“We’re socialized to avoid confrontation,” Veronica said. “It’s a survival tactic.”
The guy threw his elbow over his seat, jabbing Veronica’s head. “Ow!”
“That’s it.” Michael tossed his napkin on his plate.
“Wait.” She held up one hand and used the other to rub the back of her skull. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”
“What trouble? You can’t eat in public without risking a concussion?” Michael reached across the table to tap the guy on the shoulder. Excitement bubbled in Veronica’s chest. No one had ever stood up for her before.
“Hold on.” The guy turned and glared at Michael. “What?”
“Will you keep it down?” Michael’s voice had a tight edge.
“What are you, the FCC? Mind your own business.”
“You hit my date in the head.”
“Tell the bitch to put some ice on it.”
The word rang in her ears, hard as any slap. Michael jumped to his feet. The guy set his phone on his table and the two of them scowled at each other like a pair of roosters ready to tear one another to pieces. The room stilled; even the waitress who’d come to clear their plates hesitated. The techno-sitar music, which blended so smoothly with the cacophony of voices a moment before, now blasted over the speakers. Michael’s gaze locked with Veronica’s. He looked scared. This seemed unreasonable, given his size, but then the other guy did have youth on his side. Veronica’s shoulders slumped.
As soon as Michael saw her reaction, he spun around and snatched the guy’s phone. He headed for the servers’ station near the kitchen, where coffee hissed and dirty dishes were stacked in a plastic tub. Veronica heard a faint “hello?” from the other end of the line as Michael tossed the phone in the trash.
“That’s my property,” the guy screeched. “I’ll sue.”
Michael returned to the table. Veronica thought he could have stopped a charging cheetah in its tracks. “Try suing me. You’ll have a countersuit on your hands, on her behalf, for assault and battery.”
The guy’s Adam’s apple wobbled. His date, the mini-Jolie, suppressed a smirk. Veronica pivoted her head to gage the reaction of the room, expecting a cinematic chorus of approval. No such luck. The other diners averted their eyes. Even the little girl with the pink ponytail holder had returned to her meal. A manager in a clean white shirt and bow tie approached their table, his expansive forehead creased with concern. A voice inside Veronica’s head hissed, Do something.
Veronica stumbled to her feet. She reached into her purse and flung a couple twenties on the table. “Don’t worry. We’re leaving.” She took Michael’s hand, and led him past the other diners to the front door.
Outside, the evening sky had deepened to velvety purple. Streaks of orange sunlight ignited the western horizon. The white dome of Griffith Park Observatory hovered in the hills above them like a Byzantine temple. Veronica drew in a deep breath, savoring the spicy-sweet scent of flowers and citrus trees mingled with bitter exhaust fumes. She had always preferred the vibrant east side of Los Angeles to the bourgeois western enclaves and she’d forgotten how pretty the city looked at dusk.
“Sorry to embarrass you,” Michael muttered as they crossed Los Feliz Boulevard, heading to his new Prius and her well-loved Toyota. “And I think I owe you money.”
“No. I mean…” What did she mean? She needed the money. Veronica lengthened her strides to keep pace with Michael. Maybe she should get home and call Jess: What were you thinking with this guy?
Except she didn’t feel that way. She felt wonderfully exhilarated and sorry for the mere mortals shooting past them in sleek cars, going about the boring business of life.
“Most guys are so reserved,” she blurted, “especially in L.A. You’re different.”
Michael stopped in front of the Prius. “You’re serious?”
A gust of wind whipped tendrils of hair against Veronica’s cheeks. She shivered, not unpleasantly. “Peter the Great would have been proud of what you did in there.”
He dipped his head to meet her gaze. “Do you want to come over?” he asked.
Veronica froze. When she was ten, she had mounted the high diving board at her neighborhood pool. From the top, the pool stretched out before her, an endless sea of chlorinated crystal blue. She’d felt like Pelé, the Hawaiian volcano goddess. Then the voices in her head started to hum. It was too high. They’d scrape her remains off the bottom of the pool with one of the red nets hanging from the side of the lifeguard’s station. The same onslaught of vertigo shook her now. Her head buzzed.
“For coffee,” Michael added. “I’m only five minutes away in Silver Lake. I’m not trying to seduce you on the first date.”
“You don’t want to seduce me? How insulting.”
He smiled, but looked at the ground.
When she was ten, Veronica had climbed down the ladder, wet toes curling around each rung. Her cousins’ mocking laughter still rang in her ears. She’d always regretted not making the dive.
* * *
Michael’s house was built in the cute Craftsman style so popular in the hills. In the yard, scraggly lemon trees clung to life and wild strands of ivy crisscrossed the fences. Shrill staccato barking greeted them as they approached the gate. Michael fiddled with the knob on the arched door. “That’s Ariel. Watch out.”
As soon as he unlocked the door, a furry golden chow charged them, panting wildly. Michael grabbed her and the dog strained at her collar like a half-trained Moscow circus bear. “It’s okay,” Veronica said. “I love animals.”
“You asked for it.” Michael let go and Ariel sprang on her, slobbering. Two gray-and-white cats balanced on either side of the sofa, glaring at the chow with jealous green eyes. The cats jumped down and set to work rubbing and threading themselves between her legs.
“That’s Boris and Natasha. It’s kind of a zoo, but make yourself at home.” Michael moved into the kitchen, dog and cats close at his heels.
Veronica stood upright, her legs unsteady. “This place is amazing,” she said. A beamed ceiling and huge fireplace dominated the front room, along with a thick Persian carpet, liberally scattered with cat and dog fur, which covered most of the hardwood floor. Modigliani prints, oblong female faces with eyes askance, hung from the walls.
Michael popped out of the kitchen. “I’ll give you the grand tour in a minute.”
He reached over and touched Veronica’s hand. A surge of warmth shot through her. That touch had been meant to reassure, rather than seduce, and yet her limbs felt pliant. She supposed she could try to seduce him. Her heart raced. Ordinarily, she didn’t think this way at all. Then again, perhaps a one-night stand was exactly what she needed to break out of her funk. She’d wake up next to him tomorrow morning and think, Oops, I barely know this guy. She’d call Jess and feign guilt while divulging every juicy detail.
Except she had no clue how to signal what she wanted. A hand on his knee? A sly wink? She wanted to feel sexy and wild. If only she had something sexy and wild to say.
“Where’s your bathroom?” she asked.
“Downstairs.” He hesitated. “Are you all right?”
She managed a contrite nod and Michael withdrew to the kitchen. Veronica didn’t need to use the bathroom, but didn’t want to play the fool either. She headed downstairs.
With every step, an ominous creak sounded. On the lower floor, one of the doors had been left ajar. Bookshelves ran along the walls of what looked like a home office.
Her lips twitched. Some people peeked into a stranger’s medicine cabinet to learn secrets. Veronica looked at their books. She glanced at the stairs. No sign of Michael. She pushed the door open and stepped inside the room.
The evening breeze drifted in from an open window and Veronica huddled deeper into her black cardigan. Below her, trucks rumbled by on Hyperion Boulevard. Veronica rubbed her arms and looked around, noting the cluttered desk, file folders and legal pads scattered about. From upstairs, she heard the
crackling grooves of a vinyl record. Michael Karstadt was an analog type of guy. She should have known. And he remembered her devotion to Joy Division. Ian Curtis’s raw baritone soon barreled into “Love Will Tear Us Apart.” God, she was a sucker for a baritone.
Veronica approached the shelves. Many of the books were bound in leather and stained. She breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of the decay, and traced the embossed lettering on their spines, careful not to damage the fragile stitching. Her hand came to rest on a thick, canvas-bound binder. She stood on her tiptoes to remove it from the shelf.
An elaborate reproduction of the symbol of Imperial Russia, the double-headed eagle, was imprinted in dark scarlet on the cover. The eagle’s two heads guarded the ancient Crown of Monomakh, reptilian tongues lashing out at some unseen threat to the Russian land. Sharp talons grasped a long sword on one side and a round scepter on the other.
Pulse racing, Veronica flipped through the binder. Yellowing documents, faded at the edges and cluttered with typos, had been tucked between plastic leaves: birth certificates, marriage licenses, death records. On the last page, she found a family tree with neat geometric shapes framing the names. On top of the page, she read:
NICHOLAS I (1796–1855)
m. Charlotte of Prussia, 1817
Tsar of all the Russias
“What are you doing?”
Veronica fumbled the binder and almost dropped it. Michael stood in the doorway, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand.
“Oops.” She tried to smile. “I found Bluebeard’s secret room.”
“But no dead wives, I hope.”
She laughed, too loudly. He moved next to her. They didn’t exactly touch, but he’d removed his jacket and Veronica felt keenly aware of his shoulders underneath the fabric of his shirt. Michael handed her one of the mugs, something from an arts and crafts festival. She didn’t peg him for the arts and crafts type. Maybe the mug belonged to an ex-girlfriend. Maybe he brought women here all the time. But Russian history professors? When he kept a binder full of genealogical records? Her hand trembled as she lifted the cup to her lips. The coffee seared her tongue.
“Careful,” he said.
Veronica ran her tongue along the roof of her mouth to ease the pain. It served her right for letting his shoulders distract her.
“Why don’t you let me take that off your hands?” He reached for the binder, but she stepped back, set the mug down, and clutched it tighter.
She tried to sound playful, even with her heart banging in her chest. “So what’s the deal with the Iron Tsar?” That had been Nicholas I’s nickname.
Veronica saw a flash of panic in Michael’s eyes. “You’re not shocked?”
“I’m more thrilled than shocked.”
He raised his hands in apology, but his shoulders rose and fell. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I want to explain.”
She shook her head, confused.
“You didn’t see?” he asked.
“See what?”
Once again, he tried to snatch the binder from her hands. She dodged him and flipped it open to the page she had been reading before, the family tree. She scrutinized the other boxes on the chart. At the bottom of the page, in the last box, she spotted Michael’s name.
Michael Karstadt had traced his own lineage through the male line of his family tree to a reigning tsar. Russian genealogy was charted this particular way for one reason.
To claim the Romanov throne.
Two
Empress Alexandra felt her shortcomings keenly: her inadequate upbringing in a small German province, her intense shyness, her propensity for bad luck. Worst of all, after nearly seven years on the throne, she’d failed to produce a male heir.
—VERONICA HERRERA, The Reluctant Romanov: Late Imperial Russian Court Politics and Alexandra of Hesse
PETERHOF ESTATE
JULY 1901
Lena was alone when the chambermaid came to share the news. Empress Alexandra suffered from a migraine and couldn’t be disturbed. Lena bowed her head dutifully, focusing on the chambermaid’s small hands and fidgeting thumbs. The maid gave Lena a quick curtsy. Lena nodded and returned to mending a tear in one of Grand Duchess Olga’s velvet gowns.
Once the maid left the nursery, Lena stashed the dress in a cedar box and grabbed a sprig of lilacs she’d gathered from the garden. She gathered her long black skirt in her hand and tiptoed over dolls dressed in the latest fashions from Paris and miniature tea sets. Then she slipped out the back entrance to head upstairs.
Three weeks earlier, the empress had given birth to a fat and happy little girl named Anastasia, her fourth daughter. Since then, gossip ran rampant as a virus through the household. Alexandra had not spoken a word since the baby arrived. She refused to leave her bed. The thought of the poor woman trapped in her room made Lena’s heart sink. The empress had always been kind to her. She had to see if she could help, or at least offer consolation.
Compared to other imperial residences, the Romanovs’ modest house at Peterhof remained sparsely staffed. Over the summer months, the family wanted to relax. So the guard stationed outside Alexandra’s boudoir caught Lena by surprise. When she spotted him, she ducked for cover behind a hanging cluster of potted ferns in the hall. She tapped her slippered feet against the parquet flooring, determining how best to approach.
Gold embroidery lined the edges of his scarlet waistcoat and black jacket, the dress uniform of the Honorary North African Regiment. Lena realized she had seen this guard before, standing tall and silent behind the tsar’s chair at a state dinner for the Persian shah. Lena was helping the kitchen staff whisk away heavy porcelain plates when she noticed how the guard’s stiff white dress shirt seemed to glow against his dark skin. Distracted, she’d let one of the plates slip from her hand. The head maid had caught the plate before it crashed to the floor, and ordered Lena out of the kitchen. She remembered her cheeks burning as she glanced back at the guard. He hadn’t moved a muscle, yet she was convinced he’d taken in the entire scene.
Now, Lena made the sign of the cross over her chest with her thumb and two fingers, praying the guard didn’t remember the incident. As she stepped forward, she forced a smile. She addressed the guard in English, hoping her familiarity with the private language of the tsar’s family might impress him. “I’ve brought flowers for the empress,” she said brightly. “Might I pass?”
The guard squinted straight ahead, as though trying to bring something at a distance into focus. His eyes were light brown and framed by a thick fringe of curling lashes. He refused to look at her. His indifference prickled Lena’s ego. “I put flowers on the table next to the empress’s bed every evening,” she added.
“I hear you come from the woods up north, near the town of Archangel. Where did you learn to speak English?”
Lena took a quick step back. The guard spoke English in a deep, musical accent that put her own clipped cadence to shame. “How do you know where I’m from?”
“Empress Alexandra has mentioned you a time or two. She’s fond of you.”
Taking care not to crush the flowers, Lena folded her arms in front of her chest. “My brother taught me the language. He has been to university in Saint Petersburg.”
“He’s a student? He should watch himself. They say universities are full of…”
The guard spoke rapid English now, using words she didn’t understand. Her foot tapped the floor again nervously.
He switched back to Russian. “… the university students are all terrorists now.”
Lena’s fingers twisted around the lilacs. A stray petal floated to the floor. She reminded herself this guard couldn’t possibly know of her brother or his troubles.
“They say the students learn how to make fire bombs in class,” the guard continued, his voice growing more animated. “We’ll all lose our jobs if they have their way.” He pointed to the lilacs. “If you’re not careful, you’ll ruin those flowers.”
She waited, but
he said nothing more of terrorists. The panic in her chest subsided. Perhaps he was the sort of man who spoke only for the pleasure of hearing his own voice. “I wish to perform my job now.” Lena tried to move forward but he stepped in front of her, blocking her path once more.
“I’m sure you heard the orders. No one is allowed inside.”
“You wouldn’t want to be held accountable for any mistakes, would you?”
The guard’s shoulders stiffened. “I wouldn’t be here if I made mistakes. Besides, if you want to see the empress, shouldn’t you change into fresh clothes?”
He pointed to her shirtwaist, where the Grand Duchess Tatiana had spilled grape juice. Lena’s hand moved of its own volition to cover the stain. She wished she had at least thought to swipe a brush through her hair before she left the nursery. “I might ask for permission,” she said.
“Is that my Lenichka?”
The voice from the boudoir, high and weak, startled the guard. Before he could respond, Lena called, “I’ve brought flowers, Your Majesty, only I’m not allowed inside.”
“It’s all right, Pavel,” Alexandra replied. “Let this one pass.”
At the sound of Empress Alexandra’s frail voice, he opened the heavy bedroom door. He then turned at a more leisurely pace to examine Lena, regarding her now with grudging amusement. She tilted her chin to meet his gaze.
“My mistake, after all. Perhaps our paths will cross again.” Pavel leaned in closer. “Next time I’ll know better than to block your way.”
“If we meet again, I can practice my English,” she said.
“It opens doors in this place. And I enjoy speaking in my native tongue.”
“I thought you were Abyssinian.”
“I come from a place called Virginia. My given name is Paul. When we meet again, I will tell you more.” Pavel stepped back so she could pass. “Until then, take care around the royal family. They say that when you speak out here, the sound travels all the way back to Saint Petersburg.”
Lena opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but he only gifted her with a sly smile and shut the door soundlessly behind her.
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 3
