But first, it would start with Polya, and they would love her. She was beautiful. More beautiful even than her mother. And she was strong.
Pytor imagined portraits, street-art drawn in the middle of the night, of his tiger girl. He imagined her standing tall and proud. He imagined phrases about a glorious leader and his glorious tiger girl.
The future looked so bright. One king was all he needed out of the way.
Pytor held the glass up to the light, watching the way the sun streaked through the glass and split, reflecting on the damask covered walls.
When Polya was little, he would direct the reflections onto the lower part of the wall and she would try to catch them, leaping from side to side, chasing it along the floor, cupping the light in her hands. It was how he’d given her the nickname, Mače. Kitten. She had been as wild and as playful as a kitten then.
Guilt stabbed him. She looked so betrayed tonight, but she had to understand. This thing was bigger than a father and daughter. He had raised her, loved her, sheltered her, and now it was time to repay that love.
He rubbed his forehead tiredly.
“You look in need of comfort, my son.”
Pytor glanced at the priest who remained after all the others had left. He’d forgotten about him.
“Your conscience troubles you,” the priest added sadly.
“My daughter…” Pytor began.
The priest nodded sagely, steepling his fingers for a moment and holding them to his chin before he stood and walked to the window, staring out at the rising sun.
“She will be instrumental in bringing about change,” the priest said.
“Yes,” Pytor answered hesitantly. “But…”
“But she is young and innocent.”
“Exactly.”
“She is also wild and ferocious.”
Pytor paused. She was those things, but they were at the heart of her innocence. She was wild because she was innocent. Ferocious, because she knew so clearly right from wrong. She had killed because he was threatened, not because it was part of a greater plan. She leapt down stairs and balanced along bannisters only because it filled her soul with joy.
“How long did you think she would remain innocent?” the priest asked, finally turning to face Pytor with an icy stare. “Forever?”
Pytor shook his head. He hadn’t expected that, but he also hadn’t expected to be the one who made the light in Polya’s eyes dim.
“But you don’t do this for yourself, do you?” the priest, asked, his eyes becoming sympathetic, and Pytor found himself nodding.
“Of course you don’t,” he agreed. “You do this for your country. To save them from the ruin to which your brother leads it.”
“It will be ruined,” Pytor said.
The priest stepped forward and placed his hand on his head. “If you seek absolution, my son, I grant it. Absolve yourself of guilt. For what you do is for the greater good.”
Pytor bowed his head.
“There is a way,” he started. “I have an idea.”
Pytor looked up, his eyes shining with hope.
The priest smiled, rotten teeth inky. “A challenge,” the priest said. “Let us propose a hunt.”
Dara Visits Anatoliy
The stench of the last rotting corpses had finally dissipated from Anatoliy’s room. He had kept his rug next to the window, but every so often, he would turn his head and catch the lingering foul scent.
The door opened, but he didn’t lift his head, assuming it was Aleksandr.
“I will return in a moment. Speak quickly. It can’t be known I let you in here.”
He smelled Dara before he saw him but kept his head resting on his paws.
“Hello.”
Anatoliy huffed and stood, lumbering over to him. He butted Dara gently with his head. For a moment, the soldier rested his hand on his head before he sat cross-legged on the floor.
“I have news.”
He waited.
“There is a girl.”
Anatoliy tapped his claw once against the floor, Yes.
“You know?”
Yes.
“She is the prince’s daughter.”
Rearing back in surprise, a growl rumbled from his chest.
“Pytor.”
Anatoliy paced, his agitation building.
“I have met her. She reminds me of you.”
No.
“Not cursed,” Dara corrected, “but different. Otherworldly.”
Anatoliy stifled a howl of frustration. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but with the hard stone floor, he couldn’t scratch them and later wipe them away.
“Prince Pytor is planning a coup. She will be the figurehead, or she will be the catalyst, or she will be the sacrifice. I don’t know how it will play out.”
Yes. She would most likely be all of those things if the king and his brothers were involved.
“Prince Pytor suggests a new government. One where we—peasants, soldiers—have a say in our lives.”
No. Anatoliy shook his head back and forth. No monarch would ever allow that.
“Even so, I believe that something is building. The appearance of this girl signals something. Maybe it means an end. Maybe a new beginning for all of us.”
Anatoliy didn’t tell him what he thought. He didn’t have the heart to tap out, no. There was only one end for them, and that was death. The only beginning they had to look forward to was the afterlife.
“It’s time.”
Dara looked over his shoulder at the guard.
“Something is coming, Anatoliy,” Dara said, resting his hand on his head again. “I am hopeful, and I haven’t felt hopeful for a long time.”
Dara left quietly, and the lock twisted in place.
Anatoliy paced around the room, before settling back on his rug. There was no hope, but he would not tell Dara that.
A Change
Something was different in their house. Polya didn’t like it. It felt fake, like one of the wax fruits that looked beautiful on display.
It had started with the servants. Polya had woken in a warm and comfortable room. She hadn’t heard anyone come in, but there, in the hearth, a friendly fire had fought off the early morning chill. The water in the pitcher next to her basin was warmed as well.
And most telling of all, there had been a warm roll, butter, and jam sitting on a silver tray next to her bed.
Never, not even when she had a governess who ordered them both breakfast, had any of those things happened.
She’d picked up the roll and sniffed it, trying to smell if something had been added to it, if it was tainted somehow. She’d sniffed all the other condiments carefully, and when she didn’t smell anything, she took a small bite. It was perfectly good, and she devoured it.
The second morning, she awoke to the same treatment, but instead of a roll, someone had given her smoked salmon without utensils. She grasped it in her hands and bit into it, tearing it satisfactorily with her teeth. Her eyes closed at the sensation. She dressed herself and left her room, planning to find a book in the library and to return.
“Good morning, Princess,” a housemaid greeted, bobbing a curtsey and giving her a friendly smile.
“Good‚” Polya spluttered. “Good morning.”
It had happened again with the next servant, and then the footman, and then the domaćica.
“Is there anything you need this morning, Princess?” the domaćica asked.
Polya shook her head. “No, thank you,” she answered in confusion.
The domaćica had smiled, and then whispered to her cheekily, “The bannister has just been waxed,” before she had continued on her way.
Polya touched the bannister. It had indeed been waxed and was shining temptingly. She pulled herself onto the bannister and stood, pushing off and letting herself fly down before leaping to the marbled floor and rushing into the library.
The hushed voices of her father and mother came from the breakfast r
oom, but she didn’t join them. Since the night with her father, Polya only wanted to avoid them. She didn’t want her father to tell her what was expected of her or what sacrifices she was going to have to make.
One of the scullery maids was lighting the fire when she came in. She stood quickly, apologizing profusely for not having the room prepared.
“It’s all right,” Polya answered, becoming increasingly bothered by the attention.
The scullery maid shifted her weight from side to side, and looked nervously between Polya, the door, and the floor.
“Is there something else?” she asked.
The scullery maid bobbed. “Yes, Princess,” she began, her voice light and quick, “It’s just… I am so grateful that you are going to save us all.”
Her breakfast churned in her stomach. “I’m sorry?”
“We’re all talking about it, Princess,” the maid continued. “How you saved the people in the square. And there are the posters, and Cook read us the newspaper this morning. You’re going to save us. Make the country better. Make our lives better.”
Polya shook her head slowly. “I don’t understand.”
The maid pulled something out of her apron, unfolding it. “I took this. I shouldn’t have, Princess, but I wanted to keep it. So I could look at it and be brave instead of afraid.”
She held out a piece of newspaper and Polya reached for it with trembling hands. It was an illustration of her, blonde braids hanging down her back. She held the hand of a child dressed in rags, standing slightly in front of her. Her tail was visible, drawn to rest on the cobblestones. Behind her stood a nobleman, erect and proud. Her hand was outstretched, as if she could hold back the tide of men, black bands around their arms, who were gathered like a storm cloud in front of her.
“Where did this come from?” she asked, handing it back to the maid.
“They’re everywhere, Princess,” she said. “After the explosion, they started appearing on walls. Now they’re printed in the paper. Cook said that your uncle, the king, was going to give you a medal for bravery.”
“It’s not true,” Polya whispered, shaking her head. “None of that. It’s not true.”
The maid shook her head. “Didn’t you save your family from the anarchists?”
“Yes, but…”
“You’re a hero, Princess,” she said firmly, bobbing once before leaving Polya in the library.
Polya walked sightlessly to one of the chairs in front of the fire. She sat down and stared into the flames. Her uncle would see that picture, and have her murdered. She imagined how he would interpret that portrait. A girl, a niece no less, stopping a mass of anarchists hell bent on overthrowing him. It should be him standing in front of that child and the nobles. She couldn’t protect anyone. The maid was mad to think she could. She was just a girl.
Polya grabbed a book off the shelf, uncaring of the title, and ran out of the room and up the stairs.
Everything seemed to take on a sinister tinge. She tried to decide how her uncle would kill her: poison, firing squad, a trial for trumped up treason charges, guillotine.
No, they didn’t have a guillotine in Konstantin.
She had to get out of St. Svetleva. The man from the party, Dara, he had known this would happen. This was what he’d meant when he’d told her to run, to hide. Maybe if she could go somewhere for a while, hide in the country, people would forget about her. Her uncle would forget about her, and her father could plot and machinate without her.
Bishmyza.
That was the answer. Her home there was her solace and her refuge. She would go there for the season. Winters were interminable in Konstantin, and worse in St. Svetleva. She was sure that when the spring came she would be out of fashion and completely forgotten. She just had to get away.
Her mind made up, she decided to tell her father her plan. He wouldn’t like it. He would fight her on it. But if she was going to survive—if any of them were going to survive—she needed to leave. She ran out of her room and down the stairs, listening for her father. She burst into the breakfast room, making her mother jump and spill her tea.
“Polya!” her mother scolded. “What have I told you about sneaking up on people?”
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Polya asked, scanning the room. “Where is Papa?”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “He’s in the library, why?”
“I have something to ask him.”
“Go on then, but don’t stay too long. He’s very busy, and I believe he has an important guest arriving this morning.”
Polya ran out of the room.
“Walk!”
She slowed down just enough to be moving with a quick leap-walk-run-skip to her father’s study. She knocked on the door and waited until her father called her in.
“I want to go to Bishmyza,” she said without preamble.
“No,” her father answered without hesitation.
She stamped her foot without thinking. “Why not?”
“Because I need you here,” he answered, not looking up from the letter he was writing.
Polya stood in front of his desk, tempted to take the pen out of his hand and throw it at the wall.
“The king will kill me if I stay here.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“It’s my life!” she cried out, slamming her hand on the desk in front of her, startling her father so he met her eyes.
“You’re using me, and if you think you can control this”—she waved her hand, indicating the letters, the treachery, the secret society of plots—“you’re wrong!”
“I can control this,” he said quietly, standing and staring down at her harshly. “You’re not going anywhere. I need you for this. You are the face of a revolution, Polya.”
“It’s going to be my head on the pike, Father,” she answered just as harshly. “Don’t you care?”
“Of course I care!” he yelled. “You’re my daughter! I only want what’s best for you!”
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Polya replied.
Her father walked around the desk, crowding her until she backed up. “We are royal, Polya. We don’t think of ourselves, but of our country. Of Konstantin. We don’t put ourselves before Konstantin. Country before family, before God, before everything.”
“I want to go to Bishmyza,” Polya said again.
“No,” her father answered. “Not until we have finished what we’ve started.”
“Until you’ve finished, what you’ve started,” Polya corrected.
Her father waved her away.
There was a knock at the study door, “Come in!” her father called, looking away from her.
The butler opened the door and held out a tray with a letter on it. He bowed and left after her father took it, but not before giving Polya a reassuring smile that did not reassure her of anything except her impending death.
He opened the letter and read it. His face paled for a moment, but then he smiled. “The king has invited us to the palace.”
To the Palace
Pytor tapped his foot nervously in the carriage while his sixteen-year-old daughter sulked. She stared out the window, refusing to speak to him when he asked her questions or acknowledge him when he told her how to approach the king.
“You’ve killed us both,” she’d said when he told her they were going to the palace.
He shook his head. His brother knew nothing. The king was surrounded by idiots and preening puffballs of inaction who wouldn’t see the truth if it landed in their laps. His brother had no idea he was planning a revolution.
This invitation was prompted by jealousy. His brother would want Polya. He’d always wanted what Pytor had.
Aleksandr had a beast. He must be green with envy, positively sick with it, when he found out Pytor had one, too.
Not that Polya was a beast.
“Do you remember the lives of the Saints, Mače?” Pytor asked his daughter.
She cut her eyes to him but crossed her
arms, her posture screaming: I don’t care. In all of her sixteen years, she’d never treated him like this. Pytor sighed.
“I will take that as a yes, dear. Do you remember the story about the girl who was a soldier? Who led the king’s soldiers into battle and defeated the army of one of the greatest nations in the world? That could be you, Polya.” Pytor leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He could see the action in his mind’s eye, and excitement bubbled inside him. “I could be that king, and you could be that saint.”
“I’m not a soldier, Father,” Polya said through clenched teeth. “I know nothing about fighting.”
“That girl didn’t either,” he continued quickly, waving aside her concern. “She was sent by God to help the king, and she fought and won.”
Polya stared at him a moment. “And then the king burned her at the stake, Father.”
Pytor sat back. He’d forgotten that part of the story.
Now Polya leaned forward. “I will be your sacrifice,” she said. “I understand how these things work. You may be king, you may not. One thing is certain, I won’t live to see what happens.”
“Stop being so dramatic, Polya.” Pytor huffed, not willing to admit that her words worried him, or that they carried some truth. “He’s my brother, he would never hurt us.”
“Yet are you not planning to overthrow your brother?”
“Enough.” Pytor sliced his hand through the air. “Don’t speak anymore.”
Polya threw herself back into the cushioned seat, crossed her arms again, and stared out the window.
Pytor admired his girl. She was smart, and she was fiery. She got that from him. Right now, he needed her to be more like her mother: quiet and acquiescing. Except, when he thought about Lara, he realized it had been years since she could be described that way.
Aleksandr would love Polya. Pytor knew that.
This morning, she had braided her hair down her back, the blonde hair shining with streaks of red. Her hair was thick and looked like it would weigh her head back with its weight. She was a tiny girl, but lithe and strong. She gave all the impression of delicacy and softness but that wasn’t her.
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