Head spinning, Veronica looked once more to the back of the room. Michael’s features were serious, but he nodded and then flashed a smile.
Irina made a dash for the podium, sidestepping Dmitry. “Actually, your questions will need to wait. We will reschedule questions for another time. Thank you.”
The questions died, but one of the reporters in the back, a small man with a bowl-shaped haircut and intense expression, approached Veronica. “Do you have a moment now?”
“She does.” Dmitry took one of Veronica’s arms gently and quickly steered her to the door, away from Irina.
“What are you planning to do next? Once the protest is made, are you going to deliver the petition of signatures directly to the Kremlin?” the reporter asked.
Veronica realized she hadn’t thought this out yet. “This is under consideration.”
“I have sources that say the government is considering reversing the decision. This could be a tipping point.”
Veronica heard the clomping of heels. Irina approached, the sides of her neck flushed red. “The tsarina will move along now,” she said, cutting between Veronica and the reporter.
“I only want to answer his question.”
“It’s done,” Irina told the reporter. “Go.” He scuttled off, joining the rest of the hive.
“What is your problem?” Veronica cried.
“You’re making a fool of yourself,” Irina hissed, “and worse yet, you’re making a mockery of the Society and everything we have stood for all these years.”
“This is my prerogative,” Veronica said, louder than she intended.
Irina tapped her hips. “We discussed Reb Volkov. I made my feelings clear.”
“You made your opinion clear,” Veronica said. “But I don’t share your opinion and this is my platform. I get to decide who and what I support.”
“Your actions have implications beyond yourself. Reb Volkov is a homosexual. We need the church to support our cause. To support you. We need parliament.”
“Not at that price,” Veronica said. “And the law the Duma passed is wrong.”
“What you think doesn’t matter,” Irina said. “This is Russia, not California. There is a way of behaving here, a yearning for traditional life. We are not going to legalize marriages between homosexuals or celebrate their lifestyle.”
“You’re going to let thugs ‘liquidate’ gay men and women?”
“We have a certain image to protect and keep sacred.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Veronica saw Michael approach. Irina didn’t respond in her normally flirtatious way but kept her arms crossed in front of her chest as though daring anyone to break her tough exterior.
“That was really exciting,” Michael said, trying to sound cheery. “But I think we’ve given the reporters what they need for now.”
“Agreed.” She glared at Irina. “We can discuss this later.”
“Why bother?” Irina shot back. “You ruined everything. I had great plans. You never would have had to return to another dull office. You would have been in charge of your own fate. You would have been financially secure for life.”
“There is a big difference between financial security and happiness.”
“You know perfectly well you crossed a line here.”
Veronica took a step forward. Irina flinched.
“I’m not backing down,” she said. “Live with it.”
She allowed Michael to take her hand and lead her out of the room. Once they reached the door, he loosened his grip but didn’t let go. “I’m proud of you. Worried, but proud.”
Veronica squeezed his hand reassuringly and then they clasped their fingers together. “I have a voice mail from my abuela to check. Maybe she heard from Laurent.”
“Give her a call,” Michael said. “But first I want to take you out to Palace Square. Something has started out there and I think you should see it.”
* * *
Veronica breathed in the chilly air and trod carefully on damp cobblestones flecked with snow. A mass of people had gathered around the granite Alexander Column, towering high above the Winter Palace and Hermitage and into the slate-gray sky. The crowd looked similar to the hipster protesters in front of Reb’s flat. But there were fifty or sixty of them, brandishing signs and wearing the same shirts with the image of a wolf. Several waved giant rainbow flags back and forth and someone held a picture of the Russian president. In the picture, makeup had been artificially imposed on his face—rouge, lipstick, and mascara—and the word “Tsarina” was printed above him in Cyrillic. One protester banged on drums. Another strummed a balalaika and sang a Free the Wolf anthem.
“Did you know about this?” Michael asked, surveying the crowd.
“I had no idea,” Veronica said, heart thumping. “I bet Reb organized it.”
“His timing is perfect.”
As Michael spoke, the reporters rushed past them, readying their phones to take pictures. “You get it now, right?” she said to Michael.
“I ‘got it’ before,” he told her. “But I was worried. You understand.”
He looked around and then directly at her, his eyes wide and his expression tender. “I’m proud of you. I’m glad I can be part of this.”
“You helped make it happen,” she said. “You helped me. You told me who I was in the first place. You protected me. You did so much for me…” Her voice started to crack, her armor breaking down. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly.
Shock registered. He stared at her for a second. Her heart raced. That kiss had been innocent enough, but perhaps she had misread him.
“It feels right being here,” he said. “Being together.”
She felt the same way. But how to begin? Veronica knew how she wanted to respond but hesitated.
From the farthest corner of Palace Square, a dozen policemen amassed in two lines. They were clad in puffy dark gray jackets with fur-lined collars and the double-headed eagle, the Romanov emblem, embroidered on arm patches. Instead of fur hats, the policemen wore helmets and visors over their faces. They approached the Alexander Column and the protesters.
“Michael…” She nodded her head at the police.
He turned to look and his brow creased. “What are they doing?”
Veronica had a bad feeling she knew the answer. The policeman in front held up a loudspeaker and barked: “Leave the premises immediately.”
A few of the protesters looked at one another. The one who had the drums shook his head and the rest of them nodded in apparent agreement. They dropped to the ground, legs crossed in front of them.
“Free the Wolf,” one of them shouted.
The boy with the drums had taken a space at the head of the protesters. “That’s right,” he proclaimed loudly, waving his pale hands. “Free the Wolf.”
“Leave or you will be forcibly ejected,” the policeman yelled.
The boy let out a large “Nyet.” The others joined in until the sound resonated.
The policeman reached his arm over his shoulder, grabbed a black canister from his belt, and aimed it at the protesters.
Veronica knew what was going to happen. It happened all too often in the United States as well, police, nervous and agitated, pitting themselves against protesters instead of offering protection. Her gut twisted into a knot. The protesters may have been speaking for Reb, but they had gathered in this particular place because of her press conference. This was her fault. She hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt.
She rushed toward them, screaming in Russian: “Please. They aren’t doing anything.”
The policeman with the pepper spray pointed at a boy paused, confused. He looked at her blankly and then at the reporters on the other side of the protesters.
“That’s the new tsarina,” the boy with the drums said. “You will listen to her, won’t you?”
“Tsarina?” the policeman said. “Now she is giving orders?”
“I’m not ordering,” Veronica said, rais
ing her hands. “I’m asking.”
“You are part of this?” The policeman waved dismissively at the protesters.
“Yes,” Veronica said. “Yes, I am.” She braced herself for the chill in the air and then unbuttoned her jacket. She let the policeman see her “Free the Wolf” T-shirt. And then she lowered herself to the ground next to the boy with the drums. It was hard to cross her legs in a skirt, but she did the best she could and felt only a little awkward as she hit the cold, hard ground. The reporters swarmed, holding their phones up to take pictures.
“We have orders.” The policeman looked at the boy with the drums and then raised his visor to scratch his ear. He was young as well; he could have been one of Veronica’s former students, with clear skin and rosy cheeks and an uncertain look in his light blue eyes.
“These are just kids,” she said.
“What did this guy Reb do that was so bad anyway?” the policeman said, backing away.
“Thank you.” She stood upright again, her words met with a round of applause by the protesters. “Thank you.”
“I liked the last painting he showed. The church does have its dick in its hands right now.” The policeman raised his hand and his group retreated. Veronica smiled and walked back to Michael.
Except Michael wasn’t there.
She looked all around the square, hands shaking, a bitter taste clinging to her tongue.
She finally saw him, smaller in the distance, on the opposite side of the massive square.
Veronica pushed her way past the protesters and tried to follow Michael. She lost sight of him but then she saw the policeman’s helmet, bobbing through the crowd, and Michael next to him, hands cuffed.
Her throat felt raw but she shouted his name and kept running. “Wait for me,” she cried.
Michael turned to face her. They tried to tug him along, but he stood firm. His features remained calm, except right in the eyes, where he looked pinched, as though he were about to cry. He saw Veronica and when she opened her mouth to speak, he gave the slightest shake of his head. She moved forward, and he shook his head again. That stopped her in her tracks. She didn’t dare make things worse for him. The policeman tugged on his arm and he allowed himself to be turned around and pulled along. And so she stood, cowardly and insignificant, as they lowered his head into the backseat of an unmarked black car that quickly sped away.
Fifteen
POTEMKIN’S PALACE
APRIL 1791
Grisha leaned against one of the Grecian columns painted a blinding white, braving the sudden rain shower so he might greet Catherine as soon as she arrived. His heart raced, but then again that may merely have been a side effect of the laudanum Anton had procured from the apothecary. It had a most pleasurable effect on his mood, even more so than the stronger opiates he had sampled abroad.
Guests already stampeded through the wide hall behind him, invited to partake of his largesse per tradition. They roved the palace in packs, laughing and dancing to orchestral music, some in formal dress and others in colorful imitations of Venetian carnival masques or hastily assembled cloaks and hats. Servants heaped delicacies on fine china platters: oysters, sturgeon, caviar, citrus fruits, fresh figs, rice flavored with ginger, roasted legs of lamb, and delightful French pastries, all accompanied by copious amounts of wine made from grapes cultivated in Crimean vineyards. He had not been able to procure the maize he had heard of from the New World, but so be it. When he glanced behind him, he caught someone thrusting a mutton drumstick into his pocket, along with a handful of sweets. Someone’s family would eat well tonight.
Servants liveried in blue, yellow, and silver surrounded Grisha, candelabras in hand, ready to light a path for the empress. The boy he had caught reading the Marquis de Sade in the library, Oleg, stood among them, rigid in the unfamiliar uniform. As atonement, Grisha had assigned Oleg a special task. Rather than a candelabra, the boy held Grisha’s enormous, jewel-encrusted hat and his shoulders sagged under the weight of it. If Grisha had placed the heavy ornament on his head, the damned thing might have killed him.
“Well done!” Anton cheeped as he saw the other boy. Anton wore his own blue and yellow uniform, complete with a special sash and a fresh pair of boots for the occasion.
Oleg scowled at Anton and then at the guests stuffing food in their pockets. “Do you want me to say something to the rabble, Your Highness?”
Grisha took another sip from his gold-plated mug. He preferred simple fare this evening, a light cabbage soup, similar to that he’d had when he fell ill as a boy. It kept his mind and stomach somewhat settled. “Let them be. This is part of the fun. Besides, if you leave, who will hold my hat?”
Oleg attempted to stand straighter but mumbled something under his breath. Grisha decided to let it pass, but Anton shouted, “Show some respect!”
At the sound of the boys fussing at one another, Grisha’s head began to throb. Catherine’s carriage arrived not a moment too soon, drawn by ten horses in feathered harnesses lined with tinkling bells. Gilded leaves and cherubs ornamented the windows and a double-headed eagle insignia was embossed on the door. A bead of perspiration trickled into Grisha’s good eye, clouding his vision. He patted his forehead with a fresh linen infused with lavender. He couldn’t let Catherine see he was still ill. She might call a halt to this whole affair and have her guards escort him to some quack.
“And if you say anything further,” Anton was telling Oleg, “we’ll have words.”
“Don’t you have a show to manage?” Grisha told Anton. It wouldn’t do to have him scuffle with the other boy in front of Catherine. Besides, he didn’t want his expensive hat to get soiled with mud. “I will see you inside later.”
As Anton scurried off, Catherine stepped down onto a velvet footstool, dressed in a rich amethyst brocade gown that fit snugly around her chest and opened into a wide circle at the bottom. The long sleeves gaped open in a triangular cut at the wrist, making her already tiny hands seem even smaller. Her white hair was gathered under a high kokoshnik covered with precious stones that winked in the blazing candlelight. She had gone a bit heavy with the rouge, but she held her chin high and moved quickly, gracefully holding her dress off her ankles to navigate puddles. Laughing gaily with her crowd of courtiers, she seemed as energetic as a woman half her age. He hadn’t seen her so magnificent since her coronation.
“Prince! How fine and bright your palace looks tonight! I knew I had not made a mistake gifting it to you, despite what my stingiest advisers would have me believe.”
Grisha adjusted one of the gold buttons on his red coat and patted his chest to ensure his medallion with her portrait hung straight. The uniform fit tightly around his wide stomach, but he knew she would be pleased with the effect, the diamonds and medals emblazoned across his chest. He took one last swig of the sour cabbage soup, chewed on a sprig of mint, and then thrust the mug at a nearby page. The boy had a difficult time balancing his candelabra and the mug but found a way to manage both.
Grisha strode forward and swept low before Catherine, heart dropping to his stomach.
“Rise, Prince,” she said pleasantly, motioning to the grand entranceway and the main hall of the palace behind him.
He worked himself upright, adrenaline and laudanum pulsing through his system. He had worn one of his fur-lined silk robes for the better part of the week as he fussed around the palace, making sure the last preparations were in order, and his breeches felt tight. He took her hand as she shooed her courtiers away.
Grisha turned his head quickly to the right and left. He waited for his men to form a path for the empress with their candelabras. “So I will not have the pleasure of Platon Alexandrovich’s company this evening?”
Catherine squinted to see ahead of her. “I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of a squabble.”
“Squabble?” Grisha said.
“A trifle. I thought it best if we traveled separately this evening so as not to wear on one another’s last nerve. But never fear.�
�� She eyed Grisha playfully. “He will be here later. He said he would not miss it for all the world.”
“As long as he understands his monkey is not welcome.” Grisha pressed her hand, now determined to find Anton and have him ask questions among Catherine’s entourage. Once they had imbibed, their tongues might loosen and he could learn the true state of affairs between Catherine and Zubov. “I spent my last ruble on our entertainments for this evening,” he added. “How would I manage the cleaning bill?”
Catherine laughed and patted Grisha’s arm. “There he is! There’s the prince I know. And you do look better than when I saw you last.”
The high voices of the chorale Grisha had summoned sang for Catherine as she entered the main hall. Guests still milled about, piling their plates high with food, but paused, recognizing the empress. How could they not when she was dressed so extraordinarily? Despite all the effort he had put into security for the evening, the eyes he had charged with watching from all corners of the palace, Grisha’s fists clenched. Any of the guests might have held a grudge against the empress. Any one of them might have held the assassin’s knife. He thought of Zubov’s comment, so casual and yet so calculated to strike fear in his heart. Perhaps Zubov was right. Perhaps Grisha was a man of the old world and ill-prepared for the new.
But he saw no signs of discontent this evening, only loyal subjects falling to their knees and murmuring “matushka.”
“Tonight is for celebration. Please.” Catherine gestured toward the roasted meats and pastries arranged on tiered china platters, long sleeves billowing. “Prince Potemkin has been most generous.”
“Mother,” a high voice brayed from the other side of the hallway. “I wasn’t sure if you would make it this evening. Weren’t you expected nearly an hour ago?”
As they passed a blazing rendition of Catherine’s insignia on a thick tapestry, Catherine tightened her grip on his hand. Grand Duke Paul lingered near one of the organs, where a nervous musician attempted to play an original tune in honor of the empress. Paul had insisted on dressing in one of his Prussian military uniforms, a gaudy sash strapped around a chest already gleaming with medals. At least his pale wife had kept to the tone of the festivities. She was dressed in a modest white gown and diadem like the Snow Maiden from the fairy tale.
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