The Tsarina's Legacy

by Jennifer Laam

  Grisha let the jewels sift through his fingers and back into the dish with a clatter. “If the empress wishes to tell you she will. I am at her command.”

  “If it is true, why not press a claim to the throne?” Zubov spoke so slowly, so carefully, it grated on Grisha’s skin. “The empress has made her share of enemies. If you are the legal consort, it would be easy enough for you to gain favor. You might have ascended to power.”

  “I do not wish it.”

  “All men do. You styled yourself an emperor in the south. Even this so-called casual dress you wear … that Oriental robe and outlandish scarf. You look the pasha. All you need is a turban and a few more diamond rings to complete the masquerade.”

  “I am no emperor. I am a servant under the empress’s command.”

  “It’s not as though you lack ambition. You and I share that distinction from Catherine’s other favorites.” He leaned in close with a smug smile, voice lazy and measured. “Reconsider our previous conversation. We would make a powerful team were we to work together rather than indulging in these petty squabbles. Perhaps we might view your mosque as the first of many fruitful collaborations.”

  “You don’t know me as well as you presume,” Grisha said. “Ambition is a fleeting pleasure and I treat it as such. I nearly pursued a life in the service of God. Perhaps I still might.”

  “That is merely a different type of ambition. Now speak freely. Why have you left the throne to her alone when it might have been yours as well?”

  “The truth? I loved Catherine. The throne is everything to her. Why would I try to take it? Why would I betray her that way? What does it all matter in the end?”

  “Do you love her still?”

  Grisha remembered Catherine’s soft hand on his shoulder, the scent of her perfume. She was older now, but still beautiful as a sunset. When he had loved Catherine there were no dark days. Perhaps it was that memory he loved, and yet he saw no point in hiding this part of himself from Zubov. In truth, he wanted to see the boy squirm with jealousy. “Yes.”

  “And so you must hate me.”

  “I do not hate you. But Catherine’s life, her command, and her legacy are all I have left in this world. Otherwise I merely linger uselessly in this life until God calls me to the next. You will understand when you are older.”

  “And you hold a special place in her heart even now,” Zubov said.

  The words pleased him, but Grisha merely shrugged.

  “It is the truth. I should be a fool not to see it. I think you might destroy the empire and she would only say Prince Potemkin set the stage for the next incarnation of Rome. I could tie you to every woman in the capital and she would only praise your prowess.”

  Zubov must have sent Praskovia. But it would take far more to turn Catherine against him. Their relationship had moved past the shallow jealousies that plagued its infancy. Then again, that all might have been part of an elaborate act, her masquerade as all-powerful empress. Who could rise above such jealousy?

  But Catherine had been born to play that role. The masquerade was her true self.

  “Why won’t you see me as a friend? What do you think I will do?” Zubov said. “Why must you stand so steadfastly against me?”

  “I believe you are in league with Grand Duke Paul to undermine the empress’s power. If I’m right, end it. End it all now. He is not worth your time. Only Catherine is worth your time. She is a great empress who has made history. He is a pimple. Hundreds of years from now people will speak her name with reverence and they will laugh at his, the same way they laugh now at his pathetic father.”

  “Why tell me all this, Prince? Is this part of an even grander plan? Perhaps you’re not content to be emperor of the south alone. Are you looking for a crown in Poland?”

  Grisha turned so that Zubov could see his face full on, even his dead eye. He remembered Praskovia in the instant before she registered his presence in the room, perusing the tracts. He had made plans to seek refuge and title in Poland in the event Catherine should perish before him without naming Alexander as her successor. He knew there would be no place for him in Russia under a Tsar Paul. “I look to preserve the empire and Catherine’s legacy. That is all.”

  “Then why not support her in confronting those English fools? She could redirect troops from the south. Surely we do not need so many there anymore. We’ll withdraw and let them run matters on their own. Aren’t you supposed to negotiate peace with the barbarians? Hasn’t the empress ordered you to return to your true place in the south?”

  “The English will back down. We should wait it out and let them. A war on multiple fronts will destroy the Russian military.”

  “Grand Duke Paul supports war.”

  “The grand duke is a fool.”

  “I’ve seen his plans and they are well thought out. He’s always had a special passion for military maneuvers. I don’t think he’s the fool you take him to be.”

  “That’s because you never knew his father.”

  Zubov snorted. “Of course! Poor befuddled Tsar Peter III. Catherine’s late and not lamented first husband. No, I did not have the pleasure. Died of hemorrhoids, did he? I suppose the Orlov brothers just happened to be in the same room when the attack struck.”

  Grisha willed himself not to chew on his fingernails. It was an open secret that the Orlovs murdered Peter and the story of hemorrhoidal colic had been an inelegant cover at best. Now Paul thought he could conjure his father’s murdered ghost, as if he were some sort of modern-day Hamlet. And Zubov no doubt took tea with the grand duke and listened to his sob stories, lips twisted into phony concern.

  “I’m not old enough to have known Paul’s father, unlike…” Zubov pointed his hand in Grisha’s direction. “But I do not think the two are anything alike at all. I understand the man was a petty and cruel sort of creature, no matter how Paul might sanctify his memory. No, I am no fan of the late tsar. Yet I think Paul is his mother’s son, not his father’s.”

  Grisha stumbled to his feet. “You wouldn’t dare put Paul’s priorities before those of the empress.”

  “Really, Prince.” Zubov bowed his head. “Surely even the Asiatics you adore so much would feel some shame in the presence of other men.”

  His robe had fallen open, revealing his hairy chest, his bloated stomach, and parts farther south. He gathered it around his belly once more and adjusted the sash.

  “You still insist on holding this ball in honor of yourself?” Zubov asked.

  “Not in honor of myself. In honor of the empress’s military triumphs.”

  Zubov rose to his feet. “I take it you will secure the empress’s safety. Who knows what fellow, sick in mind, might take it upon himself to jump out of some shadowy corner and try to stick a knife in the empress over some drivel.”

  The image left Grisha so horrified that for a long moment he could not respond. “Every precaution will be taken.”

  “It is only that you are so clearly a man of another time, and I am a man of this age. I wonder sometimes if you consider the dangers that lurk in this new world. Honor is no longer in fashion.”

  “I will not jeopardize the safety of the empress.”

  Zubov nodded. “Consider coming aboard with us. We should make our own triple alliance, you, Paul, and me.”

  “You no longer consider such an alliance treason?”

  Zubov twirled his walking stick, making it spin like a top on the floor. “I see now that the empress needs us united.”

  “The empress needs to avoid another war,” Grisha said. “And take care around her son. He is more dangerous than you think, even if he is a fool.”

  “Every fool has his day. But then that day ends soon enough, I suppose.” Zubov gestured in Grisha’s direction. “I came here to see if you were indeed the empress’s true husband or if that was merely another trick. I see now that it matters not one whit. You are ill and weak enough to sleep with a silly girl if she looks at you with big eyes. I was wrong to fear you mi
ght have some hold on the empress. She has affection yet but sees you only as an old friend with a damaged ego in need of her attention.”

  Grisha tried to straighten his back, but even as he did the weight of the boy’s words sat heavy on his chest, paralyzing him. As Zubov took his leave, Grisha glanced back longingly at the quilt on his bed, wishing to sink back down under the covers once more.

  He heard the patter of feet and Anton appeared at the door. “If he had not left of his own volition I would have escorted him to the door on his arse, Your Highness.”

  Grisha laughed, but ended up coughing. Anton frowned.

  “I need paper,” he said between hacks. “And a fresh pot of ink.”

  “If it’s a letter you need, I can write that for you,” Anton said. “My handwriting now mirrors your own.”

  “This one must be written by my own hand,” Grisha said, glancing at the arabesques on the quilt. “It is to be in a code of my own devising and I will deliver it personally to the empress.”

  Twelve

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  PRESS CONFERENCE SCHEDULED FOR ROMANOV HEIRESS

  ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

  Dmitry Potemkin, spokesman for the Russian Monarchist Society, is delighted to confirm that Dr. Veronica Herrera will speak with reporters later this week to make an official statement regarding her ceremonial title and her role in Russian culture and politics.

  ST. PETERSBURG

  PRESENT DAY

  Veronica punched her pillow and told herself she was being paranoid. The picture the reporter had taken of her with Dmitry Potemkin wouldn’t make the papers. And if it did, why should she care? A surprisingly calm voice in her head whispered, You don’t want Michael to see it. You don’t want him to think you’re getting too close to Dmitry.

  Should she tell Michael what happened? Risk hurting him needlessly? She may not have kissed Dmitry but they had shared an intimate moment that could easily be misconstrued. Or maybe it didn’t matter; perhaps it was too late anyway. Maybe she had blown it at the airport when she told Michael they weren’t getting back together. She thought she had meant it. But if it was true, then why was she so restless now, so worried about what Michael might think?

  Giving up on sleep, she reached for her phone, texting Dmitry:

  I’M GOING TO GET BREAKFAST ON MY OWN TODAY. AND THEN HEAD OVER TO SEE REB. I PROMISE I’LL GET TO ANYA EXACTLY WHEN I’M SUPPOSED TO MEET HER.

  And then, before she could change her mind, she texted Michael.

  WILL YOU MEET ME AT THE HOTEL AT 8 A.M.? LET’S TALK.

  To her surprise, he wrote back immediately:

  I WANTED TO TALK TO YOU LAST NIGHT. I WANT TO HEAR ALL ABOUT THE RECEPTION.

  She replied:

  I KNOW. I WAS OUT LATER THAN I EXPECTED.

  For ten minutes, he didn’t respond. Veronica knew it was ten minutes because she stared at the faded red digital numbers on the cheap alarm clock facing her bed, which blinked three a.m., and then slowly counted out the minutes past three. A wedding party had gathered at a restaurant across the street from her side of the hotel and she heard them pouring out of the banquet hall, loud drunken voices over rushing gusts of wind and the blare of a car alarm.

  Finally, she heard the ping of a text and grabbed her phone.

  SURE. SEE YOU IN A FEW HOURS.

  Veronica rose from bed, got dressed, and then paced for a short while before turning on the television. Someone on the other side of the wall banged furiously. She turned the volume down, missing home and Abuela’s little couch, missing Abuela’s hugs. She reached for her phone and earbuds and found her new-wave playlist. As the music played, her mind still raced, but at least she could lose herself in the lyrics.

  At a quarter to eight, exhausted and loopy, Veronica headed to the elevator and pressed the down button. She gave a friendly nod to the floor attendant, glad when the doors sealed her inside, even if it still felt like a cage. She needed a few moments to gather her thoughts.

  When she stepped into the crowded lobby, she spotted Michael at once. He was in the front of the dining room reading a newspaper and frowning. Behind Michael, service people in white hats loaded platters of steaming food into the silver trays of the breakfast buffet. It smelled delicious, but she had no appetite.

  As she passed the front desk, a man checking in caught her eye. He wore all black and had a shaved head with a tattoo of an eight-pointed star on the back of his neck. He looked her up and down as though he recognized her. Dipping his head, he addressed her in a voice hoarse with old smoke. “You are on our side after all, little brown one.”

  Veronica’s head shot up, but the man was now talking to a woman behind the counter.

  She looked to see if Michael had noticed. He had one tense eye on her, but once the man moved away from Veronica, he returned to the paper. Any number of intriguing items could have been in that newspaper and Michael was a curious guy. Even so, a seeping sense of dread accompanied her every step.

  She approached, heart galloping, and waved, but he didn’t acknowledge her until she was right on top of him. Without even a hello, he opened the paper and held the page up to her eye level.

  Veronica knew how weak the words sounded, how trite, and yet she could not stop herself: “It’s not what you think.”

  “And what exactly do I think?” He spoke in the same droll tone she liked, but with a hard edge she hadn’t heard before.

  Two pictures. Michael’s hand blocked one of them. She was in the picture she could see, forcing a smile next to the man who had asked for a selfie with her at the reception last night.

  “I don’t understand,” Veronica said. “Why would anyone care about that picture?”

  “You don’t recognize him?”

  Veronica shook her head. “He looked artsy. He was one of the Hermitage curators, wasn’t he?”

  Michael lowered his voice. “Vasily Turgekov. Does that name ring a bell? Haven’t you seen any of his movies?”

  That’s why he sounded familiar. Veronica remembered an animated movie she’d watched in one of her Russian language classes in graduate school. Vasily Turgekov had played a sassy turtle. And then just as quickly an alarm went off in her head. “Oh!”

  Vasily Turgekov was a self-described Russian nationalist, monarchist, and Slavophile, a devout Orthodox Christian, and a close friend of the Russian president. He had also recently told a journal in Moscow that all gay men should be “liquidated.” The Moscow Review—Anya’s newspaper.

  “I didn’t know,” she said, horrified, shaking her head. “I didn’t know.”

  “Veronica, now I’m afraid,” he said. “Really afraid. I saw that thug in line. Now he thinks you’re a homophobe. How will people like him react when you support Reb Volkov?”

  “I’ll be fine. It’ll all be okay.” Veronica wished she actually believed it.

  “And what about this?” Michael moved his hand so she could see the other picture.

  Veronica snatched the paper. Dmitry Potemkin’s head was inclined toward hers. Veronica’s eyes were closed and she had a serene smile on her face, as though she were waiting for her lover to give her a kiss.

  She surveyed the article and got the gist quickly enough. The woman who said she was the Romanov heiress. Russia’s newest celebrity playgirl. A helpful adviser named Potemkin. No doubt she had taken him as a lover, emulating her famous ancestor Catherine the Great.

  She heard herself say again: “It’s not what you think.”

  “Veronica, don’t try to spare my feelings or anything pathetic like that,” Michael said. “I need to know what’s going on. I deserve to know. Don’t lie, and I won’t be upset.”

  Don’t lie. Ah, the irony. He had lied. Everyone lied, didn’t they? Massaging the truth was a self-protective instinct, one she should cultivate more.

  “You’re not the only one who was hurt in the past,” he said. “You got screwed over by your fiancé. I got screwed over by my ex-wife. I know what you told me
at the airport … that I shouldn’t expect we would get back together … but I thought we were growing close again, that we were working past everything. I thought because we had both been hurt in the past, and understood each other’s anger, maybe … maybe we were meant to be together.”

  She thought he would dip his head the way he used to do, so that he was looking up at her. Instead he took a step back, lips pressed in a tight line.

  “But maybe it doesn’t work that way. Maybe both of us are too broken.” He ran his hand back through his hair and scratched his head. “Did you kiss him?”

  At that moment, as far as Veronica was concerned, it didn’t matter whether she had kissed Dmitry Potemkin or not. She had been attracted to him. Michael must have sensed this as well. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been reacting so strongly. Guilt clouded her thoughts and she was tempted to confess. But a self-protective instinct still winked faintly inside of her. “No.”

  “You look as though you were thinking about it.”

  Her first impulse was to tell him fine. To hell with him. Who needed him anyway? But she knew she would regret it later and she was tired of living with regrets. “I’m not interested in Dmitry. Do you know what we were talking about when that photo was taken? You. Michael, it always comes back to you. Don’t you understand that by now?”

  Michael’s features softened momentarily before returning to stone, his emotional walls as carefully guarded as hers. Her heart sank.

  “Even if that is the case, you’ve compromised your position,” he told her slowly. “The Society is ready to accept you and your claim. But this makes it look suspicious, like Dmitry might have a special interest in you and pushed you forward because of your relationship.”

  “I told you! There is no relationship! Who would even care about this picture?”

  Michael nodded his chin. Slowly, Veronica took stock of the lobby. No one was touching her, yet she felt violated all the same. The American men she had seen at breakfast earlier in the week held copies of the newspaper, and they were all looking intently at the paper and then at her. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm. “I didn’t say it wouldn’t attract interest, only that it won’t matter.”