The woman behind the counter, suit trim and scarf crisp, smiled. “Safe travels…”
Her voice faded and she hesitated, looking closely at Veronica. She tried to return the smile but only bit her lip, expecting a flood of questions. Aren’t you the tsarina? What happened? Why are you leaving?
But if the ticket agent behind the counter recognized Veronica or had any questions, she kept that to herself. She said nothing more.
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out,” Irina said briskly, checking the gate information. “But really I wish Americans would learn they are not the policemen of the world.”
Once she was satisfied with the information on the boarding passes, she placed them in her purse, saying, “I’ll just hold on to these for now.” She began to remove her coat and Veronica’s shoulders tensed. She had hoped Irina would leave once they had their tickets. If she was taking her coat off, she intended to stick with them longer.
While her purse was open, Irina’s phone pinged with a text alert. Her lips curled as she looked down to read the text. Veronica pretended to check her own phone, all the while listening intently for Irina’s reaction.
“That boy has been given the greatest opportunity in the world,” she heard Irina mutter, “and still he manages to get himself in trouble.”
Veronica looked up, trying to keep her features neutral. “Trouble?” she asked innocently.
“What happened?” Michael asked.
“Something about gambling,” Irina said. “Something about Sasha and a fight … a broken jaw? Someone must have gotten him drunk. Perhaps I should have kept a closer eye on him. I suppose some of his Russian friends might be inclined to take advantage of his situation.”
“How so?” Michael asked, facing Irina but casting a curious glance in Veronica’s direction.
Irina shook her head. “I don’t know exactly, but Sasha has been arrested. He’s in a temporary holding cell.”
“Does anyone else see the irony here?” Veronica asked.
“I fail to see any humor in this situation,” Irina snapped.
“You have connections in the prison system, right?” Veronica said, trying not to sound too eager for Irina to be gone. “You can get him out.”
Irina lowered her gaze and adjusted the diamond tennis bracelet on her slim wrist. “I do think at some point that boy needs to grow up and take care of himself.”
“You wouldn’t want any bad publicity before you announce he’s tsar,” Veronica said.
“Perhaps it’s time he learned a lesson. He can’t always rely on me to save him.”
“So you’ll leave him in jail?” Michael asked.
“A few hours in a jail cell? Over some nonsense at a card table and a brawl with idiots?” Irina flashed Michael one of her arrogant smiles. “That will do nothing but bolster his claim, make him stronger in the eyes of the public, more of a man. You see, he has Russian blood. He can handle this.”
“I have Russian blood too.” Michael bowed his head but then cocked it slightly to gauge Irina’s reaction. “I still got a black eye. I wouldn’t wish time in a Russian jail cell on anyone.”
Irina appraised the damage on Michael’s face. The corners of her lips tugged down, but the tone of her voice remained defiant. “No true Russian would see a black eye as anything other than a badge of honor.”
Veronica rolled her dry tongue over the roof of her mouth. “I don’t care how long Irina lived in America,” Anya had told Veronica last night. “Deep down she is still a Russian mama. They spoil their boys rotten. She’ll act like a Russian mama if she thinks her boy is in any sort of trouble.”
“Perhaps.” Michael’s hand moved subtly toward the bruising around his eye. “But you never know what else can happen.”
Irina’s phone chimed once more and she checked the next message. Then she frowned and dropped her phone into her purse. “I must go. Sasha needs me. I only wish we could have seen eye to eye on things.” Reluctantly, she removed the boarding passes and handed them to Veronica. “I hope you have a safe trip back. No hard feelings.” She extended her hand primly in Veronica’s direction.
“Right,” Veronica muttered. She accepted the boarding passes but then drew her hands to her sides. She didn’t want to seem too anxious for Irina to go, only bitter and resigned. But she was not going to shake that woman’s hand.
Irina pressed her lips together and pulled her purse closer to her side. Then she turned her back to Veronica and walked away, heels clacking.
It seemed to take Irina forever to get out of their line of vision. And even then Veronica waited, heart pumping rapidly. She wanted Irina out of the airport before they made their move.
Finally she felt a light tap on her back.
“It’s okay,” Dmitry told her. “I watch her get in taxi. We can go now.”
“Thanks for coming.” Veronica gave Dmitry a quick hug and then took Michael’s hand again. “Change of plans. We’re not going directly back to the United States. I hope that’s okay.”
Michael looked too tired to fight, even were he so inclined. “Where are we going?”
“Instead of boarding the connecting flight, you will stay in Moscow,” Dmitry told him. “For a little while. I am to make sure you make this flight. Anya will see to new tickets and that you board next flight safely.”
“Why are we going to Moscow?” Michael asked.
“A quick event for tsarina before you leave for California.”
Michael shook his head. “Why are you still calling her that?”
Veronica smiled at Dmitry. “Force of habit?”
“I meant grand duchess,” Dmitry replied. “Right title for daughter of tsar.”
“And while we’re there,” Veronica told Michael, “we can watch the new tsar on TV.”
“I met him back in Irina’s office, remember?” Michael said. “That kid who thinks French is Russian. I don’t want to watch him on TV. And you’re not his daughter…” Michael’s voice trailed off and then he quietly added, “… you’re Laurent Marchand’s daughter.”
“Sasha found out what Irina did to you,” Veronica said. “He’s helping us. He’s distracting her.”
Michael rubbed his forehead. “So Laurent? Your father is calling himself the new tsar now?”
“We are calling him this as well,” Dmitry said. “He is the true heir.”
Veronica gave a quick nod. “I met with him yesterday. I asked him to do this.”
“Are you all right?” Michael touched her arm.
“Actually we have more in common than I expected.” Veronica reached down to unzip the side pocket of her carry-on bag. She withdrew her red binder and flipped it open to the letter from Prince Potemkin, still carefully tucked in the plastic sheeting for protection. “And I’ve been dying to show this to you. I found this the other night. It was hidden in the sketch of the mosque.”
Michael bent closer to see the signature. “Potemkin!” He looked at Dmitry. “Your man.”
Dmitry shrugged but looked a bit smug. “It is as though he speaks to grand duchess.”
“It’s true. The letter inspired me,” Veronica said.
“And you just took it from Irina’s office?”
“Is not her office,” Dmitry told him. “I already tell grand duchess to make sure letter gets to an archive in the United States. It is what Grisha would want.”
“I only wish I knew what this meant.” Veronica pointed to the arabesque symbols on the bottom of the page.
“What is that?” Michael asked.
Dmitry leaned in to take a look. And then he started to laugh. “Oh yes! I remember from last night. The mysterious secret code. This is what inspires you?”
“Well … yes … the letter.”
“I found information last night. You are right. Secret language between Grisha and the empress, but it was…” He flashed a smile. “Sexual in nature.”
“Oh!” Without thinking, Veronica shut the binder hard. Michael chuckled.
/> “This is all right,” Dmitry said. “Grisha inspired you to act. That is important.”
“You think he would be proud of us?” Veronica asked.
“I do,” Dmitry said.
“What are you going to do now?” Veronica said. “Wait for news on Reb obviously. But after that?”
Dmitry held her gaze. “I think I want Grisha to feel proud of me as well,” he said. “And I think even without tsarina at side there is still much I can do here. I will … come out.”
“To the public?” Michael said.
Dmitry nodded. “Is only way. Too many people are getting hurt. They need to see who is being hurt. They need to see us.”
Veronica’s pulse quickened. She wanted to tell him not to do it. He would get hurt. He could get lynched. He was putting himself in danger and she wanted to protect him. But she also knew he was right. Russians were allowing laws to get passed that hurt people: Dmitry, Reb, the grandson of the floor attendant back at the hotel. If no one spoke out, the suffering remained abstract. As long as it remained abstract, it would continue.
“Let me know how it goes,” she told him.
“I will.” He glanced back at one of the displays with the flight information. “You two go now. Safe travels, Grand Duchess.”
She smiled and stepped back so Michael could shake his hand. As they grabbed their luggage and moved toward the security gates, she turned around. Dmitry was still smiling, but the corners of his lips were twitching and his gaze had darkened.
* * *
The bar seemed more of a quiet hangout for locals than a place for Moscow’s elite to see and be seen. Of course, they were far from the city’s center and had arrived in the early evening. The place smelled of cheap beer dried on thin wood. Only a few lone drinkers slumped over the counter, looking over their shoulders to take disinterested stock of Veronica and Michael. The bartender kept busy cleaning a lipstick smudge from a wineglass.
Veronica spotted a television propped behind glittering stacks of bottles and figured it would do as well as any. She found a stool while Michael tapped the bartender’s back. At first he didn’t look thrilled at the interruption. And then he saw Michael’s face.
“You look like you had a rough day,” he told Michael gruffly, staring at the damaged eye. He found a remote control under the cash register and handed it over.
The first shot was the foyer of the Hermitage Theater: an empty podium with the Russian flag draped over it flanked by two decorative pine trees. Veronica began to play with one of the napkins the bartender had placed in front of her. She was still thinking of the look on Dmitry’s face when they left him at the airport. What happened next could help determine his future.
Camera lights began to flash on-screen.
“There he is,” Veronica said, pointing to the television.
Slowly, Laurent approached the same podium Veronica had stood behind two days earlier, handsome and dignified in his dapper three-piece suit and carrying his cane, the Romanov ribbon affixed to his lapel.
A Cyrillic caption read: “Breaking News: True Romanov Heir Laurent Marchand emerges from seclusion.”
Veronica watched, transfixed, as the camera zoomed in on his face. In the closer shots, his features seemed more vulnerable, his physical frailty more apparent, and for a moment Veronica thought he might need a chair. Laurent cleared his throat and began to address the crowd in elegant French, his native tongue, as a Russian woman translated for him:
“I am here today because my daughter, Veronica Herrera, for personal reasons, has relinquished her own claim to the Romanov throne. I was disappointed to hear this. However, in light of this news, it only makes sense for me to take her place. My name is Laurent Marchand. My mother, Grand Duchess Charlotte, was the secret fifth daughter of Tsar Nicholas II.”
Laurent hesitated and shuffled the note cards in front of him. He reached into the front pocket of his jacket and retrieved a pair of reading glasses. It took him a minute to adjust them. In that moment, as the camera lingered, the soft features of Nicholas and Alexandra became increasingly apparent in his expression. Laurent’s face gave some clues as to how they might have appeared if they had lived to reach old age themselves.
“First and foremost, I wish to make it clear that I will pursue the same political agenda as my daughter. I understand Reb Volkov will be sent to prison in Siberia tomorrow. This is unacceptable. This type of oppression has no place in our new Russia.”
Again, Laurent paused. Slowly, he began to unbutton his blazer. Flashbulbs went off all around him. Laurent looked so delicate it made Veronica’s heart ache. She wished she could have been there to take his hand and help him.
But he managed well enough. He looked up at the camera, pale but with a vibrant grin playing on his thin lips. Underneath his jacket, he wore Reb’s T-shirt. Free the Wolf.
“If Reb Volkov is not released by this evening, the boycott of Russian vodka will commence, as my daughter alluded to in her press conference. The Romanov family does not support the current direction of the Russian government on social issues. The Romanov family does not believe the Orthodox Church or any other religious institution should condone the persecution of any group as the Russian government supports persecution of those in the LGBT community. This is the modern House of Romanov. And this is what we believe. I will now take questions.”
As Laurent removed his reading glasses, reporters shouted question after question, so many Veronica couldn’t make sense of them. Veronica half-expected Irina to materialize and insist that Laurent was just a crazy old man. But when the camera panned the room, Irina was nowhere to be found.
Michael put his hand on Veronica’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “Beautiful,” he said. “No one can question Laurent’s right to speak for the Romanov family.”
“I hope it works.”
“I think it will. But I wonder what will happen to that boy Sasha?”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Handsome men usually are, she thought. “Anya texted me. Apparently, once Irina found out about Laurent, she threw a fit and threatened to leave Russia for good.” Veronica doubted anyone thought that was a bad thing, even her own stepson. No matter what Irina had offered him, Sasha understood it was not worth it.
On-screen, Laurent pointed to a reporter, smooth as a White House press secretary. He should have done this years ago. She smiled at him. Maybe he couldn’t actually return the smile, but she thought he could sense it somehow. She had never in her life felt proud of her father. She’d never even had a father. The sensation was strange, and the resentment still lingered, but she hoped it might fade over time.
“He is the true tsar,” Veronica said.
“Laurent just picked up where you left off.”
“I’m still proud of him,” she said.
“What are you going to do when you return to California?” Michael asked.
Veronica shredded the napkin in her hands. “Beg for my old job back?”
He dipped his head. “Cubicle wasteland?”
“That’s the one.”
Michael took her hand and turned it over in his, pressing his lips softly against her index finger. Veronica touched his chin. The usual doubts still raced through her head. He would hurt her, or worse yet, she would hurt him. But when he bent closer to her, looking so vulnerable, the doubt evaporated. She brushed her lips on his, parting them gently, and she was lost, drowning, never wanting to leave, wondering why she had ever left, why she had ever abandoned this when it felt so right. This was where she belonged.
At least for a moment. And then she grew aware of the bartender’s disapproving gaze. Reluctantly, she pulled back, heart still racing.
“I think you should move back to Los Angeles,” he told her as she caught her breath. “And not just for me…”
He ran his hand back through his hair and scratched his head. She laughed softly. “It’s okay,” she told him. “Go on. I like what you’re saying so far.”
�
�You belong there,” he continued, smiling shyly. “The fact that I’m nearby works out well. At least for me.” He scratched his head again. “I mean, I hope you feel the same way.”
Veronica nodded, also feeling shy. “I agree.”
“Losing tenure isn’t the end of the world. Make the life you want.”
“I can still write. I always wanted to finish my biography of Alexandra … and maybe it would be fun to do more research on Prince Potemkin.”
“You deserve a meaningful life, Grand Duchess,” Michael said. “Don’t settle for anything less.”
* * *
The groundbreaking ceremony took place near one of the outer ring boulevards, far from the Kremlin towers and the luxury apartments of the new oligarchs, in a clearing once repurposed for a frumpy Soviet-era bureaucratic building. It was being repurposed once more … and none too soon as far as Veronica was concerned. The world could certainly live with one less dull office complex.
They were far enough from the center of Moscow to be away from the worst of the pollution, and the sun was shining despite the bitter cold. Veronica drew in the woodland scent of the park, feeling revived. She thought the site looked pretty, an open square dusted with white snow. The square was surrounded on all sides by official buildings with classical Greek pillars, interspersed with neat rows of renovated apartment blocks. Grigory Potemkin would have been pleased.
When she spotted them, Anya squealed and ran past the men gathered for the ceremony. She hugged Veronica and then nodded happily at Michael. “Welcome. Welcome to Moscow. The true heart of Russia.” She wore a floral hijab and a new pair of glasses with rosy frames that matched her lipstick. She steered them to a cleric in a white hat and the businessmen Veronica had seen in the hotel back in St. Petersburg when Michael was first released. They had agreed to work with the Islamic community to help secure support for Laurent Marchand’s leadership of the House of Romanov. Veronica hoped it was a step in the direction of unity that encompassed different faiths and different ways of life.
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