year ago, we’d acquired a table that sat fifteen, but I couldn’t begin to remember the last time it was full. Typically, it was just my father and me eating here, and rarely the two of us at once now that he was gone to fight the war with Germany. I took a seat and waited, staring at the chandelier until my bread and sugared pomegranate seeds arrived via the kitchen maid.