Tsarina Page 7

  “I’ll fetch some more water,” Madame Ashund said as the three of us turned and walked toward the parlor. Once there, Leo dropped into the chair Madame Ashund had been sitting in. It looked comfortable when she occupied it, but with Leo it looked too soft, like he was sinking into it. He slouched back, wiped his brow with a hand; his eyes were reddened, I suspected from the smoky air outside.

  “How did you fare in the madness last night?” I asked, lowering myself back onto the edge of my chair and folding my hands in my lap. Emilia took her seat as well, crossing her feet at the ankles and tucking them back behind the chair to hide the fact that she was still barefoot.

  “Well enough,” Leo answered. “Your home is fine. Very few houses burned, and none on Sadovaya Street.”

  “You know where I live?” I ask.

  Leo smiled. “Everyone knows where the noble families live, Lady Kutepova. Perhaps you forget your own fame,” he said, then paused. “It’s interesting—when my uncle told me two noble girls were staying with him, that they’d run here in the night, I didn’t realize it was you and Countess Boldyrev.”

  “You were expecting someone in particular?” I asked, confused.

  “No, not at all,” he said. “It’s just that out of all the nobility I should finally have the opportunity to sit down with, it’s strange it would be you.”

  “And why is that?” I meant to add his name to the end of the question, but it still felt dreadfully inappropriate to speak to him so familiarly.

  “Several reasons,” Leo said, inhaling deeply, frowning. “But mainly because you’re the only one in Saint Petersburg who can tell me more about the Romanovs’ magical Fabergé egg.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I’m sorry?” Emilia said, as if it were at all possible she’d misheard. I was relieved she spoke first—my heart was pounding too hard to allow me to form words. My stomach clenched, and my neck began to heat up.

  “A magical Fabergé egg. One that’s somewhere in the Winter Palace. One that, I wager, the Reds are desperate to find,” Leo explained plainly, like we were discussing the best way to get to a butcher shop from this part of town.

  I stared. A few halfhearted syllables danced off my tongue before I finally feigned coughing, smiled broadly. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard this legend, Mr. Uspensky.” Did my voice shake? Please say it didn’t shake.

  “Leo,” he corrected me again; his name sounded different on his tongue than it did in my head, like he was speaking a foreign language. “And are you sure? Because the last time I saw you, you were discussing it with the tsarevich.”

  “Last time? When—”

  Oh. Yes, yes. That’s where I knew him from. He’s the boy Alexei and I ran into when we were leaving the tsar’s chambers, just after seeing the egg. My mind danced in a thousand different directions—what did he know?

  “Perhaps I should start again,” Leo said. “There was always a rumor around the palace, among the staff—people forget we have ears too.” Emilia stifled a bright laugh meant to imply, “Don’t be silly,” but it didn’t work. Leo gave her a rather pointed look, then continued. “A rumor about an egg that keeps the Romanovs in power. It seems wild, perhaps, but given the tsarevich’s health recently, given how Tsar Nicholas was able to delay the revolution for so long . . . and given what I heard the tsarevich say to you, Lady Kutepova, I can’t help but suspect the rumors are true.”

  “Well, you know how rumors are,” I answered, resting back in my chair. I was keenly aware of every tuft in the fabric, every lump in the cushion, my nerves were so on edge. “Truth and lies knotted together, easily misheard by a waiter spying on his employer.”

  Leo didn’t look offended, which unsettled me. Instead, he said, “It’s quite a mystery. No one knows which of the Fabergé eggs it is, or even where it is, but they say Rasputin himself blessed it. It contains his power.”

  “Do they say that?” I asked, trying to sound dismissive.

  “They do,” Leo said. “That Rasputin poured his love for the tsarina into it. That it’s more powerful in his death than he was in his life.”

  “And do you believe that?” I said.

  Leo then nodded. “I’ve been in the palace for some time now. I saw Rasputin and the tsarina together often. He stared at her, watched her—”

  “If you’re going to suggest an affair, Mr. Uspensky, I assure you I’ve heard those rumors. I’ve seen the silly little cartoons passed around the markets, the tsarina and Rasputin, her daughters and Rasputin. They’re both disgusting and ludicrous. The tsar and tsarina are very much in love.” I wasn’t saying this merely to protect them—it was simply true. I’d seen dozens of noble marriages, a handful of royal ones, and never saw a pair whose love matched Nicholas and Alexandra’s. I glared at Leo, and was pleased to see Emilia wearing an expression similar to mine.

  Leo’s eyes widened a bit, though not apologetically—almost wearily. “I wasn’t going to suggest an affair.”

  “Oh. I . . . I’m sorry?” I stuttered.

  “I wasn’t going to suggest an affair,” he repeated. “But I say with complete confidence, Lady Kutepova, that Rasputin was in love with the tsarina. Oh, come on—don’t look like that. Tell me you didn’t know that to be true.”

  “I don’t know that to be true,” I said shortly, but now Emilia, master of rumors, gave me a weighty sort of look—we both knew that was, in fact, true. Everyone knew it was true—it was part of the reason noblemen orchestrated Rasputin’s murder. It was unacceptable, a man so clearly infatuated with the tsarina calling on her at home, visiting when her husband was out, making state decisions with her. Rasputin even predicted that Russia wouldn’t beat Germany until the tsar went to the front, a prediction I suspected was more an attempt to get the tsarina alone than prophecy. I’d always pretended to like the man for Alexei’s sake, but everything about Grigori Rasputin unnerved me, especially the way he watched the tsarina, the softness in his voice when he spoke to her, the way he took her hand.

  Leo exhaled—I noticed his shoulders barely moved when he breathed, like he was part statue. “We’ve digressed anyhow. My point is merely that I never saw Rasputin lie to the tsarina. In my opinion, if he said he endowed one of the Fabergé eggs with his powers, I’m inclined to believe him. She may not have loved him back, Lady Kutepova, but I know a man in love when I see one.” He leaned forward in the chair, propped his elbows on his knees, and looked at me. “The tsarevich, for example, is wildly in love with you.”

  I was now stunned to total silence—in part because it was incredibly forward of Leo to comment on something like that, but also because hearing it said aloud drowned me in relief. So people did know. People did understand, even people I hardly knew. I wasn’t alone in this after all—or not entirely, anyway. My lips parted; I had to look down. When I spoke, my voice was a whisper. Leo knew. He knew everything. There was no use denying the egg—it would be as pointless as denying my relationship with Alexei.

  “Thank you, Mr. Uspensky. I should hope it was obvious that I’m in love with him as well.”

  “I’m less skilled at reading the emotions of ladies,” he said. “But assuming you do love him, Lady Kutepova—you know how important it is that Rasputin’s Fabergé egg doesn’t fall into the hands of the Reds.”

  I held my breath, looked down. “The egg was made for the Romanov family and them alone. Alexei told me—it’s inherited, like a crown. Just possessing it doesn’t mean you possess its powers, so what use would the Reds have for it?” I tried to say this disdainfully, but I was too caught up in admitting the egg’s existence to Leo, a stranger, to tame my voice.

  Leo looked at me as if I were a child. “A mystic created the egg—surely a mystic could repurpose it for the Reds’ use. Can you think of anything the Reds would want more than a charm that secured their revolution?”

  “I somehow doubt an ordinary mystic could undo p
ower as great as Rasputin’s. But regardless, it’s well hidden in the Winter Palace. It’s safer there than out on the streets of Saint Petersburg,” I said. Truthfully, I’d never considered that a mystic might be a Red. They were mystics, and other than Rasputin, they seemed largely uninterested in politics.

  Leo looked down, ran a thick finger along the rim of his teacup, then spoke. “The Reds have taken the Winter Palace, Lady Kutepova.”

  My lips parted, but words froze on my tongue. “I’m sorry?” I asked, sure I’d misheard.

  “The Reds,” Leo repeated. “Last night, they stormed the Winter Palace. My understanding is it wasn’t especially difficult—most of our trained men are off fighting the war with Germany. The palace was guarded by a handful of barely trained cadets and the new Women’s Battalion. The Reds . . . well. You saw how many there were. They had the entire place by dawn. They even took the Peter and Paul Fortress, released all the prisoners inside. Rumor has it they’re using it to lock up Whites now.”

  “The Winter Palace?” Emilia said, blinking, unable to get beyond that part of Leo’s claim. “You can’t be serious. It’s . . . it’s . . .”

  It’s too big for them to take. It was Russia’s, it was the tsar’s, it wasn’t a store window or a picket sign. If the Reds were in the Winter Palace, they’d certainly find the Constellation Egg’s secret room eventually. Even if it took months or years, eventually they’d have the egg, and if a mystic really could change its blessing, Alexei would go back to being a sickly boy, and Russia would become . . . Red.

  So this is the Babushka’s foretold disruption. I sniffed, tried to keep my fear from showing. “So what do you propose?”

  Leo met my eyes, a long, weighty look that refused to release me. When he spoke, his voice was serious, firm. “I propose you tell me where it is, so that I can sneak into the Winter Palace and get it before the Reds stumble across its hiding spot—unless it’s already too late.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know you that well, Leo,” I said. “What’s to stop you from finding a mystic, claiming the egg for yourself?”

  Leo pressed his tongue against his bottom teeth and looked away, clearly frustrated. He opened his mouth as if he had an answer, but his aunt brushed back into the room. She refilled our teacups, sprinkled a few additional tea leaves in them.

  “Would you be so kind, Madame Ashund? Emilia and I are feeling rather tired. We might nap a bit before we need to catch our train,” I said, casting Leo a wary look.

  “Of course,” Madame Ashund said, though she looked annoyed to have just wasted tea leaves on us. Emilia rose, nodded politely to Leo, and together we retreated upstairs. She waited until the door was shut to speak.

  “For starters, he’s wildly inappropriate, isn’t he?”

  “Indeed,” I said tartly. I went to the window, drew one of the shades back a tiny bit and stared at the street. Smoke still hung low over the city, thick and mean.

  “Are you considering telling Leo where the egg is?” Emilia asked. I turned around, lifted my eyebrows.

  “No,” I answered. “Not at all. I was thinking about our tea leaf reading with the Babushka, actually. When she said the egg would be disrupted.”

  “You think the Reds getting it is the disruption, then?” she said.

  “Yes . . .” I turned back to look out the window. The skies were gray, as usual, but in the daylight, I could see the bright blue panels on the Smolny Convent, as well as a bit of the Church on Spilt Blood’s highest dome, green and blue and white stripes. That’s where they killed Alexei’s great-grandfather. That’s where the Reds gained another foothold in the destruction of Russia.

  “But I wonder,” I said. “I wonder if I could be the disruption?”

  “I’m sorry?” Emilia said. I looked back at her.

  “Remember what the Babushka said? Fortunes can’t be changed, but they can be twisted. So right now, if the Reds are the disruption, the Romanovs lose Russia. It belongs to the Reds, we go to Paris, we live in exile for the rest of our lives.”

  “Exile on a country estate,” Emilia reminded me.

  “But what if I was the disruption, Emilia? What if I got the egg out of the palace, kept it from the Reds? It would still be disrupted, Alexei and I would still be together, just like the Babushka predicted, but he’d still be the tsar someday.”

  “Natalya . . .” Emilia said, looking at me gravely. “Isn’t being with Alexei in Paris just as good as being with Alexei in Russia?”

  I gave her a hurt look. “Russia is his. It’s mine, it’s yours. And if the Reds get it, Emilia, then not only do the Whites lose Russia, but Alexei goes back to being a sick boy who bleeds too much. How will I ever tell Alexei I could have saved our way of life, the Romanov dynasty, and his happiness, but handed all three over to the Reds?”

  “I surely don’t know,” Emilia said. “But you’ll have plenty of time to tell him that. In Paris. Where we’re going on the four o’clock train, before we get burnt to crisps by a band of lunatic factory workers.”

  “Emilia . . .” I reached to my neck, ran my fingers along the top of my dress. “Emilia, when Alexei showed me the egg, he said that with it, he’d always be able to protect me. But he’s the one who needs protecting now, and I’m the only one who can do it. I know exactly how to get to the Constellation Egg. I could slip in, get it, then keep it safe in Paris. No one would even know I had it.”

  “The Reds have the Winter Palace. They’ll recognize us. They’ll . . . Natalya, I never want to see them again. Not after last night,” Emilia said, and her mask fell away, her face became lined in worry and shadows. She was angry, but moreover, she was scared.

  “You could wait here,” I said. “Or you could go ahead to Paris. I’d understand—”

  “I can’t leave you,” Emilia said so ferociously I nearly stepped back. “No. You saved me last night. I can’t just leave.” She inhaled, taking the breath with the same sort of final resolve as a man gulping his final shot of liquor. “Promise me, Natalya. Promise me you’ll go and look, and then we can get on the train.”

  I pressed my lips together. “I promise. It’ll be fast. And then we’ll be on our way to Paris, and one day, when the Reds are through, we’ll come back to Russia, Emilia. Alexei will be the tsar, I’ll be tsarina. It’ll be perfect.”

  “You had better give me a very high position in court that day,” Emilia half teased, sighing.

  “It’s just that it seems safer for us to go in relative disguise,” Emilia said brightly to Madame Ashund. “Who knows who will be at the train station? If we look like nobles, we’ll certainly be spotted. Surely you have something else we can wear? Anything? We’ll reimburse you as soon as we get to Paris, threefold.”

  “I’ll go see,” Ms. Ashund said drily. I supposed it was a bit insulting—asking to borrow her clothes because the dresses we were wearing, even after running through the streets, were so nice that we’d be too easily recognized as nobles in them. But what choice did we have? Madame Ashund returned after only a few moments with three dresses, each slightly uglier than the one before it.

  “Oh, perfect!” Emilia said, giving me a smug we’re in this together look. “We’ll mail these straight back to you.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” Ms. Ashund said. “They aren’t actually mine.”

  “Oh?” I asked, confused.

  “No,” she said, and smiled at us—though there was something sneaky lurking in the expression. “They belonged to our last house girl. She fell to her death on the tracks and her family never came for her things. I think I might have a pair of her shoes as well, Countess Boldyreva.”

  “Ah. How . . . convenient,” Emilia said tensely. She gave me a horrified look when Madame Ashund left the room.

  “I really need different shoes,” I said, looking at our reflection in the bedroom mirror ten minutes later. The dresses were dull bro
wn and spattered with old stains—the two we selected from the stack were the most presentable, but not by much. The material was soft, though, and admittedly more comfortable than my normal clothing. They were little more than jumpers with once-white shirts underneath. Emilia was too tall for hers, but was so delighted that she had shoes—even old, nearly worn-through maid’s shoes—that I don’t think she cared. I, on the other hand, was still wearing my nicer boots, and they gleamed in a way that showed off the dress’s shabbiness.

  “I don’t know,” she eventually said, tilting her head at our reflection. “I think we look rather convincing, even with your boots.” Emilia seemed to have cheered, like she was pretending this entire thing was a costume ball instead of a rescue mission. It was rather dramatic—the sort of thing we’d read about in a book, not the sort of thing people actually did.

  We pulled up the bed linens like our maids at home did—it seemed polite, though neither of us could get the blankets smooth—and tidied the room a bit, then descended downstairs. Leo was waiting for us near the doorway, arms folded across his chest.

  “The carriage is ready,” he said, then looked at Emilia and me, frowned. “I see you’re dressed as . . . not yourselves.”

  Emilia smiled. “You like it? We thought it clever to go in disguise.”

  “And this passes for a disguise?” Leo asked doubtfully.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I said, spinning around. “Aside from my boots, I mean.”

  “The boots are one thing,” Leo said. “But mostly, it’s just that a dress isn’t enough to erase your nobility. You still look like . . . nobles.”

  “Well, it’s the best we can do,” I huffed. “We’ll keep our heads down.”

  “Of course,” Leo said. He turned to his aunt. “Do you have some red fabric, so they can have armbands?”