Tsarina Page 5

  Rasputin stole the mystics’ magic, threatening everything they had. He was more loyal to Alexandra and her sick son than to his own people, a fact that the Babushka loathed him for with a white-hot, heavy sort of hate.

  She drew this hate up in her as she lit candles and incense. The emotion fueled her, made what little bits of her magic were left spin in her head. What she was preparing to do might, in fact, kill her, but it was something that had to be done.

  She knew now that the egg was in the Winter Palace—in a secret room somewhere within the tsar’s suites, if she had to guess. Why else would the tsarevich take Natalya Kutepova there? It was possible, of course, that the egg had been moved to the Alexander Palace with the royal family, but Nicholas—for all his doltishness—was surely too smart to keep the key to their rule under their noses now that things had become even more tumultuous. It was safer in the Winter Palace, guarded, in rooms never frequented by staff.

  And if it wasn’t there? Well. It was at least better to know for certain than to sit here and watch her powers fade away, until she was just another useless peasant beggar.

  The Babushka opened her kitchen window so the sound of the Neva filled her house; she lit candle after candle until the entire room glowed. The Babushka could no longer create an entire idea in a person’s mind—that sort of magic was but a memory now that the egg had stolen her powers. There was, however, enough power sparkling and swirling around her heart to allow her to whisper into the minds of a few. The Babushka began to chant: secret words, words to inspire, words to call to action, words to encourage.

  The city was so close to breaking. It wouldn’t take much to change a protest into a riot. That was the only way she’d be able to slip into the palace and the tsar’s suites. That was the only way she’d be able to get the egg—under the cover of Red and White. Maria would be so pleased . . . The reward would surely be handsome.

  It wasn’t that she wanted a war. It was simply fate.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There were people in the streets.

  They were walking toward the Winter Palace. I could hear them, the slap of feet on cobblestones, the murmur of conversation. It was dark outside, the wind cruel and stars bright. I should have been asleep—it was nearing ten o’clock. Yet I couldn’t close my eyes, not with what was happening outside. I’d opened my curtains, let my room bathe in gray starlight. If things got very, very bad out there, I wanted to be able to see.

  Relax, I commanded myself, turning my back, staring at the cherubs carved atop the bedposts. It’s just another protest. There have been dozens before now, and there will be dozens to come before the Reds are stomped out.

  A knock on the door made me jump. I cursed under my breath, then, “Yes?”

  “Miss Natalya?” The door cracked open. It was the new laundress, a woman in her thirties or so. Her uniform was a little lopsided, put on in a rush—the help typically retired after eight o’clock, so I supposed she’d had to dress again. She held a lantern in one hand, its light low and warm, turning my room from ghostly blues to gentle purples. “Count Pahlen sent word that the crowd outside the Winter Palace is particularly large tonight. He advises we gather downstairs in case they should come this way.”

  “Come this way?” I said, trying to scoff, but my voice betrayed my concern.

  Her words were cut off by a bright sound, something sharp and cutting—a gunshot. No, not a gunshot—something louder. A cannon? My mind struggled with the possibility. I knew the sound of cannon fire; I heard it often when the navy tested their weaponry in Odessa. But cannons were meant for war, not for an angry mob. I looked down, ran my fingers along the hem of the silk bedsheets.

  “Are we at war with the mob, then?” I wondered under my breath. “Is it that bad?” I rose, took several tentative steps toward the window.

  “Miss Natalya, please,” the laundress begged. “We’re hiding in the pantry—come join us.”

  I swallowed, yanked the thick curtains shut. “Give me a moment,” I said. “Let me get dressed.”

  “Miss Natalya, I don’t think—”

  “If they come for me, they’re not taking me in my nightclothes.” I tried to say this firmly, like my father would have, but my voice shook. I kept my chin up and walked to the closet, pulled down the green and gold dress I’d worn that day. The laundress helped me put it on, her hands sloppy and unpracticed. I pulled on my boots at the same time, struggling to steady myself long enough to slide my feet in.

  As I laced them, I said, “They won’t make it here. If they’re at the palace, the army will destroy them. All the cadets are there—young, strong soldiers. You’ll see.” I exhaled, pinned my hair up neatly, then turned to the laundress, who looked on the verge of tears. She exhaled in relief as I finally linked my arm with hers, and together we hurried down the steps.

  “I’m sure you’re right, but it’s better to be safe, Miss Natalya,” the laundress said. “The cook next door says there are so many Reds that they’re starting to attack nobles in their homes. They’re stretched out along Nevsky Prospekt, but they’ve completely filled Voznesensky Avenue—”

  “Wait, Voznesensky Avenue?” I asked, stepping away from the laundress, my eyes wide—how had this night become even more frightening? “That’s where Emilia is! Is she safe? Have you heard?”

  “I haven’t heard anything,” the laundress admitted. “But there’s nothing that could be done for her at the moment anyhow.”

  “No, no, she should come here. She could go out her back door, take the side road here. She could get out. But she won’t know to do that, she’ll only hide . . .” Emilia was many things, but I knew her well—she was not a fighter. She was shaking in a pantry somewhere, praying the door wouldn’t be flung open, that the Reds wouldn’t find her. She was one of the highest-ranking nobles in the city—if they were on her street, they’d certainly come for her. She was all I had left, my last friend, my last connection to my life before the Reds . . . and now they were going to take her from me.

  They’ve taken enough.

  “I have to go get her,” I said quickly, abandoning the laundress’s hand.

  “Miss Natalya, your father would never forgive us,” the laundress said, voice grave but firm, like she was talking to a crazy person. “Come now. To the pantry.”

  “I’m not asking your permission,” I answered. “I’ll be fine. I can cut along the canal. They’ll never see me.” Now even I could hear the lunacy in my voice, but I forced myself to ignore it—I didn’t have time for others to doubt me, much less any time for me to doubt myself.

  “You are not a soldier, Miss Natalya. You’re a lady. Someone bring Kache to talk some sense into her!” This was from a different maid, the head of our household. She was standing at the bottom of the staircase, framed by the jade-green Oriental rug.

  “I’ll need to borrow your coat, just in case someone sees me. So they won’t realize I’m a noble.” I reached out a hand to the laundress. She looked frozen, unsure if she should try to force me to stay or let me go—I suspect there wasn’t protocol for the lady of the house barging out in the middle of a riot. I tapped my foot impatiently, wondering if I should have to yank it off her.

  “Oh, Miss Natalya,” the laundress said, shaking her head Her voice was wispy, her eyes broken. She looked to the head of household for support, but the woman was gone—disappeared into the pantry with the others.

  “Come on, now. The longer you hold me up, the more dangerous this will be. It’ll only take a moment to get her. It’s nothing.” This was a lie, and we both knew it.

  The laundress sighed and shrugged off her coat, handed it to me. I flung it around my shoulders; it was wooly and smelled like lemons and vinegar, though not in an unpleasant way—in a way that reminded me of the house on Sundays. The scent comforted me as I dashed away from the laundress, through the kitchen and to the front door.

&n
bsp; I heard the butler call after me, but I ignored him, bursting out into the back garden. Don’t stop. Don’t stop now or you’ll never start again. Night air snapped at me, instantly freezing my ears and hands as I cut around the rosebushes. Smoke was heavy in the air, hanging like a weight over me, and the noise, the awful noise of the mob was growing louder and louder still up on Nevsky Prospekt. I longed to hear another cannon shot, another sign that the army was destroying the Reds before they destroyed Saint Petersburg, but it didn’t come. I hurried through our garden and knocked my shoulder into the back gate to open it, releasing me onto the little road behind us. I instantly turned my head toward the Winter Palace.

  I could see it gleaming in the distance, pale red, and the angel atop the Alexander column that stood in the courtyard. But I could also see torches, heads, raised hands, banners, and signs. There were so many people they didn’t look like people at all; they looked like a monster, even from this distance, something writhing and angry and big as the sea.

  They’re so close to the Constellation Egg. I watched the crowd, thought of the egg in its secret room. Thought of the disruption the Babushka predicted.

  No one knows it’s there. It’s hidden. Emilia isn’t.

  I sprinted along the street, toward the canal that loomed ahead, black and still. The slight wind shifted, and the mob’s words reached my ears. Chants against the royal family, against Alexei’s mother, Alexandra, as if she were some beast instead of the tsarina. I pulled the hood of the laundress’s coat over my head as I ran along, my boots sliding on the streets that were damp from the mist floating over the city. Between the houses to my right, I caught glimpses of Voznesensky Avenue. It was, as promised, packed with people. I couldn’t see Nevsky Prospekt from here, but if it was anywhere near as full, I was trapped in Upper Nevsky. Perhaps Emilia would be no safer at my home after all.

  I could see the shapes of torches and streetlamps reflected in the water as I approached the canal and turned left to start toward Voznesensky, toward the chaos. I bowed my head down, tried to stare at my feet, at my reflection in the canal water. The rioters were so fixated on the Winter Palace, surely they wouldn’t look over and see me approaching from the west? I only needed to be in their line of sight for a moment, just till I reached the road that cut behind Emilia’s house.

  There was a crash, loud, glass breaking, followed by a resounding cheer from the mob that spread from the Winter Palace outward, a wave of fury. There was no telling what had happened, of course, but my heart sank anyhow at what I saw now that I was growing closer. Soldiers. Soldiers in uniform, not fighting back the mob but encouraging it, part of it. Traitors with red fabric tied to the end of their bayonets. Who would protect us, if Russia’s soldiers were lost?

  I swallowed the question, jogged the last few steps to the street behind Emilia’s house. Whatever the first crash was, there were now answers to it—things breaking, streetlamps being pulled down, people falling into the canal. Smoke was growing ever heavier in the air; a house was on fire. I reached Emilia’s back gate and hurried into the garden, ran past fountains and fruit trees to the kitchen door. I knocked furiously.

  “Emilia!” I shouted—it’s not as if anyone would hear me over the mob. Still nothing—maybe she’d gone. Maybe she got out.

  “Natalya?” Emilia said; a curtain parted, her face appeared. Her hair was down, her face pale and lined with pillow marks and fear. She vanished from the window. I heard the door click.

  “Come inside,” she said. “Hurry.” A few household servants were behind her, all looking equally tousled. Emilia grabbed my wrist—I could feel her hands shaking.

  “No, we have to leave,” I said, instead pulling her toward me. “All of you have to leave. They’re burning houses, and my maid said they were hunting down nobles—”

  “We’re well hidden,” someone—the butler? I didn’t recognize him in his nightclothes—said. “Come on, quickly now, Lady Kutepova—”

  “They will find you,” I said, voice sharp now, furious at the delay. “Emilia, trust me. Come on.”

  Emilia looked from me to her butler, back again. She wasn’t going to come—I could feel it. I couldn’t blame her. Me and her, at night with a mob, versus the comfort of her home? But then we heard the sound of wood splintering, of voices echoing through the house—of the mob breaking down her front door.

  “Now, Emilia. Come on!” I shouted.

  Emilia caved, jumped outside with me—she was barefoot, wearing a flouncy summer dress that I’m sure was the first thing she could pull on quickly, though she was so scared I don’t think she noticed the cold. The butler shut the door behind her to cover our escape—surely they wouldn’t hurt him? He wasn’t a noble, after all, but he wasn’t a Red either . . . I swept the laundress’s coat off, wrapped it around Emilia’s fine shoulders. “Let’s go,” I said. The Reds were already flooding the route I’d come on—we had to run in the opposite direction, toward a different canal. We reached it just as another crash rang across the city.

  We ran along the edge of the canal, Emilia slipping often, her bare feet slick against the cobblestones. Finally, we reached a tiny road that would lead us back to Sadovaya, back to my house, to shelter . . .

  No, no, no.

  The Reds had already filled Sadovaya, women with hard faces and men with angry scowls. They chanted up at the houses—at my house—like they expected the buildings to apologize, to surrender. There were more soldiers now, ever more soldiers. The world had gone mad. It felt as if all of Saint Petersburg might fall apart like bits of paper lit on fire.

  “We can’t go toward the palace,” I said, nodding toward it but unable to really look at it again. “And we can’t go home. So we have to . . .”

  Run away. That’s what I was trying to say. We have to run away.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The thought of fleeing made my stomach twist, made me want to scream or fight or cry—did running mean I was abandoning my home, my city, my country to the Reds? I swallowed hard, tried to keep my heart from swelling up through my throat.

  “Calm down,” I told Emilia, though my voice shook with fear and anger. I rubbed my hands on her sides to warm her, looked down at her feet. They were already purple and cut, though the blood looked black from cold. I beat down the grimace that almost crossed my face—that wouldn’t help her right now. “We’ll find a place to hide. Can you imagine the punishment for this, Emilia? They’ll be hung. Every last one of them.”

  “I don’t care,” Emilia said, voice fragile. “I don’t care about any of it, Natalya. I’m just scared. I just want to go home—”

  “Hush. Saint Petersburg is our home, and we’ll take it back. But for now we need to find a place to hide. Who do we know in Lower Nevsky? We’re right on the edge.”

  “We don’t know anyone in Lower Nevsky!” Emilia said shrilly. “They’re all merchants! Everyone we know is gone! I should have gone to Paris when I had the chance . . . I didn’t think they’d really rise up. I thought they’d learn . . .”

  I looked away, ashamed to admit I agreed—the Reds had fooled me, convinced me they were merely angry students with sticks. “It’ll be all right. Come on, I’ve got an idea. We’ll go to the tailor’s house, that one who lives in Lower Nevsky. He’ll shelter us.” I wasn’t nearly as certain as I sounded, but he was our best shot. He wasn’t a noble, but he was wealthy so he surely didn’t sympathize with the Reds; fitting suits for the nobility made up his entire business. I’d only been to his house once before, when my father sent me to deliver a payment and his gratitude—was it a gray house? I thought it was gray, but would I know it in the dark . . .

  Emilia and I hurried along, afraid to draw attention to ourselves by running, yet too scared to walk. We finally reached Lower Nevsky, where the streets had numbers instead of names. The houses here were small but pretty, with no gardens out back and dirty windows. We were the only livin
g things in sight, though the roar of the mob still reached our ears, like a ghost howling after us. I stared at house after house, desperate to find the one I recognized as the tailor’s.

  “That’s it, Emilia. We’re here.” I sighed in relief, pointing to a little gray house with a gate hanging on its hinges. It was made of stone and wood, and even from the street it was clear the curtains were a finer fabric than such a house would typically have. I opened the front gate, ran to the door, and rapped gently; my hands were so cold that my knuckles seared with pain each time they struck the wood. Nothing. The fear that I’d managed to keep from spilling out of me was growing more impossible to crush down. I pounded on the door again, again, harder, until finally a candle appeared at the downstairs window beside the door. A middle-aged woman brushed the curtain aside, her face cross and eyes squinty. I left Emilia huddled on the front stoop, climbing through the bushes toward the window.

  “Is this the tailor’s home?” I asked through the glass, voice frantic. “The one who fits General Kutepov?”

  “It’s the middle of the night. He’s sleeping,” the woman said, looking appalled. “I’m his wife. What do you need?”

  “Of course, we don’t mean to wake him—but the Reds, they’re rioting. They’ve burned Upper Nevsky—”

  “We’re not interested!” she barked at us. “Keep your revolution away from us.” She moved to yank the curtains shut.

  “We’re not Reds!” Emilia shouted, voice echoing down the street. She was breaking, the line between fear and fury dissolving. “I am Countess Emilia Boldyreva and this is Lady Natalya Kutepova. We need shelter. We barely escaped Upper Nevsky with our lives. Let. Us. In.”

  The woman went silent, and I could tell she recognized our last names. She wasn’t interested in helping the Reds, and it was clear she also wasn’t much interested in helping us either—but turning away two noble girls with military fathers wasn’t a wise idea. She vanished from the window; a moment later, I heard her unlocking the front door. Emilia limped ahead of me, nearly collapsing through the door when it creaked open, like she’d used the last of her strength to yell.