‘Will they dance?’ I asked, charmed by her beauty and smiling at her as Buturlin pulled me to my feet. ‘Not only them, Tsarevna. Let us see now what snoring old Schwartz has taught you.’
His fingers seared my skin; I quickly pulled my arm away. Lestocq’s gaze took it all in, silent and alert. The balalaika strummed and cymbals sounded a tune. The singers’ voices rose: the lyrics were funny at first and then became hilarious, telling the story of a fool brewing his beer in a sieve. As I laughed the music gathered pace, urging us along, skipping and dancing in a whirl. I did not resist Buturlin’s grip any more when he began to lead me. I danced the woman’s part despite my tight breeches and he spun me away, to let me go and then catch me again, to hold me tight, our breaths mingling. Was this decent? I sensed his fresh sweat and saw earth on his fingers, yet did not mind. Perhaps this was what my cousin Anna Ivanovna felt, who was said to live with her groom? I whirled away from Buturlin and then flew back towards him until my vision blurred.
The beautiful girl popped up again and again, beaming at me, her eyes the brilliant hue of the spring sky, her smile broad, confusing me further. ‘Buturlin,’ I breathed as the world closed in. My knees buckled and I held onto him, feeling the muscles beneath his skin.
‘Tsesarevna!’ he called. As the chanting died away, I fell, feeling faint, pulling him down with me into the grass. The hot midday sun needled my eyelids, drowning me in the dense blue of a Russian sky thick with curds-and-whey clouds. Buturlin’s breath was hot but I shivered. My eyes closed and the dancers’ voices faded, yet I sensed someone close by. As I squinted into the sun, I expected the beautiful girl to be looking down at me, her fair head surrounded by a halo of light.
Instead, I stared into amber eyes, animal fangs flashing. A scrawny neck craned from a silver coat of mottled fur as claws reached straight for my heart, trying to shred my soul. It was the Leshy spirit from the Golosov Ravine. I leaped up, ready to fend it off, screaming and spitting, kicking, and punching, fighting tooth and nail.
21
‘How is she, Lestocq?’ Buturlin’s voice came from afar. Blood throbbed painfully behind my temples. My whole body felt battered. I dared not open my eyes at first. When I did, a golden dusk was filtering through the tent’s canvas. We had arrived at tonight’s resting place. I forced myself to sit up from the cushions fashioned from Persian silk rugs, despite the reindeer skins weighing me down, my stiff breeches and cumbersome thigh-high boots. Nobody had dared even to open my belt, to ease my breathing. I longed for a hot bath, a soft woollen housedress and Anoushka’s silver voice reading me a story. Instead, the memory of the dance’s horrific end flooded me. The Leshy spirit had found me. I cupped my face with my hands. My palms still smelled of cut grass and earth.
Outside the tent, Lestocq said, ‘God knows what happened. She almost scratched the poor girl’s eyes out. Perhaps I should bleed the Tsesarevna again?’
‘Better not. It will weaken her,’ said Buturlin.
‘Young women tend to hysterics—’
‘Young Frenchwomen, yes. Not a Russian Tsesarevna. Why not pour us some cool Tokay instead, Lestocq?’ I heard a slap on the doctor’s shoulder and was grateful that Buturlin had kept the needles at bay. But as the tent flap was unfastened, I quickly pulled the furs up to my chin. Buturlin peered inside, a lantern in his hand, the worry on his face easing when he saw me sitting up.
‘Tsesarevna Elizabeth. How do you feel?’
Like flinging myself at him and confessing all about that godforsaken afternoon in the Golosov Ravine, my guilt over Illinchaya’s death and the fear of the curse that haunted my family. Instead, I touched my temples, attempting a smile. ‘Much better. God knows what took me. Sunstroke, I suppose. The poor girl. Make sure to send her fifty roubles and a vat of beer as an apology. Good beer, of German make, all cold and frothy.’
Buturlin pondered the light-hearted answer but chose to accept my explanation. ‘I thought it was something of the sort. The girl got off lightly, just a couple of scratches and missing some strands of hair. She did not dare to fend you off.’ The warmth he radiated was shocking and having him so close to me was almost unbearable. I scrambled to my knees, careful not to look at him. ‘Off you go, Buturlin. Let a lady get ready for dinner.’
‘It’s more than dinner. It is a feast. While you slept, I shot a bear, two stags and three hares.’ The lantern light made his chocolate gaze glint; stubble showed on his chin and his smile caused dimples to appear in his cheeks. He helped me up and his fingers lightly brushed my inner arm. I held my breath. Surely he would not dare to do that deliberately. I pulled my arm away and said curtly: ‘I shall see you outside.’
The fire burned high, its flames eating into the near-complete darkness of an early-April night. Where their light ended, millions of stars effortlessly took over. I wished for one of Father’s English telescopes so that I could see them close up, as he had taught me. Instead, I settled on the cushions that lay scattered on the dry, crushed leaves. Their spicy balm filled the evening air and blended with the pungent scent of roast game: moisture and marinade dripped from the spit. Still studying the endless sky, I heard the music. It was not this afternoon’s Russian folk melody with its rumbustious rhythm but sounds like cascading water. Schwartz sat with his golden Stradivari violin-cello between his legs, holding it as tenderly as the mistress he had probably never had. His masterly use of the bow made the instrument sing of everything between life and death.
‘What is that?’ I asked.
‘It’s by a German composer called Bach,’ Buturlin murmured. ‘Apparently, the Tsar tried to lure him to Russia, but in vain. Schwartz harped on about him the whole afternoon, until I told him to shut up before he scared off my prey.’
Which prey? I wondered as Lestocq handed me a chalice of chilled Tokay and I slapped his wrists when he furtively tried to check my pulse. The heavy, sweet wine lulled my senses. The cook had lathered the stag with smetana and mustard and we mopped up the thick, creamy marinade with warm sourdough bread. For pudding, a thick, layered medovik honey tart was served. ‘I added extra honey, just to see you strong again, Tsesarevna. Russia loves you, always,’ the cook said, and watched, delighted, as I ate three pieces and afterwards licked my fingers, sticky with cream and honey.
‘What now?’ asked Buturlin as our leftovers were distributed among the servants, who sat shivering in the settling cool of the night, away from our circle close to the fire. He eyed me lazily as I stretched out on the cushions, sipping a hot, sweet mocha. My father’s envoy to Persia, Prince Volynsky, had taught us how to prepare it, to seal the stomach and allow for deep slumber: one spoon of coffee, spiced with cardamom and cloves, to one spoon of sugar per cup was brought to the boil three times in a row.
‘No more dancing.’ Lestocq bowed to me. ‘But luckily enough, my King Louis, the Tsesarevna’s future husband, has sent us a special present.’
The Tsesarevna’s future husband. Lestocq’s words were a clear warning.
‘What is it?’ I sat up, unable to resist a gift.
‘Ta-dah!’ Lestocq pulled a battered leather étui from his waistcoat.
‘A pack of cards? Where’s the surprise in that?’ I asked. ‘Deal me my hand. I’ll ruin you in a jiffy.’
He grinned. ‘Some other time, gladly. These are not simple cards. It’s a set of Tarot.’
‘Tarot.’ I tasted the word. ‘What is that?’
‘Tarot knows your fate. Three cards tell you where you are today, how you might continue and where you will reach,’ he added. The flames’ warmth ceased to reach me. Tarot sounded little different from the evil Leshy spirit’s bones and steaming sulphur pools. ‘Should a scientist like you believe in this? Who wants to know what the future holds anyway?’ I asked, feeling goosebumps on my arms.
‘I do,’ Buturlin said. ‘Tell me the rules, Lestocq.’
‘Tarot is not a fortune-teller. It unlocks life’s mysteries. That’s why we call the cards arcana – secrets.’ He to
ok the pack of cards. ‘Here are the twenty-two grand arcana. Shall we start with them?’
Buturlin nodded; the flames drew a moody pattern on his face.
Lestocq nimbly shuffled the cards: ‘There are various ways of dealing. Let us start with a line, which is the easiest. Pick three cards, Buturlin, from wherever you wish.’
Buturlin obeyed and laid the cards face down, in a line, rubbing his palms excitedly.
‘The first card shows your starting point. The second is where you wish to be. The third is the future. Go for it if you dare,’ Lestocq said.
Buturlin flipped the first card. It showed a woman taming a lion, both her hair and the animal’s mane flaming bright orange.
‘Ah. This card means strength, courage and confidence. Everything you need to succeed in the Preobrazhensky Regiment. No surprise there,’ said Lestocq.
‘What a clever game!’ Buturlin mocked, downing a stubby glass of ice-cold vodka, savouring the burn in his throat.
‘Carry on if you’re feeling brave enough,’ Lestocq challenged him.
‘Of course.’ Buturlin flipped the second card.
‘The lovers.’ The French doctor, who reported my every action to Versailles, sighed, eyeing the card that showed a couple locked in a tight embrace. I would not even dare to look at Buturlin. Around us, the air crackled as it does in a storm of spring lightning.
‘And number three,’ Lestocq said lightly.
Buturlin flipped the card, smiling and sure of himself, then blanched. It showed a man hanging head over heels from gallows, bleeding from numerous wounds, his hair trailing on the ground.
Lestocq’s expression was grave. ‘Ah. The hanged man – if only the sight were not so hard to evade in Russia. At least it doesn’t signify death.’
‘Are the cards always right?’ Buturlin asked.
‘Things might happen in one way or another. Force and courage speak for or against you, while love might or might not bring great suffering. Still, the card’s message is clear.’
‘Spell it out.’
‘You’re a fool for love.’ Lestocq shrugged.
Buturlin rose, clenching his fists in his pockets, his dark gaze settling on me. ‘A fool for love indeed. Which proper man would not be?’ He bowed and strode away to his tent.
Lestocq and I sat in silence, staring into the flames until the fire died down and the stars’ shine took over.
22
Upon my return to St Petersburg I told Anoushka nothing about my horrid vision of the Leshy spirit at the dance, but I could not resist mentioning the Tarot and Buturlin’s passionate reaction. ‘Better watch your step,’ she warned, then carried on reading. I just about avoided tearing the book from her hands. Wasn’t life more exciting than any novel could be?
‘Lizenka?’ Petrushka waylaid me at the entrance to the Summer Palace; he must have run away from his lessons. He was gasping for breath, Ostermann had been left behind. Good boy.
‘What is it?’ I pinched his cheek.
‘I have a present for you.’ He raised his closed, cupped hands.
‘Have you stolen some sweets from the kitchen?’
‘Much better.’ He lifted one hand, revealing an adorable fluffball. The chick’s beak clamoured for food. Its eyes were dark and beady, and the feathers were already changing from dirty grey to tawny gold. ‘Oh, Petrushka! How wonderful. What kind of bird is it?’
‘I knew you would like it. It is a peregrine falcon. When both the chick and I have grown enough, can we all go hunting together?’
‘I promise. When the chick has grown, I shall send for you.’ I embraced him and then carefully held the chick in my cupped hands. It felt like holding the wind and the skies. ‘Does it have a name yet?’
‘No. Naming it will make it yours.’
‘You are right. Names are magic. I shall call it Molniya.’
‘Lightning.’ He smiled. ‘That’s a good name.’
‘Let us go and dig for worms in the garden,’ I suggested, as Ostermann appeared at the other end of the gravelled pathway, limping determinedly, his cane briskly tapping the stones as if they were my back. So much for digging for worms. ‘You’d better run, before the German starts laying about him with his cane. They are too good at that,’ I told my cousin.
Petrushka looked crestfallen, but when they left together, Ostermann’s arm lay tenderly over his charge’s narrow shoulders, fingers caressing the boy’s neck. I stroked the chick’s feathers, its minute beak pecking at my fingertips. It would have been impossible for me to imagine then that one day this bird would become the trusted messenger that saved my life.
23
Anoushka and I travelled to Moscow by barge to witness Mother’s Coronation. Despite our joy and elation – Mother would be Russia’s first-ever crowned Tsaritsa – I felt like a caged animal. The small portholes allowed only a glimpse of the glorious May sky. Being on deck offered no respite either, as the whole court – 30,000 people – was in transit to witness Mother’s unprecedented elevation. Princes, counts and barons trudged along with their children, servants, tutors and livestock. The nobles bemoaned their lot; not only did the journey cost them a fortune, but the cellars and larders of their Moscow homes had been plundered to the last grain and bottle. Gaggles of geese and herds of pigs, goats and cows were driven along to serve as provisions upon arrival. Horses, ponies and dogs straggled behind in single file, pulling carriages, carts and wagons. Vast clouds of red dust rose from the wheels, the horses’ hooves, the serfs’ bare feet.
The stench of the sluggish river under the hot sun was nauseating.
Before our departure, I had overheard Count Ostermann warning Father of a third catastrophic summer of drought to come: ‘We have to make sure the peasants and serfs have access to streams and seeds. Otherwise Russians will cook soup from old belts and make pancakes out of wood chippings again.’ ‘Fabulous,’ Alexander Danilovich Menshikov had cut in, swinging on his chair like a boy, sucking on his pipe and placing his boots on the table. ‘That means I can double or even triple the price of my grain!’ At that piece of self-serving insolence, even Father, who normally forgave his Alekasha any transgression, had trained his dubina on him and none too lightly: the knout and Menshikov were old acquaintances.
In the villages we passed, no smoke rose from the izby. If children came running, their ribs almost pierced their skin, bellies swollen by worms. Huge eyes in tiny gaunt faces made them look like little old people. Menshikov had by then already forgotten Father’s thrashing and threw them bread crusts, laughing himself to tears as the little ones clawed and cuffed each other in their desperation. The sight was unbearable to me. How could Father love this man so much? Yet Menshikov remained untouchable, assured of the Tsar’s favour.
I wished for my stallion, a simple tent, my blanket, a goatskin of drink strapped to my saddle and the freedom I felt on horseback. Instead, I was trapped. We could not even play dominoes or draughts since I had swiped the pieces off the table in a fit of anger upon losing repeatedly to Buturlin. My parrots spread their clipped wings as an indignant lady would her fan, squawking, and my monkey’s sharp teeth cracked pistachios before chucking the empty shells all over the barge. If he hit Buturlin, the creature first cackled with pleasure and then ducked for cover when the chamberlain threw the shells right back: ‘Imp of Satan, I should roast you for dinner!’
Anoushka closed her eyes, as if embroidering in the dull light gave her a headache. Her fine needlework could rival any nun’s while I had not touched Brussels linen or Chinese silken thread for years. ‘Tell us a story, Buturlin,’ I demanded, pressing a perfumed, moist lace handkerchief to my nose, breathing in its subtle scent of lavender oil and rosewater.
‘What about, Tsesarevna?’ He rolled back the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing his taut forearms, and crossed his legs in their tight uniform breeches and thigh-high polished black leather boots. He was perched on a desk, one leg swinging, the other extended, outlining the muscles in his t
high. I averted my gaze as he lit his pipe, his lips curling.
‘The last thing I need is tobacco stench,’ I moaned.
He smiled but did not extinguish his pipe, which irked me. ‘Let me tell you about my uncle Ivan’s wedding. The Tsar made him marry a woman forty years his junior. Both learned only hours before of their betrothal. It was hilarious.’
Even Anoushka looked up from her embroidery, frowned and listened.
‘We attended in groups of three, in matching costumes – Friesian peasants, Roman soldiers, Indians, monks and nuns, shepherdesses, nymphs and satyrs, and your father’s favourite giant dressed as a baby. The invitations were delivered by stammerers and the runners were fat, gouty men. The groom was dragged to the ceremony in a cart drawn by tame bears and at the banquet there was nothing to eat, only vats of vodka. Then we danced. The more we stumbled and fell, the more we laughed. Finally, the Tsar brought the couple to bed, beating his drum.’ Buturlin imitated a drum roll by slapping his thighs. ‘Next door, holes had been drilled in the walls and we watched the couple—’
I listened, alert. They watched the couple doing what? My heart raced with curiosity. It felt as if I were blind, feeling my way over terrain I did not yet know. I thought of my mother placing my father’s hand on her lower belly back in Peterhof when we had been made Tsesarevny, their gazes locking, making the air crackle. I opened my mouth and shut it again, blushing: Buturlin was the last person I could ask.
‘It sounds horrid. I don’t think you should be telling my younger sister these things,’ Anoushka scolded him, her needle halting.
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