Tsarina Read online

  “Of course, of course,” the Babushka said, rising; she barely came up to our chests. We shrugged off our coats and stoles, which the Babushka took to a crooked coat rack, trying—and failing—to keep them from dragging on the floor by holding them high above her head. She shuffled back around us, still humming under her breath, and motioned for us to sit like we were old friends—despite the fact that we didn’t know her real name.

  “Now, what can I do for you? Cards? Runes? Leaves?” she said, motioning toward the shelves behind her. “There’s a much better selection here than outside the Mariinsky, isn’t there?” she chuckled as we tried to make sense of the clutter.

  “Indeed,” Emilia said. “I’d like to do leaves. What about you, Natalya?” I nodded in agreement. Typically, I preferred tarot cards—the art was stunning, and it was something of a riddle to me, trying to guess what one might mean before the mystic said it aloud. But now that I knew the mystics’ powers were real, and that therefore it was very probable my fortune would come to pass, I wagered leaves were the more palatable option. Somehow soggy leaves were less ominous than, say, drawing the Death card.

  “Excellent,” the Babushka said. “Let me see . . .” She ran her fingers along the canisters of tea leaves and settled on one labeled “Caravan.” She moved quickly, tugging it down along with mismatched teacups and saucers with lilies around the edges, which she placed before us. She poured us two cups of hot water from a dented kettle and dropped a scoop of leaves in. We wrapped our fingers around the cups while it brewed, warming our fingers. It was something we’d never have done at a formal service but it seemed perfectly acceptable here.

  “You’re not the only nobles to seek me out here, you know,” the Babushka said. “Seems everyone misses hearing their fortunes.”

  “Missing more than that,” I said. “Saint Petersburg feels practically dead.”

  “I do miss the parties,” the Babushka said. “No one makes borscht like the cooks at the Winter Palace. I couldn’t attend the last ball—the river rose and flooded my house that night, I’m afraid. I spent hours bailing the Neva out of my bed. But was the party lovely?”

  “It was,” I said. “Though now that you mention it, I realize I missed out on the borscht!”

  The Babushka opened her mouth to say something, but Emilia giggled, cut her off. “Was that when you snuck away with Alexei to the tsar’s salon?”

  “Emilia!” I said, flushing. “Who told you about that?”

  “Oh, relax,” she teased, sparkling. “Alexei himself did, once you two returned to the hall. I was afraid you’d gone off to his room and—”

  I buried my face in my palm, causing Emilia to erupt in bright, candied laughter. The Babushka chuckled along with her. “No need to be ashamed, Lady Kutepova. Young love is a beautiful thing.”

  “And apparently not a private thing,” I said, lifting my head.

  “Oh, please, it’s me,” Emilia answered. “You’d have told me either way. And if you didn’t, I’d hear the gossip soon enough. I have my ways.”

  It was true—if Emilia didn’t hear about it, it didn’t happen. Her trades were gemstones and gossip, and she was a master of both, collecting rumors the way scholars collected books. Her inability to keep secrets didn’t make her the most popular girl in Saint Petersburg—though now that we were friends, she was careful with my secrets. Emilia Boldyreva was nothing if not loyal.

  “All right, all right, you two. Quick. Drink,” the Babushka said, waggling her eyebrows at us. The action cast her eyes in and out of shadow; at the darkest moments, it looked rather like she had no eyes at all.

  The tea was bitter, unsweetened, but I tilted the cup back and gulped it down, leaving only a teaspoon or so of liquid; Emilia did the same. She slammed her cup down on the table hard enough that the tea leaves sloshed up the sides. She then looked at the Babushka so eagerly that the three of us had to pause and laugh for a moment. Emilia had always been particularly delighted by the mystics—she insisted a whole group of them serve as entertainers for her sixteenth birthday party, even though so many in one room was a little less stylish and more tacky than her father would have preferred.

  “Swirl what’s left a bit,” the Babushka said, motioning to us with her hands. We swirled the dregs of leaves and tea around in our cups, waiting until the Babushka held her palms flat, signaling for us to stop. “All right. Whose shall I read first?”

  “If Emilia doesn’t go first, I fear she’ll faint,” I said, snickering. Emilia grinned, and I found myself relieved—perhaps I wasn’t as ready to hear my future as I thought. I glanced in my cup, trying to sneak a look at what it held, but I couldn’t make anything out.

  “All right—give it here, Countess Boldyreva,” the Babushka said. She reached across the table and slid Emilia’s teacup toward her. The Babushka frowned, concentrating, and tilted the cup side to side. “Let’s see . . . you’ll soon be taking a trip, yes?”

  “To Paris,” Emilia said, grinning. Her father had decided Saint Petersburg was too unpredictable for his daughter—she would be sent to live with her grandmother in Paris, in a house I suspected was the size of the Winter Palace. The prediction rather dampened my mood—without Emilia, what would I do here?

  “By train,” the Babushka continued. “Though the train is a bit unclear in these leaves, which leads me to suspect it will not be an easy journey.”

  “The train never is,” Emilia grumbled.

  “Though you shouldn’t worry too much,” the Babushka went on. “I see several friends with you on the trip.”

  “Several? Does that mean Natalya is coming with me?” Emilia said, eyes lighting up again.

  “I can’t tell if Natalya will be there or not,” the Babushka answered, rotating the cup. “But there’s a second fortune here. A skill, something you can do that few can. It will save someone’s life.”

  “One of Emilia’s skills? She’ll save someone’s life by dressing them fashionably?” I teased.

  “Sometimes I feel the need to remind you that even a crown is merely a fancy piece of jewelry,” she said, poking me. I laughed with her for a moment as the Babushka set Emilia’s cup back down.

  “All right, and Lady Kutepova—your cup?” the Babushka said warmly, hand extended.

  I looked down, realized both my hands were holding tight to my teacup. I smiled falsely, looked down at the lumps of leaves. Did I really want to know my future, now that I was certain the mystics weren’t all for show? The candles on the shelves were still, so still, tendrils of smoke curling up to the ceiling. The Babushka’s palm waited, but . . .

  “Natalya?” Emilia said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m . . .” I swallowed, tried to sound bored, faint, anything. “Perhaps I don’t want to know my future, come to think of it.”

  “What?” Emilia asked, shaking her head. “Come on, now. Let’s see.” She reached forward, bolder than the Babushka, and, before I could stop her, plucked the cup from my hands. I grimaced, fought the urge to dive for it. The Babushka took the cup from Emilia, but kept her eyes trained on me.

  “I don’t have to look, Lady Kutepova,” she said to me, voice kind.

  “Nonsense! We drove all the way here!” Emilia said. My strangeness was starting to bother her; she nudged my elbow, but I kept my gaze on the Babushka.

  “Or perhaps I can tell you only the happier signs I see?” the Babushka offered.

  “No,” I whispered, then found a bit more of my voice. “No, unless—can it be changed? If there’s something horrible in the cup, will I be able to change it, or am I doomed?”

  “Ah, well,” the Babushka said, frowning. “I’ll admit that fates can’t be changed. They can be twisted, perhaps, but destiny is destiny.”

  “Then perhaps I shouldn’t hear—”

  “But what if it’s a good fortune, Natalya!” Emilia whined, stamping her f
eet a little for effect. I gave her a tired look. “Come on,” she answered. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  I hesitated. Emilia had a point—what if it was, in fact, a grand fortune? Something that would relieve me of my worries for Alexei, my father, the eternal gray that slumped over my city. If I knew there was a bright light at the end, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. And besides, with the Constellation Egg, surely there couldn’t be any bad news for Alexei or his family. I bit my lip and finally relented.

  The old lady grinned, and I saw she was missing a few side teeth. She tipped the cup toward her, frowned as she studied it carefully.

  “Well,” the Babushka said brightly, like a grandmother doting on my future. “Speaking of crowns—I see a heart atop a crown. I suspect the heart is yours; the crown is the tsarevich’s. Their positioning means your lives are forever intertwined.”

  I exhaled, releasing a breath; my lips curled into a smile. Weight I didn’t know I was carrying lifted off me—I’d hoped for this, of course, but hearing it from a mystic was an astonishing relief. Alexei’s exile, our separation was only temporary. Something to be endured, but not a punishment. I felt light and airy with happiness.

  “And . . . I see . . . an egg. A pregnancy, maybe?” the Babushka continued.

  My eyes widened a little, and I saw Emilia bounce happily. “Can you see if it’s a boy?” Emilia asked. This sort of thing was her treat, sweet and silly and delicious.

  “Hush,” I scolded her. “Maybe by the time Alexei and I have children, a little girl will satisfy the country just fine. His great-grandmother is Queen Victoria, you’ll remember. Her husband was her consort, not the king.”

  “Oh, calm down,” Emilia said, rolling her eyes at me. “I’m just curious. Let me see?” She leaned forward to look at the egg in my cup, ringlets of dark hair falling from behind her ears as she did so. I leaned in to look along with her.

  It wasn’t the leaves that made the egg shape—it was the void, a place outlined by leaves. A few dotted the interior, and the leaves bunched together strangely at the bottom. Emilia brushed her hair back for a better look, then frowned. It was as she did this that I realized something—something that couldn’t be true.

  “Is it bad that it’s spotted? It looks sick—you don’t suppose the baby gets Alexei’s bleeding disease . . .” Emilia said.

  “Those aren’t spots,” I answered before I could help myself, voice breathless. “Those are diamonds. It’s a Fabergé egg.” It wasn’t just any Fabergé egg. It was the Constellation Egg tilted on its side. The memory of seeing it in the secret room was still vibrant, loud in my head. I’d know its shape anywhere, even after seeing it only a single time.

  “A Fabergé egg? Oh, I see! And that’s the base?” Emilia said brightly. She looked from me to the Babushka and back again. “Is Natalya going to get a Fabergé egg from Alexei?” she said, voice so high-pitched I suspected only certain varieties of birds would be able to hear her soon.

  The Babushka tsked under her breath, shook her head. “I’ve never seen a Fabergé egg in leaves before. Maybe we’re meant to see it upside down; it looks a bit like a rabbit—”

  “If it’s an egg,” I interrupted, “a Fabergé one, I mean, what does it symbolize being on its side?”

  “Typically that means something disrupted,” the Babushka said; I felt a drop inside me, heavy with worry. The Babushka didn’t see this and continued, “But I really feel like this rabbit—”

  “Disrupted how?” I couldn’t stop myself, couldn’t stop the fear from forcing itself past my lips. I thought of the Church on Spilt Blood, of Alexei’s great-grandfather; the Reds had already killed one tsar. If the egg was disrupted, they’d likely love to kill another. Surely Alexei was fine, as the leaves said we were fated to be together, but what about his father, Tsar Nicholas? I bit my lips, sat back in my chair nervously.

  “Perhaps it would help,” the Babushka said slowly, “if I knew what you’re really asking.”

  I didn’t speak, didn’t dare. The egg wasn’t my secret to give away, but . . .

  “Because,” the Babushka said, “this looks rather like a Fabergé egg I heard of once. A special one. Blue with diamond stars in the shape of a lion.”

  There was no doubt in my mind—as there was likely no doubt in the Babushka’s—that we both knew of the Constellation Egg, that we both knew what I was really seeing in my teacup. Yet we were each unwilling to relent, and so we stared at each other, my knees shaking, until finally Emilia spoke up.

  “Will one of you tell me what’s going on? I’ve never heard of an egg with diamond stars,” she said, frowning as much over our game of wills as the fact that she didn’t know something that went on in the palace.

  “That’s because it’s a secret,” the Babushka said, and I let a breath out. She was giving up first.

  “A secret?” Emilia asked, finally noticing my face and lowering her voice, immediately serious when she saw my expression. “Natalya? Was it a secret?”

  “It . . .” I hesitate. “It was. Alexei shouldn’t have shown me—”

  “Indeed he shouldn’t have,” the Babushka said. “Rasputin’s egg was made for the Romanov family and them alone. But I suppose he knew you’d be joining the family soon enough.” Her voice was warm, inviting, and her eyes crinkled into a smile. “Calm yourself, Lady Kutepova. I know all about the Constellation Egg. I’m a mystic, after all. One of Rasputin’s people.”

  “Will someone please tell me what this secret Constellation Egg is?” Emilia said, pouting and folding her arms, like we were ruining her fun.

  The Babushka looked at me, offering me the chance to spill Alexei’s secret. When I stuttered, didn’t know where to begin, she spoke instead. “The Constellation Egg is a piece Mr. Fabergé was working on as a gift for the tsarina. An egg with diamond stars set in blue glass to form the tsarevich’s birth sign. Just before he was murdered, Rasputin imbued the egg with his powers. With its protection, the Romanov family will always rule Russia.”

  Emilia grew quiet, frowned. “How does it work?”

  “It keeps them healthy, safe, for one,” I said, inhaling. “That’s why Alexei has been allowed to dance, to ride horses, to travel with his father. But it also . . . it ties them to the land. Russia is theirs: the animals, the plants. Everything. It keeps them in power.”

  “So one day it will keep you in power. You and Alexei, anyway,” Emilia said, eyes now glowing. There wasn’t a scrap of doubt, of hesitation now. I don’t know why I expected anything different—Emilia was the sort eager to find wonder, the sort who preferred to pretend all that glittered truly was gold.

  “He said the egg protected the tsar and the one he loves,” I said, nodding, blushing at once. “But Babushka—you said the egg would be disrupted. Can you see how? Or what that even means?”

  The Babushka sighed, gave me a weighty look. “Unfortunately, that is difficult to tell. Perhaps it symbolizes it passing from Tsar Nicholas to the tsarevich. Perhaps something more sinister—like the Romanovs losing their claim to it. Tell me—is the egg in a safe place?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s in a secret room at the Winter Palace—where no one can find it.”

  “Given the size of the Winter Palace, I doubt anyone could find it anyhow,” the Babushka said kindly, nodding. “This is good to hear. Such a powerful thing must be well protected. After all—even strong magic can’t compete with a perfectly aimed bullet.”

  “Oh, don’t say things like that!” Emilia scolded the Babushka, her voice serious. “Besides, you just told Natalya that she and Alexei are intertwined. Don’t start making her second-guess her happily ever after.”

  “Apologies,” the Babushka said. I could tell she was rather bothered at being reprimanded like this, but Emilia didn’t notice. “I’m just glad the Constellation Egg is safe.”

  “It is,” I repeated warmly, t
rying to take the edge off Emilia’s words. “And as long as it is, as long as the Romanovs are on the throne, we all are.”

  SAINT PETERSBURG

  The Babushka, as a rule, did not believe in luck.

  She believed in good fortunes; she believed in happiness and sorrow and destiny. But luck implied something that certain people had and others did not, like red hair or pretty eyes. Luck was something that supposedly swept in and changed a person’s fortunes. And fortunes, the Babushka was certain, could not be changed. She’d seen too many clients try and fail, over the years, to change their fates. It might work for a while, perhaps, but eventually, what she saw in cards or runes or teacups always came to pass.

  Which was why the Babushka was somewhat disappointed in herself. How had she not seen this in her own future? Why had this particular fortune eluded her, when she read her own leaves? Because it certainly wasn’t luck that brought Natalya Kutepova to her door. It was fate.

  Rasputin’s Fabergé egg. The mystics’ curse, put in place by the most powerful of them all. The Babushka’s already weak powers were growing ever more so—she could no longer cause the earth to crack, steer the floodwaters from her home, cast a simple charm. She could barely even see auras, some days. This was all the egg’s fault—all Rasputin’s fault. He hadn’t just given the Romanovs his powers—he’d given them the powers of every mystic in Russia, slowly draining them of their birthright.

  The Babushka arrived at her tiny house. Most of the neighbors were women like the Babushka, who traded fortunes for rubles in markets or at parties. Plenty of the mystics in the Moscow camp thought poorly of women like the Babushka—thought it was demeaning, silly to use power to entertain the populace. The high priestess, Maria, was particularly cruel about it—but as their powers waned, the Babushka felt she had little choice in the matter. The nobles paid well, and how else was she to survive?

  See who’s silly now, she thought as she pushed open her front door. I—an old lady who read cards for rich little girls—might be the route to save us all. She stepped inside and dropped her bag of cards and young potatoes on the floor, hurrying to pull candles from her stores in the kitchen. There was no time to waste.