His Royal Whiskers

by Sam Gayton

  Out of the chimney the saucepan would come, with starry-eyed Teresa appearing in the darkness. Mother and daughter. Daughter and mother. Looking at each other with love and with wonder.

  For a few precious hours, everything would be happy again. Teresa and her mother would laugh in whispers, and sing in almost-silence, and happiness would swell inside them both—as light as bubbles, and as quick to burst. The Czarina’s famous smile shone from her face once again, and Teresa’s smile (fiercer than her mother’s, and more mischievous) beamed back.

  But this could only happen if the kitchen cooks weren’t watching, and if the hearth wasn’t lit, and if it was the dead of night and there was no risk of being discovered. Long weeks passed in which Teresa and the Czarina could not even see each other once. In those times, the Czarina felt like she was dying of thirst, and only the sight of Teresa coming up the chimney—like a bucket of cold clear water drawn from a well—could end the drought in her heart.

  Time passed. Teresa outgrew first the saucepan, then the stew pot, then the gravy keg that she traveled up the chimney in.

  “How big you’re getting,” the Czarina said one night as they sat together.

  “You’re big too, Mama,” Teresa said, poking her belly.

  “One day,” said the Czarina, “there won’t be a pot big enough to hold you.”

  “I’ll climb then, Mama. I’m doing good practice on the shelves. I do good gathering. Amna calls me Little Monkey. Look.” Teresa stuffed a fist into her pocket, then brought out a few sprigs from the herb garden: dill, pepperleaf, mintflower.

  “You fetched them all yourself?” The Czarina bunched them up like a bouquet of flowers, and kissed Teresa on the nose. Teresa beamed and threw her arms around her mother. Then she reared back.

  “Mama!” she said. “Your big belly just poked me!”

  The Czarina turned pink. “That’s your baby brother, Teresa.”

  Teresa blinked her wide eyes. “A baby’s hiding in there?” She knocked on the belly as if it were a door, then wrinkled her nose when there was no reply. “Why doesn’t he come out and play with us?”

  “In a little while, he will,” said the Czarina. “But when he does, he won’t be able to play with us for long, Teresa.”

  Teresa thought about this. “Because I’m secret, and he might tell about me?”

  The Czarina nodded. “He might.”

  “Babies can’t keep good secrets, can they, Mama? They go blah-blah-blah.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Especially boys,” said Teresa, voice full of pity. “Boys can’t even help it.” Her face lit up with a sudden idea. “Maybe he might be a girl instead?”

  The Czarina looked very sad then. “No, Teresa. Amna has sung her song again, and I have seen what the freckles say. You will have a brother.”

  She gripped Teresa tight, and hugged her hard.

  “He will have a hard life, Teresa. As hard as yours, but in a different way. Promise me, when your little brother is older, that you will be his friend.”

  Teresa cocked her head like a sparrow. “Will he be nice to me?”

  “I think he will,” the Czarina said softly, cradling her belly with her hand. “I think he will be nice to everyone. That is why he will need your help. Do you promise me that you will look after him?”

  Teresa promised.

  Three nights later, Alexander arrived too soon.

  The birth made Mama sick. She kept to her bed, while Amna took her temperature and read the thermometer with worried looks.

  Teresa began climbing up the chimney herself, for Mama no longer had the strength to winch the gravy keg up from the kitchen. She brought mintflowers from the kitchen shelves, so Mama’s bedside would always smell of Bloom, her favorite month. Mama stayed tucked up, pale and shivery, listening to Teresa’s talk of spices and shelf exploring.

  Sometimes little Alexander was with her, and Teresa would sit and hold his little pink hand with her fingers. His mouth was all smiles, his eyes were all gentleness, his hair was all curls and his cheeks were all pudge. Teresa loved him, fierce and hot as a flame.

  Then, one day, Alexander was gone. The Czar had decided he no longer needed mothering. It was time he learned to conquer with the Heirmaster. Lord Xin had taken the prince away, to teach Alexander how to swing his tiny rattle (which was spiked, like a bommy-knocker).

  Alexander’s absence only made Mama sadder, and sicker. All through Welkin, Worsen, and Yule, her blankets grew stiff with the cold. Her room would glitter with frost, as if it were strewn with diamonds, but she refused to light the hearth and miss a visit from her daughter.

  “You’re all the warmth I need,” she’d tell Teresa.

  But a fire was going out in the Czarina. Sadness seeped into her like damp seeps into wood. Teresa bought her khave spiced with blazing pip, and bouquets of poppyweed, with flowers red as flames. But nothing could rekindle her long-gone smile. She died on the first day of spring. Life just drifted away from her, the way wind blows blossoms from a tree.

  When the Czar returned from his latest victory to find his queen was dead, he rode his army straight to the River Ossia. Two hundred horses hauled a passing iceberg from the water and heaved it to the Winter Palace graveyards. Using Viktor, the Czar hacked and hollowed it out, turning it into a building of ice that became known as the Chapel of the Frozen Tear.

  It was said by those who saw him that His Majesty wept whilst he worked, like he was part of the Fountain of Sobs. It was said by the time he was done, an icicle of tears hung from his chin in the bitter cold. And finally it was said that the Czar had cried his whole life’s worth of tears in that moment, that his kindness had died along with his love, and forever afterward his heart knew no sorrow, nor remorse, nor love, nor mercy.

  Inside the chapel, he lay the Czarina in her coffin of æther and ice. Although it was forbidden for anyone but the royal family to enter and gaze upon her frozen beauty, every week for years afterward the guards would find small bunches of mintflower placed upon her grave. No one knew who kept putting them there, and how, or when, or why.

  5

  A Grim Encounter

  So that’s how it all began,” Amnabushka said in the silence after her story.

  “Why didn’t she tell me?” Pieter wondered. “Did she not trust me?”

  “Many and many a reason,” said Amna. “None to do with you. Shame, that she was the daughter of such a tyrant. Guilt, that his wickedness was somehow her fault. And last of all, fear.”

  “Of the Czar?”

  Amna shook her head. “Not of him. Of herself.”

  Pieter slumped his shoulders. “I don’t understand.”

  Amna’s smile was small and sad. “Of course you don’t. But if you had a father that became a monster, wouldn’t you be afraid of becoming just like him?”

  Pieter closed his eyes. “It’s all so sad. All so hopeless.”

  “Tallymaster!” Amna thumped the ground by his head. “Didn’t you listen to the story? The Czarina despaired, and look what happened to her!”

  “You should have told a fairy tale,” Pieter mumbled. “You should have told a story . . . where people live . . . happily ever after . . .”

  “I will!” Amna shook his shoulders, like he was having a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. “Listen! Bloom and Swoon and many a moon ago . . .”

  But Pieter was already snoring.

  This time he wouldn’t wake, no matter how hard Amna elbowed him.

  Pieter had lost heart. Crumbled. Given up. Succumbed. He drifted off to sleep and waved a white flag in his dreams. The flag became a rag, became a tatter, did not even matter. All color bleached away. His dreams turned gray, then faded to black. Wrong collapsed into right. Day bled into night. Time slipped away.

  Pieter tumbled down a long steep slope toward a place of no hope. . . .

  And then—at the end of everything—he woke.

  Hello! a voice said. Please vacate your body!

  Pi
eter felt light. Empty. Like a bubble must feel before it pops. Was this a dream? Strange. He thought he’d given dreams up. His sleep had been one long stretch of darkness.

  The voice spoke again, echoing inside his head: Welcome to the Afterlife!

  Pieter remembered the voice, and suddenly he saw who it belonged to.

  A black-robed skeleton was gliding across the carpet toward him.

  It seemed to be carrying a scythe.

  I’m Grim, the skeleton said. Though you may know me as the Pale Traveler. Within the two empty eye sockets, two round pupils were glowing like tinderfly eggs. Now that you’re dead, it’s my job to get you from Life to Death. Here, boy. Come here.

  Dread—cold and heavy as a tombstone slab—lay heavy on Pieter. He had surrendered almost everything in the Gloom Room, but he had not yet given up on fear.

  “This is a dream,” he whispered.

  At the sound of his breath, Grim’s head swiveled down on its spine. His pupils turned a light pink color. Oh, he said. You can see me? I actually wasn’t talking to you.

  From the sleeve of his robe, he extended five bone fingers, long and white as pianola keys, and gave Bloodbath’s tail a yank. There was a sound like a page being torn out of a book. Rip! The skeleton pulled up a thin see-through thing from the poodle, like a blue and sparkly petal.

  With a sharp gasp, Pieter realized that it was Bloodbath’s soul.

  Down on the carpet, the poor dog’s body slumped lifeless to the ground. Bloodbath had been whipped away from his body in the same way a magician might whip a tablecloth off a dinner table without even wobbling the wine glasses.

  Very sorry for the confusion, Grim said to Pieter. You’ll have to wait a little longer. You see, you’re not actually dead yet. Just having a Near-Death Experience. Unlike Bloodbath here.

  Grim turned back to the poodle, and grinned. It was his default facial expression.

  Here, boy! This way! he said cheerfully to Bloodbath. Unless you’d like to put in a request for a haunting.

  Bloodbath barked.

  The Czar? said Grim as he walked off with the soul of the poodle trotting beside him. That’s understandable. I get a lot of requests for him. There’s a waiting list, you understand? It’s several decades long. Let me put your name down . . .

  As soon as Grim had gone, Pieter drifted back to sleep. He did not think how close he had just come to Death, nor did he care that the Pale Traveler might be coming back for him. He did not think anything at all. He was totally empty, like a paper bag blowing in the wind. That’s what surrender was like.

  He floated through his dreams, waiting for Grim to come back.

  But before Death came to take Pieter from the Gloom Room, someone else did.

  “Wake up, Tallymaster.”

  From very far away, Pieter heard Ugor’s voice. Then a sausage-thick finger flicked him, hard. The nail left a pain in Pieter’s cheek like a bee sting.

  “What’s going on?” he said, struggling up onto his elbows and looking around with bleary eyes. He was no longer in the Gloom Room—Ugor had carried him out into the corridor. The dreadful despair it had filled him with was gone.

  The Warmaster towered over him, wearing a Father Frost outfit of blue velvet, trimmed with reindeer fur. His injured eye had healed and he had regrown his beard. It was whitened with flour, with a silver bell tied to the end. If you were awake to hear Father Frost’s bell ring, it was said you would get no presents.

  “Happy Yuletide,” said the Warmaster, yanking Pieter to his feet. “Up. Need you. Now.”

  “Whatever it is, get your elves to do it,” said Pieter.

  (It was his first joke in months. He was a little out of practice.)

  “Ho, ho, ho,” growled Ugor. “Very funny. Come to Hall of Faces. Quick.”

  “What’s all the panic about?” Pieter asked. “Did someone forget to leave carrots out for Rudolf?”

  (All right, very out of practice.)

  “What about Amna?” Pieter asked. “What about Bloodbath?”

  “Sweep still prisoner,” Ugor answered. “Poodle die, though.”

  Pieter remembered his strange dream of the skeleton that took Bloodbath’s soul, and shivered. Perhaps it hadn’t been a dream at all.

  “Where are we going?” he said.

  “Czar not wake from Hall of Faces this morn,” said Ugor. “Door still locked from inside. No answer. Maybe Prince disobeying His Majesty again. I show him you. Then he behave again.” Ugor’s bear paw of a hand tightened, and Pieter winced. “Or Ugor pull you like cracker, make you go snap.”

  Pieter said nothing more as he hurried him down the halls, but his heart was running faster than their footsteps. Because there was another reason to explain why the Czar could not be woken.

  “Operation: His Royal Whiskers,” he said under his breath.

  Could it be? Could Teresa have come back down the chimney last night, just like Father Frost, bringing the Czar the only present he deserved?

  Pieter hoped so. It was not a foolish hope either. Because if Yuletide promised one thing, it was that every winter, no matter how long and terrible, did one day come to an end.

  6

  An Even Grimmer Encounter

  They passed through hallways decorated with iron tinsel and bright red baubles that hung from the ceiling like frozen drops of blood. Everpine trees filled each room with their fresh forest scent. Tinderflies burned on toffee candles. Butlers and maids hurried past, carefully carrying presents (mostly crossbow shaped) and samovars of mull, the Yuletide sweet wine.

  That afternoon, soldiers and Petrossia folk from all across the Empire would gather in the Winter Palace courtyard to celebrate the start of another year of conquering. The War Council would march at the head of the finest of the Czar’s army, the crowds would cheer, and everyone would feast to the glory of Petrossia. (Although this year, because of Alexander’s appetite, it would be less like a feast, and more like a light starter of beetroot soup and butterless bread.)

  At last, they came to the corridor that led to the Hall of Faces. Two guards stood by the doorway with sprigs of mistletoe tied to their spears. They unpuckered their lips quickly when they saw it was Ugor stomping toward them.

  The Warmaster rapped his knuckles on the stained glass, and at once, a Slinja unfolded out at them from his hiding place inside the keyhole.

  “Still no sign of the Czar, Warmaster,” said the Slinja in his raspy voice. “His Majesty must still be sleeping in the prince’s fur as usual. His Highness Alexander has not woken, either. All is well.”

  The barbarian scratched his forehead. “Too late for sleeping in. Something wrong.”

  The Slinja shook his head, which had the effect of making it disappear and reappear several times. “Impossible. No one has been in or out of the hall since last night.”

  Ugor’s eyes narrowed. “Wakey-wakey time then. Open the door.”

  “Yes, Warmaster.” Quick as a flash, the Slinja folded up, poked himself through the keyhole and disappeared from sight. Ugor grabbed Pieter up by the scruff of his shirt and tucked him under his arm.

  “You come too,” he said. “If Alexander hurt Czar, Ugor hurt you.”

  Pieter didn’t reply. He just focused on trying not to gag. Father Frost was supposed to live up in the Waste, and conduct the Aurora lights with an icicle baton. He was supposed to smell of æther and pine needles, not old sweat and bacon grease.

  The lock clicked, the handle twitched, and the heavy doors began to swing slowly open. Pieter held his breath, and not just because of Ugor’s stink. What had happened in the Hall of Faces? And who would he see?

  There was just Alexander, filling the hall with his size and his snores.

  Pieter let out a disappointed sigh. If the prince hadn’t even woken up yet, there was no way Teresa had come, overthrown the Czar, and changed him into a kitten.

  “Your Majesty?” said the Warmaster. The barbarian’s voice echoed across the hall. “Sire?” he said a litt
le louder.

  One huge green eye, flecked with brown and gold and irritation, opened just a little, then slumped closed.

  “Young Majesty!” Ugor rang the bell on his beard. “Yuletide!”

  “Now he definitely won’t open his eyes,” said Pieter to the barbarian. “If you hear Father Frost’s bell, you’re supposed to be asleep.”

  “Shut it,” snapped the Warmaster, his swine breath blasting Pieter in the face. He stomped over to Alexander’s ear and roared: “TEN OF THE MORN! HIS MAJESTY THE CZAR AND HIS YOUNG MAJESTY THE PRINCE NEED—”

  Alexander held up a paw. Five claws slid out, like swords from their scabbards.

  “—To go sleep as long as they want,” finished Ugor, holding up his hands and backing away. “Pardon Ugor, Ugor knows how Young Majesty wuvs his snoozie-woozies.”

  Pieter couldn’t help grinning as Alexander’s claws retracted, his paw slumped over his ears, and his snoring continued.

  “Young Majesty can sleep,” Ugor muttered. “But Czar must wake before Yuletide feast.”

  Behind a pillar was a ladder that Amna had once used to dust the portraits. Ugor fetched it, and placed it against the prince’s belly. It stretched high up into Alexander’s golden fur. There was a snapping sound, like a pulled cracker, when he stepped onto it. The Warmaster looked down at the first rung, broken under his boot. Then he looked at his huge gut. Then he looked at Pieter.

  “Ugor too heavy!” he said, slinging Pieter up onto the ladder. “Go wake Czar!”

  Anything was better than being tucked under a barbarian armpit. What choice did Pieter have, anyway? He climbed a rung, and then another. The Czar was nowhere to be found. He looked down at Ugor and shrugged. The Warmaster glared back, and motioned for him to go farther up.

  Soon Pieter had run out of ladder to climb. Ugor was far below. Carefully, heart hammering in his chest, he stepped onto Alexander. The prince’s fur was light and warm, and came up to his waist. It made a soft, swishing sound as he waded through it, like ripe corn. The ceiling was just above his head, so close he could reach up and touch the iron tinsel hanging from the chandeliers.