***
Days turn into weeks, and I haven’t left the seclusion of my room. Watching through my window as Rina’s body is sent back to her family for burial, I realize numbness has set into my very bones. I’m tired. Tired of losing people I love. Tired of being in pain. But mostly, I’m tired of putting on a brave face. And despite the constant bustle of maids and ladies, of guests and guards, I can’t help feeling very, very alone.
I lie in bed, watching dawn break and then dusk fall outside my window, losing myself in book after book, until finally, one night, I hear my outer door creak open. Sitting up, I expect one of my maids to come to tell me the empress has finally passed, or for Peter to stumble in drunk and angry about something or other. There is a light tap on the door to my private chamber instead.
“It’s me. May I come in?” a masculine voice calls out.
I should not let this happen. I realize it even as I’m speaking, but there’s no reason left in me. I’m clinging to the last shreds of myself, every new wound forming permanent scars on my heart. Rina’s passing being only the freshest, rawest of them all. As much as I know he should not be here, I also can’t help the flicker of hope that his arrival brings. The hope that, for at least a brief moment, I might not feel so terribly forlorn.
“Come in, Alexander.”
He pushes the door open and steps inside, flickering lamp in hand. He’s in his black suit. Between that, his dark hair, and the deep shadows of the night, he’s like a phantom in my presence—more ghost than physical man.
“I just needed to see you,” he begins. “Needed to see that you were all right. It’s been weeks.”
I nod and he sets the lamp down, taking a seat on the chaise at the end of my bed, turning his body to look at me. I should be embarrassed, him seeing me in my nightclothes, but I’m not. We know each other far too well to pretend otherwise. He had, after all, been my first love, very nearly my husband, once.
In another lifetime.
“I can’t seem to let her go,” I say honestly. There’s so much—so much love and guilt and hatred all wrapped together in knots, impossible to untangle and release. Our lives had been so irrevocably tied up in each other for so long. “I didn’t realize how much I needed her, how much I loved her. Now I feel the absence of her everywhere.”
He nods, dropping his eyes to the floor. “I can’t help thinking that if I’d just stayed in Denmark. If I had refused to come back when the empress summoned me. She would still be here.”
I shake my head. “You can’t think like that.”
He sighs. It’s heavy and dry, like he’s releasing a breath he’s been holding for years. “I tried to do my best by her, tried to make her happy. But I never really could. You asked me to love her, and I did, for your sake at first, then later because it was impossible not to.”
The first errant tear escapes my eye, and I determinedly wipe it away.
Despite everything, she found joy in her life, in a forced marriage to a man who loved another, in leaving her home and family behind for foreign lands. I can’t help but wish I had half her strength. “She was happy; she told me so. She loved you—loved us both. She wanted you to know that it was enough. You were enough.”
He nods, looking away. “And my son will never know his mother. He will never remember her face or know the songs she sang to him.”
Crawling forward, I rest my hand atop of his. “Then you will have to tell him. Help him remember that his mother was good, kind, and strong. You tell him she loved him more than life itself.”
His gaze swings back to me. “I will. We both will.”
I force a smile and nod. “We will.”
When he stands to leave, I feel my heart sink just a little, and I’m not altogether sure why. Maybe it’s my grief, or my emptiness, but the idea of being alone again is nearly unbearable. The idea of him walking out that door…
I take a slow breath, even as my heart picks up its pace, beating so hard against my chest that I’m sure he can hear it.
Sergei was right. Alexander is dangerous to me, probably more dangerous than any empress, or duke, or war, or illness ever could be. Because in that moment, seeing him standing at my door, all the old feelings come flooding back. Suddenly, I’m fifteen again, drowning in his embrace. And some infinite, treasonous part of me relishes the fear.
I push the memory aside, clamping my mouth firmly shut before I can do something I know I will regret.
He looks at me over his shoulder, his dark eyes locked on mine, his expression like a raging tempest. When his lips part, my heart stills, waiting.
“Ask me to stay,” he whispers.
I blink, my chest clenching painfully to remind me to take a breath. But I can’t. Can’t move. I can’t think. Can’t speak.
He turns fully toward me, taking one cautious step forward. “Please.” His voice is stretched thin like a pulled ribbon. “Ask me to stay.”
I should send him away. Some small, far-off voice in my head chastises me for even hesitating. But I can’t force the words from my throat.
Slowly, he reaches into his breast pocket and draws out a folded piece of parchment. Carefully unfolding it, he reads it aloud. “Paris. The day is long, and I weary of this place. Would that I could be born again, that I might once more touch your face. Though you are far and I am here, I miss you still, my love, my dear. Helen.”
I swallow. My own words, left so carefully tucked into the pages of our secret book, so very long ago. If I’d known he would go back, that he would find my letter, I would not have left it there. But he did go back. And now my own words threaten to betray me.
“If you do not love me still, why leave this?” he asks, refolding the letter and tucking it away.
“It was a long time ago,” I say weakly. “Sergei…”
Alexander shakes his head, raking his hand through his ebony hair in a frustrated gesture. “He’s not here. He’s gone. He left you here, alone in this place with no one to protect you. With no one to love you, except me.”
I open my mouth to protest, to remind him that it was the empress who forced him from my side, but he holds up a finger.
“No, I know you love him, truly. And I know he cares for you as well. But you are not his wife, or his property. If you fear that loving me—admitting you love me—somehow makes you disloyal…” He smirks. “Well, just remember that I loved you first. And I will go to my end loving you all the same.”
As his words settle in, I can’t help but wonder if he’s right. Can you love two people at once? Is such a thing even possible?
“It feels wrong,” I say, shaking my head. A betrayal of two people I love so deeply, both gone now.
He crosses the room in three long strides, cupping my cheek in his palm. “Perhaps I don’t know right from wrong anymore,” he says. “Mayhap all that is left in me is need. Selfish, twisting desire. But I can’t bear to face this night alone. I can’t abide the thought of leaving this room and never again touching your face. I can’t endure losing you. Not again.”
He lowers his face to kiss me, but I turn away at the last minute. Everything in my head is running together like wet paint on a canvas. A blur of colors and emotions. Loneliness and longing, lust and tenderness, all wrapped up in a mess of brushstrokes.
I close my eyes, trying to force the world to hold steady once more.
With a touch so light I scarcely feel it at first, he touches his fingertip to my elbow, slowly drawing it up my arm, taking my sleeve up with it. When he reaches my shoulder, he brushes over the fabric to the exposed skin of my neck, gently drawing the nightdress off my shoulder. A chill breaks out across my flesh. Even now, I’m helpless against his caress. I try to remember how it felt, his fingers twisted in my hair, his lips scorching against my skin, but I find I can’t quite bring it to mind. My body flushes, smoldering with the desire to feel all those things again.
“Does this feel wrong?” he asks, lowering himself onto the bed beside me. Before I can a
nswer, his lips are tracing their way up my neck, finally stopping to kiss my jaw.
“Let me be your Paris once more,” he begs.
And just like that, I’m undone. I’m not sure if it’s love or desire or something more or less, but I can feel myself unspooling in his arms. It’s just as overwhelming as the first time he kissed me, and somehow, the pull is stronger now. I know it’s not the right thing. I know it’s selfish, and stupid, and dangerous. But, in this moment, this second, I can’t seem to force myself to care.
“Please don’t,” I whisper.
He draws back, his expression defeated. Then I wind my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing him close enough that our noses touch.
“Please don’t go,” I say, unable to keep the trembling from my voice.
He moves forward so quickly that it steals my breath.
***
I’m not sure when he finally sneaks from my chamber, but when I open my eyes in the light of morning, he’s gone. I roll over, searching for his scent on my pillows to confirm it hadn’t just been a dream. Instead, I a find a small note tucked under the pillow.
Did my heart love ‘til now? Forswear its sight. For I never saw true beauty ‘til this night.
I nibble on the end of my thumb as I read the verse over and over, a silly grin spreading across my face. As soon as I feel my spirit lift, the guilt crashes in.
I’m not a child, to be helpless at his touch, nor a weakling to need him at my side. Still, my heart aches. It aches for the loss of my friend, for my faraway love, and for the empty bed beside me. Sitting upright, I run my fingers through my hair, carefully working out the knots as I go. I stare at the note a few more moments before scooping it up and crinkling it into a ball.
“This is madness,” I chastise myself.
The door swings open and Dashka glides in, a maid behind her setting a tray of food on my bedside table.
“What’s that, Your Grace?” she asks, cheerfully drawing back the curtains and letting the early light stream in.
The maid curtsies and leaves us. I pluck a roll from the tray. “Love. It is madness, don’t you think?”
She sits beside me, her thin lips puckered. “I don’t know much about love. My marriage was arranged when I was only thirteen. But yes, I imagine love is the height of insanity. It certainly drives people to do terrible things. Great things, too. But terrible things.”
“Have you never been in love?” I ask, taking a bite.
She shrugs. “I love my husband, though it isn’t as it appears in books or plays. It’s a very sensible type of love. I love him for providing for me, for blessing me with his name and reputation. That’s a kind of love, I suppose.”
I take a bite, considering her words. It’s true; respect and gratitude are forms of love. Is it so terribly wrong of me to want more? Could I allow myself to find happiness in solitude? I swallow, imagining myself whiling away my days, riding, reading, or perhaps shopping for new gowns, as so many of the other noble ladies do. Then I imagine retiring to my bed, cold and alone. No, I do not imagine I can exist without passion. Perhaps I could have once, but now that I’ve had a taste of it, there will be no going back for me. No matter how complicated it makes my life, I need passion like a man needs air. Or perhaps, I just want it badly enough that I refuse to do without it ever again.
“I cannot imagine a life without great passion. I think it would be far too long and tedious. Is that terribly selfish of me?”
She tilts her head. “You are the grand duchess. If anyone has a right to be selfish, it’s you. The fact that you even wonder about it makes you better than most.”
I feel my face fall. In my mind, I do not deserve such praise. “But how are you?” I ask, changing the subject.
She frowns. “Ekaterina’s death has been very difficult. She was such a wonderful sister. Not like Elizavetta. Rina was always patient with me, always kind. I appreciate you letting me take her place as your maid of honor.”
I take her hand. “She loved you so much. How could I not do the same? I see so much of her goodness inside of you.”
She smiles. “And she loved you, as well. She used to send letters telling me all about the balls and the plays you attended together. But more often, she talked about how much she admired you. Respected your courage and your strength. To hear her speak, it was as if you were an angel sent from heaven itself.”
Once more, a terrible guilt writhes inside of me. “I am no angel—far from it. I have done dreadful things, Dash. Made mistakes I will never be able to atone for, and I have allowed myself to be selfish in ways you might never understand.” The bitter memory of sprinkling the poison in the empress’ tea floats into my mind. I think of every lie I’ve told, of every misstep I’ve made. “I’m not proud of my choices, but neither would I retract a single one,” I finally say.
“Sometimes, the only choices you have are horrible ones,” she says. “But you must still choose. That is when you know you are strong, and there is grace in the struggle.”
I glance at her, admiring her quiet fortitude. She is, in so many ways, like Rina. So wise for her years. Intelligent, kind, and good. “You are a good soul, Dashka. I wish I were as good.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t say that, Your Grace. You are a good soul as well. Not as innocent as or naive as I am, but good nevertheless. You will be a fine queen.”
“I hope so,” I mutter around another bite. There’s a cup of what looks like midnight-black tea on the tray. I pick it up, examining the contents. It smells burnt somehow. “What on earth is this?”
She nods to it. “That’s a new drink the cook thought you might enjoy. It’s called coffee. It can be bitter, so there is cream you can add to it. She says it’s all the rage at French Court.”
“Coffee? Odd.” I take a sip and nearly gag. It’s strong, so much more bitter and heavy than tea, but, still… I take another sip. “It’s quite good, I think.” I say, admiring the warmth of the cup in my hand.
Dashka beams. “I thought you’d enjoy it.”
As we begin the tedious process of dressing and grooming, I sip on the beverage, asking for a second cup soon after the first. Soon, my heart speeds up, my face flushes, and I feel more awake and alive than I’ve felt in weeks. I let my mind drift. Someday, sooner rather than later, I will be queen. What sort of queen do I want to be? I know I will have to decide. Will I be loyal? Faithful? Will I be kind or courageous? Will I be content sitting quietly, or will I stand boldly against those who oppose me?
Suddenly, things seem very clear.
“It’s the coffee,” Dashka says, smirking.
Somehow, I think it’s more than just that.
“The empress is dead!” The deep, thunderous voice of the court herald echoes throughout the corridors of Oranienbaum Palace. Bells ring like heartbeats in the distance as the nation mourns the loss of their sovereign.
I sit in my chamber, drinking coffee with Dashka. Neither of us speak, but the emotion shared between us is one of relief—not grief. It’s not a surprise. Only the day before I received word from Sergei, who had been recalled to St. Petersburg, telling me that her time was near. I had tossed the letter into the fire, uneasy knots forming in my belly at the thought of seeing him again. Our correspondence is now so rigid and formal, I wonder if we have any relationship at all. Add to that the fact that I’ve taken Alexander to my bed, and my emotions are awash with turmoil. But not about this. This news isn’t a shock—she’d been clinging to life for far too long already—but there’s a deep sense of calm that pervades my senses.
I take a sip, letting the bitter warmth fill my mouth. It’s cold in Oranienbaum, the relentless gasp of winter clinging like frost to glass across the massive grounds. Outside my window, the snow falls. It’s Christmas and there is cheer enough, though perhaps now, terrible as it is to think, I’ve gotten the only gift I ever really wanted. A life free of the empress and her scheming.
All I can think as I take anot
her dainty sip of coffee is how much I hope she suffered, and how much I pray she knows now, finally, the part I played in her slow demise. My soul is forever scarred by my decision to steal her life, whether or not my attempt succeeded. And I will wear it as a badge of honor, a memorial of the first time I took my fate into my own hands. And even as I sit here, watching delicate white flakes sprinkle past my window, I know it will not be the last.
A tap at the door draws my attention, and I set the cup on the bone-white saucer. “Yes?” I say, my tone as relaxed as a freshly fed kitten.
My steward steps in, the feather protruding from his black cap waving as he bows. “Your Grace, His Imperial Highness requests your presence.”
I nod gently and turn to Dashka. Her long, yellow hair is powdered nearly white, curled and mounded atop her head. Though we both despise the look, it is still the height of fashion, so we occasionally bow to it. Today, however, I’m feeling rebellious.
“Help me prepare,” I order.
Calling in two additional maids, I dress in my midnight-black gown, my mother’s onyx necklace dripping tear-shaped stones around my neck, and allow them to add my adornments: my royal-blue sash that marks my appointment to the Order of St. Catherine, my red and gold ribbons, a black lace veil, and finally, they hold up my gold and ruby tiara.
“You don’t want us to dress your hair?” one nervous young maid asks.
“No,” I firmly respond, glancing at my reflection in the ornate, gilded mirror. My skin is pale as milk, my lips stained red with berry juice, and my eyes rimmed in kohl. The overall contrast with my dark hair and dress produces a stunning effect. To powder my hair white would ruin it. Besides, every noble woman at court will be dressed in their widest panniers, with their white hair piled high atop their heads. To make a suitable impression, I must be… more.
They brush my hair back tight against my head and twist, fanning it at the back into an elaborate bun before finally setting the tiara upon my head.
Queen of Always Page 2
