Veronica was beginning to wish she hadn’t changed seats, no matter how comfortable the slippers. “Actually, I’ve been a vegetarian for several months now. It sounds good to me.”
“Oh right. The California thing. I suppose you meditate and do yoga too. Well, maybe it’s for the best.” Irina’s hands fluttered some more. “My experience in advertising is limited, but I suppose it’s good if you actually believe in the product you’re meant to sell.”
She turned her phone around to show Veronica a picture. Veronica’s face—a different picture than the newspaper had used, a younger version that she used on social media sites—had been Photoshopped above a dress she recognized immediately. It was Catherine the Great’s coronation gown: a richly beaded bodice underneath a gold-trimmed cape and metallic double-headed eagles embroidered onto a skirt that stood out stiff and wide at her hips.
Underneath, the copy declared in Cyrillic: “Ekaterina … A Royal Feast!” The green and white baroque façade of a building that looked like the Winter Palace hung as backdrop.
“You adore this, right? You recognize the dress? The coronation gown worn by Catherine herself! The greatest woman ever to lead a nation! The enlightened empress!” Irina drew closer and lifted her hair to indicate the back of her slender neck. “Do you smell that? It is a reproduction of Catherine’s perfume. I had it commissioned.”
Veronica tried to smile. “This restaurant wants me to advertise for them?”
“Not only this restaurant. I’ve lined up an Argentinian winery and perhaps a Fiat dealer.” Irina waved her hand. “It is not a done deal yet, but I have a good feeling. You will have many such opportunities to monetize your brand.”
The picture looked creepy, and Veronica hadn’t exactly planned to use whatever celebrity cachet Irina thought she might possess to sell crap. Then again she could use the money. She no longer had a job, after all. She looked around the rest of the cabin: an older couple hunched over a movie and a guy with a half-empty glass of red wine snoring in his seat.
“I don’t feel like much of a celebrity,” Veronica said.
“Surely you’ve seen some version of Anastasia or another. You are a Romanov grand duchess, an heir to Catherine the Great herself. Look like a grand duchess. Act like a grand duchess. And people will be drawn to you. Otherwise none of this matters.”
“She is a grand duchess.” Michael stood behind them, where a heavy curtain separated the two sections of the cabin. “She doesn’t need to put on a show.”
The flight attendant was at his side, hands on hips. “He barge past me. I tell captain.”
“Just a few minutes,” Michael told the attendant, smiling easily, still confident in his charm. “Then I’ll go back where I belong.”
To Veronica’s surprise, the flight attendant looked to her for instruction.
“He’s with me,” Veronica told her.
The flight attendant stepped back, keeping a suspicious eye on Michael.
“Who is this?” Irina asked as Michael towered over them. Irina ogled him as though he had come in as part of a dessert tray. “You brought a bodyguard of your own?”
“More like he brought himself,” Veronica said. “Michael Karstadt.”
“Has Dmitry already bored you to tears?” Irina asked him. “You poor dear. That one really should loosen up a little. He is … how do Americans say it? A control freak. Grisha Potemkin would be so disappointed in his descendant. Now, the prince? He understood how to enjoy life.” Irina slipped her phone with all its sparkles back in her bag and reappraised Michael.
“Mikhail Karstadt. I know that name. You’ve spent some time in the archives in St. Petersburg, haven’t you? Your grandfather was a palace guard, from the North African regiment, no?”
Veronica quickly corrected her. “He left as a member of the Preobrazhensky Guard.”
“We’re not sure if Dowager Empress Marie was technically authorized to award him this title but we can look into some sort of posthumous honors. I suppose Catherine would have done something similar were she in your place.”
“It’s the least you can do. His grandfather helped save an heiress to the throne.”
Irina smoothed her linen skirt. “You’re not tsarina yet, dear. Hold off on giving orders.” She looked at Veronica. “Especially to me.”
The flight attendant approached once more, presenting Veronica with a cute pair of flannel pajamas, a wing-shaped Russian flag stamped near the right shoulder. But somehow Veronica no longer felt in the mood for a good night’s rest.
“We should discuss your personal brand,” Irina said. “I think you will find many companies are interested in utilizing your image and voice.”
“I think there may have been a misunderstanding. I was under the impression I would be able to speak on…” Veronica tried to figure out a way to say it without hurting Irina’s feelings but decided to be straightforward. “More important issues. Political issues. Dmitry spoke of this time as a crossroads for Russia.”
“You sound like such an academic. We’ll need to work on that.”
“I’m not interested in being a walking advertisement.”
“Not that it would necessarily hurt to make a little money,” Michael added.
Veronica glared at him.
“I mean if it’s convenient…” He shrugged and shut up.
Irina leaned back in the enormous cushioned seat, taking in Michael with undisguised admiration. “You seem like a sensible man. And you look like a solid Russian Cossack. I would have loved to put you on television. Too bad you weren’t the one.”
Michael’s cheeks turned pink.
Irina waved at Veronica’s pajamas. “You can change, but don’t plan to get too much sleep. I’ve reconsidered. We only have a week together. Maybe you should read that dossier after all, seeing as how Dmitry went to the trouble of putting it together. Best to be well prepared.”
“I am prepared.” Veronica’s body gave an involuntary shudder. She tried to cover it by rolling her shoulders back and sitting straighter in her seat.
“Sure you are,” Irina told her. “But you should keep Dmitry and this other handsome man nearby, just in case. Now that I’ve met you, I’m not sure you will be adept at making friends. We’ll need to tread more carefully than I thought.”
Five
ST. PETERSBURG
MARCH 1791
Grisha gnawed on a raw turnip, fighting the temptation to bark an order for the driver to turn around. As he had predicted, a tender bruise spread dark purple and sickly green across his broad stomach where he had smashed into the post trying to lunge at the crafty pasha. Hot chocolate, a little violin music, and his warm canopied bed: that’s what he needed now. Not shallow conversations with the pompous twits who populated Catherine’s beloved Hermitage.
But Catherine had summoned him for a late supper, an encouraging sign considering she had ordered him out of her presence when he saw her last. Still, traveling to the palace for a public function was a far different matter than a private audience with Catherine. He took another nibble on the turnip, turning the flesh on his tongue, picturing spoiled courtiers sipping lemon- and cherry-infused vodkas, pondering how best to curry Platon Zubov’s favor.
His team of six dappled grays trod carefully around spots of slick ice. Grisha drew aside the delicate linens covering the frosted window of his coach. A soft layer of snowfall made even the imposing palaces of the highest nobility seem humble and quaint. Grisha trained his eyes on the less intimidating wooden structures: well-kept apothecaries and simple churches crowned with bell towers, onion domes, and crosses pointing to heaven.
They passed a rumbling wagon filled to the brim with vegetables and tubers bound for market, the man at the front bravely tightening his modest brown coat against the cold. Grisha caught a whiff and remembered his childhood in the countryside, the soothing scent of onions frying for a simple pierogi supper.
This was why Russia had gone to war and then to war again. He and
Catherine may have shared the dreams of expansionists, but it had all been to preserve and protect the simplicity of this life. They could not let it all fall to pieces in service of Zubov’s vain desire for glory.
Anton sat across from him in the coach, swinging his legs back and forth, engrossed in his dog-eared copy of Candide. Whenever they hit a bump, the boy grasped the sides of his seat and the book dropped into his lap. Grisha caught a glimpse of the notes Anton had scribbled to himself along the edges of the page. He dusted a speck of lint from his greatcoat, trying not to smile.
He should use this short journey to instruct the boy. He could tell him of Catherine’s moment of victory, the people of St. Petersburg lining the streets, cheering and falling to their knees as they watched Catherine astride her stallion, ready to seize power as an empress of the Enlightenment, saving her adopted homeland from a backward and insipid tsar. Or he could speak of more frightening tales, how in the deepest dungeons of his great fortress, Catherine’s hero, Peter the Great, had his own son tortured and beaten to death.
But Grisha just peered out the window. Dim lanterns, redolent of the coarse scent of hempseed oil, provided pale illumination for the bridges, and he tried to make out the golden spire of Peter and Paul Cathedral across the water. He smiled at Anton but remained silent. The picturesque scenery put him in a contemplative mood. He didn’t want to meditate on games of power. Anton would find his path in this world, as they all did. He might find a woman to love and they would raise fat, happy children together. Perhaps he would find happiness in a normal life of routine and habit, the kind of happiness that had always eluded Grisha.
* * *
The Winter Palace was alive with candlelight and the bombast of a full orchestra strumming a popular waltz. By the time Grisha and Anton alighted from their carriage and pushed their way inside, a sea of swaggering courtiers and giggling ladies-in-waiting had already crowded into the receiving area, rife with the sensual fragrances of jasmine and citrus blooms, expensive French colognes, and freshly applied pomade. When the doors of the ballroom opened to admit a new group inside, Anton rose to his tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the fantasia of waltzing couples in silver wigs.
Grisha tried to take it all in stride, to revel in the youthful energy and joy. In truth, this quirky lightness only made him feel obsolete. He could see himself in the crowd, as though observing a stranger at a distance. Even as he smiled, dark clouds gathered inside of him.
“They say Zubov’s monkey has his own bedtime routine, like a child,” Anton said, scurrying behind as Grisha led them through the palace halls to the empress’s Little Hermitage. Once they reached a cloakroom, Anton withdrew a brush with fine hog’s-hair bristles from his bag to dust the snow from Grisha’s heavy greatcoat. “Each night, Zubov forces a courtier to read the beast a fairy tale. The story of Father Frost and the Snow Maiden is his favorite.”
Grisha touched his chest to feel the diamond-studded medallion with Catherine’s portrait in the center, worn near his heart. “Perhaps the courtiers are only looking for an excuse to avoid Zubov. Wouldn’t you rather read to the monkey than listen to his master prattle?”
Anton snorted and hung Grisha’s coat from a hook. The other guests had not been as fastidious. Melted snow clung to the wool of the coats, creating a damp and dank odor in the receiving hall, despite the vanilla potpourri and candles burning in sconces along the walls. Anton withdrew the plans for the mosque, sheathed in a silk wrap, from his bag and moved them to the coat’s pocket so that Grisha might easily access them.
“Be sure my horses are stabled in a timely fashion,” Grisha said, moving slowly now, forcing himself to push through the dark clouds in his head. “Mind the new driver and the horse master. I don’t trust either. Ask for the horses again within two hours. I don’t intend to linger.”
Anton regarded him with such a lack of guile that Grisha had a sudden pang of nostalgia to be a boy again “Have you considered using the information about Zubov’s connections to Saltykov’s household and Grand Duke Paul?”
“Catherine thinks she’s in love with the handsome fool. It would hurt her too much.” And I would never hurt my wife. Grisha bit his tongue to keep those words silent. Who knew what spies lurked, ready to use any word against him?
Anton nodded obediently before he withdrew from the alcove. Grisha strode toward Catherine’s private dining room, passing colorful Renaissance paintings, busts of Catherine’s precious philosophes, and shelves stuffed with thick folios. He tried to pretend a confidence he didn’t feel, that he experienced less and less of late.
A guard of the North African regiment waited at the door, jewel-encrusted turban dipping as he bowed his head. Grisha recognized the guard and recalled a long night they’d spent discussing his plans for the mosque, as the man had mentioned he was of the Muslim faith. Grisha would have liked to ask him to join his household, where he would have greater responsibilities than opening doors for drunken courtiers. But he was in no position to vex Catherine by stealing her staff.
Grisha adjusted his tight scarlet waistcoat, trying to ignore his bulging stomach and the throbbing bruise.
The guard opened the thick door and Grisha stepped inside.
There was a time when the entrance of Prince Potemkin would have been an occasion for pomp and ceremony. Once his foot stepped over the threshold, he would have been accosted with stiff words of congratulation and welcome from generals, ambassadors, and even Catherine’s latest young favorite.
The reverence lingered yet among the select group of ten dining with the empress this evening, along with the unsubtle stares and curiosity he always attracted in the gossip-minded capital. When he entered, the string quartet in the corner of the room played a tired tune ten years out of fashion. Catherine had never had a good ear for music, as she freely admitted. She still needed his advice on so many matters. The thought cheered him.
A young lady in a finely spun silver wig caught his eye. Her delicate fingers caressed an open locket with Grisha’s portrait hanging from a copper chain. He’d heard such items were in fashion among the women of the service nobility and merchant classes, to celebrate Grisha’s military successes. The young woman looked him over with a sly smile. Grisha was not delusional enough to suppose his oversized self cut a particularly appealing figure to women these days. Still, he liked to think he’d earned a fine enough reputation to attract one or two. He returned the smile as subtly as possible. No need to give Zubov any reason to start wagging his tongue.
Grisha had no wish to join the clan of older courtiers, with their empty gossip and jests they all deemed so funny in one another’s company. Success bred jealousy and jealousy bred contempt. He made his bows and then found a spot toward the end of the table, across from the woman with a far more youthful version of his face on her chain. As he took a seat, he gestured toward the trinket. “Handsome chap.”
The young lady chattered about her father’s service and his admiration of Grisha’s military and diplomatic prowess while Grisha took a sip of sparkling wine from a crystal flute. A few of the other latecomers scribbled their preferences on slates, while already an array of delights was being rolled to the table on large platters tiered on portable shelves.
Catherine sat at the head of the table in traditional Russian dress, a loose-fitting vermilion gown with deeply cut sleeves and ermine trim. He watched her laugh along with a burly and aged ambassador who was no doubt relating some humorous vulgarity or another. She dipped a chunk of bread into a steaming beef broth. The movement was so familiar, so delicate and perfect, that for a moment, Grisha forgot himself, overcome with fondness.
Catherine smiled and laughed, but devoted more energy to the roasted pheasant sprawled across her Sèvres plate than to catching the eyes of those around her. Grisha took in the other delicacies before them on glittering golden platters: English mutton and game hen, French duck in orange sauce, and puffy cream pastries from Vienna. He thought of the wild mushrooms and strawberries
he’d known as a boy. He wondered why he and his countrymen now considered the European forever superior to the homegrown.
Zubov, in his usual ridiculous velvet frock coat, had been seated away from the empress and pouted like a neglected puppy. The boy noticed Grisha and raised his voice over the vapid conversations and the chirping monkey on his shoulder. “Prince Potemkin! I thought a supper held at this late an hour would find you at home abed.”
Even as the laughter swelled around him, the jest rang false, as though Zubov had hired some professional wit to pen it for him. Grisha seldom retired before dawn. Still, the melancholia began its descent. If it settled in his soul, it would become a parasite intent on devouring him from the inside.
But he had learned to disguise his own distress well enough. Grisha arched his eyebrows and turned his gaze to the rules of polite behavior Catherine had posted to the cream-colored wall. Her Little Hermitage was meant to be a place of affection: a noble goal, if unrealistic. “How kind of you to tolerate me despite my advanced years, Platon Alexandrovich.”
Catherine hadn’t joined in the laughter. Despite a profusion of rouge, shadows hovered under her eyes. She had always been abed by ten, even in her younger years. The empress forced herself to remain up late for Zubov’s sake, but keeping pace with her young lover had taken a toll. Age had caught up with her, as it often did for mere mortals.
“Prince!” she said, squinting in his direction, her weak eyes getting the better of her.
Grisha stood, dipping into a bow, as deep as his knees and back would allow.
“Not in here.” She touched a linen napkin to her lips. “This is but an informal supper.”
“Even so, I recognize how fortunate I am to have the great pleasure to dine with Your Majesty and your current favorite.”
The term “favorite” had long since lost its sting, but Grisha took care to emphasize the word “current.” He doubted his meaning was lost on anyone. Zubov’s pretty lips wrinkled.
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