The Winter Queen

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  The Winter Queen

  The Stolen Empire Series, Book 4

  Sherry D. Ficklin

  Praise for Sherry D. Ficklin

  “A must-read romance.”

  ~USA Today

  “(We) want to read this book for a third time—yes, it’s that good.”

  ~Just Jared Jr. Book Club

  “If I could rate this book more than five stars, I would. It was INCREDIBLE.”

  ~Kelli from Beautiful Book Chaos

  “I don’t know when the next book will be out but I can guarantee it will be too long.”

  ~Michelle (Goodreads reviewer)

  “(This) book is utterly brilliant.”

  ~Pearl from Bibliopearl Reviews

  “Ficklin’s writing is a marvel to read.”

  ~Sara from Smitten Over Books

  “Queen of Someday is a bright new addition to the YA scene…”

  ~Bobbi (Goodreads Reviewer)

  “…holy crap I loved that ending. It was perfect!”

  ~Eileen Lee of Book Captain Reviews

  Contents

  1. Russia, 1718

  2. France, 1725

  About the Author

  Also by Sherry D. Ficklin

  CTP Email List

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  The winter Queen

  Copyright ©2019 Sherry Ficklin

  All rights reserved.

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  Summary: Far from the shores of England another Elizabeth was born to rule a nation… The daughter of Peter the Great, Elizabeth is a princess by birth, and a warrior by blood. Never content to be a pawn in the game of men, Elizabeth is destined to sit upon a throne. But when her father’s sudden death leaves her mother and sister at the mercy of the scheming Privy Council, she will have to abandon her beloved Russia in order to survive.

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  ISBN: 978-1-63422-360-7 (e-book)

  Cover Design by: Marya Heidel

  Typography by: Courtney Knight

  Editing by: Cynthia Shepp

  1

  Russia, 1718

  “I hope there is not too much blood,” my maid murmurs to her companion as she pins my sash to my shoulder. “You know how the sight sickens me.”

  The other maid nods in silent agreement, brushing the golden hair back from my scalp painfully, but I remain still, gazing in to the gilded mirror—not at my own reflection, but over my shoulder to where my mother and Nurse whisper in the doorway.

  Mother’s gown is black, as is my own, the folds of fine lace and ribbon as dour as the pre-dawn sky. Her hair is the shade of raven’s wings—less muddy brown than my father’s and sister’s—and her face is round, her sparkling blue eyes wide. It was her beauty that drew Father to her. Her radiance is a type of witchcraft that’s whispered about over supper plates and behind drawn curtains. It’s what lured Father from the arms of his first wife and led to their marriage.

  I swallow the bitter contempt that rises in my throat at the thought of Father’s other family. Disowned and set aside, they still remain a dark cloud over our otherwise-harmonious world. Hopefully, that will finally end today.

  “Please, Your Majesty, she’s just a child,” Nurse begs.

  Brushing my maid away with one hand, I turn to them. “I am no child,” I correct her. “I am nearly ten years old, a Romanov, an Imperial Princess, and more than that, I am my father’s daughter. If it is his request that we stand by his side on this day, who are you to suggest we do otherwise?”

  She pales, glancing from me to my mother, who remains stoic.

  Mother nods curtly. “You forget your place, Mistress Nierstein. Now, if you please, fetch Petra for me. It’s nearly time.”

  With a curtsy, Nurse scurries from the room, heading down the hall to where my sister waits.

  Crossing the room to me, Mother reaches out, brushing a lock of wavy hair from my face.

  “You must be strong, my darling. Do not waver. They will be watching us, searching for any weaknesses. We must not give them reason to doubt us.”

  I nod. “I know, Mother.”

  She smiles, though the sparkle does not reach her eyes. Releasing me to my ladies, she bites her thumb. It’s the only hint of fear, of uncertainty, she will allow herself. By the time Nurse arrives with Petra, Mother has recomposed herself. Back straight, head high, hands folded demurely in front of herself. I mimic the stance. Petra resembles my father the most, her hair brown with copper strands, her eyes dark like pools of midnight. But she is young, soft-hearted in ways not suited for life at court.

  My maid lowers the heavy emerald tiara onto my head, wrapping my hair and pinning it into place.

  “She is ready, Your Grace,” the maid announces, offering me a quick pat on the shoulder before releasing me to take my place.

  Mother leads us into the hall, where we are joined by her ladies and a handful of other court nobles. We make our way through the palace, eyes forward even as others bow and curtsy as we pass, until we finally spill into the throne room where Father waits.

  If it had been a private moment, I might have run to him—flung myself into his arms as I’d done so many times before. But Mother was right. All eyes are upon Petra and me. It’s not difficult to imagine why. Even the maids have been gossiping about it. About how such a thing has never been done. Yet, here we are, my future hanging like an axe over my head.

  Father glances at me, not smiling, but he offers me a sly wink, which I return. He dares not smile today, though he must be feeling equal parts relief and grief for what is about to come.

  With him leading the procession, we take our places at his side and make the short journey to the courtyard behind the palace.

  The scaffolding has been erected for days. I’d snuck out with Petra a few days earlier to examine the strange structure. That was before I understood—before I knew why it had been built.

  Drums begin, the clanking of chains following as my half-brother Alexi, the Tsarevich, is dragged through the square, then hoisted up the steps to the platform. His hair is dark, like our father’s, but that is the only resemblance. His frame is thin, his face long and gaunt, and his forehead high. The effect is exaggerated by the dry, cracked lips, the shaking of his frail hands, and the dark circles beneath his eyes. He’s crying—crying of all things—an embarrassment to the end.

  Father had convinced him to come home only with the promise of wealth, offering him lands that would have been part of his inheritance early—a carrot for a stubborn ass. He’d come happily enough then, only to later discover the ruse. Father had proof of his plotting, letters and witnesses, and he’d had no choice but to turn his own son over to the inquisitor for questioning.

  The maids from the nearby village said the screaming had gone on for weeks before Alexi finally confessed.

  I might pity him, had he not been our most vocal enemy. Had he not constantly spread lies and rumors that sent our enemies to our door. Perhaps I might even have been able to love him as a brother. As it is, I have more than once prayed for God to remove him from this world.

  And now, at long last, my prayer is being answered.

  Beside us, the court herald reads the charges.

  “…found guilty of high treason, conspira
cy, and attempted regicide. The punishment is death.”

  The guard hangs Alexi’s shackles to a tall hook in the pole, which is centered on the platform. It’s a macabre stage for Alexi’s final act, and the small crowd gathered is eerily silent, enough so that the sound of his bare feet on the wood echoes like thunder. He struggles against his restraints for a moment before limply resigning himself to his fate. His chest is bare, bloody, and bruised, his once-neat pants now ragged and torn. He used to resemble Father they tell me, but there’s no trace of that now. Now he is as low as any other prisoner. The only difference is that no serifs or commoners are here to spit in his face; there’s no one to throw rotted food or curse his name.

  Even in death, Alexi is a prince, an honor far more than he deserves.

  The executioner takes his place, the knout in hand, ready to deliver my father’s justice. Twenty-five lashes or to the death, whichever was to come first.

  The knout is far more brutal that an average whip, with five rawhide thongs affixed to the long wooden handle, each thong ending in a great, claw-like steel hook. No one had ever survived beyond twenty lashes, at least not according to the whispers.

  The first lash comes unexpectedly, the sound of the metal hooks scraping the wood before the whips lash forward, cutting the air with a sick whistle before sinking into the flesh of Alexi’s back. The hooks grab the flesh, not just slicing into him, but ripping him apart in bloody, meaty chunks.

  My stomach rolls at the sight.

  His scream echoes throughout the assembled crowd. Though not a public execution—the one mercy my father allowed—the entire court is present. Lords, ladies, even the clergy have come to witness the price of moving against the crown, the penalty for defying the king.

  Blood flows down Alexi’s legs in a crimson river, puddling at his bare feet. The hooks drag the wood again, this time leaving streaks of red behind. Another lash, and another. Barely a breath drawn between them, but the screaming continues, raw and loud at first. But soon enough, the sound turns into a low, desperate, breathless mewl.

  Eleven.

  Twelve.

  The lashes continue. I’m counting them, focusing on the executioner’s boots. Even covered in blood and thicker things, they are brown, soft-looking leather with smart buckles and laces. It’s like a dance, I realize as he shuffles. Forward and back, to and fro. In my head, there’s music, violin and flute, drowning out the scraping of the hooks and pushing the whimpers from my mind as far as I’m able.

  Nineteen.

  Twenty.

  On the back swing, a stream of blood sprays through the assembly, sprinkling my face. It’s warm and sticky, and the urge to wipe it away is nearly more than I can bare. Sparing a glance at my father, I see he has been marked as well, a crimson streak sprinkled across his chest.

  He does not flinch, so no neither do I.

  This could go on for hours, I realize. Maybe it already has. The day is warm, and the sun is still low in the sky, but its rays are hot against my skin. Without closing my eyes, I offer up a silent prayer, glancing down at the boots once more.

  Please, Lord, let this be over. Please let it be done.

  Twenty-one, twenty-two.

  And just when I’m sure I can stomach no more, when the thought of another wet-whip sound will surely take me to my knees, the dance ends. Eyes darting up from the executioner’s boots, I take in what’s left of the Tsarevich. His flesh has been almost completely rendered from his bones, twisted and flayed and unrecognizable as anything human. My stomach rolls at the grotesque sight, but I force myself to swallow the bile.

  This is justice, I tell myself.

  Finally, I look at my mother, who stands with tears in her eyes, her normally olive skin tinged green. To my other side, Petra has her face buried in the skirts of the lady next to her.

  I glance to my father. He’s staring, waiting.

  “The sentence has been carried out,” the court physician announces, examining the body.

  Father nods. I expect him to say something—he never wastes an opportunity to make a point—but he just turns away. Brushing past Mother, I step to his side. When he offers me his arm, I accept it, and we walk together into the palace. He doesn’t stop at the throne room. Instead, he goes directly to his office before finally releasing me. The room is expansive, the ceiling tall with a colorful mural of the Archangel Raphael trumpeting the word of God to the gathered Heavenly Hosts. The walls are gold and white, inlaid with rich carvings and heavy canvasses hung from metal rods. His desk is wide, a map of Russia intricately carved into the wooden top.

  “Are you well, Elizabeth?” he asks finally, his tone morose.

  I nod, taking a seat in the chair across from him, “Of course, Papa. Are you?”

  He offers me a wad of white cloth. “You are safe, that makes me incredibly happy. But this is not the outcome I wished for.”

  He turns away, gathering a stack of papers and well of ink before taking a seat at the desk. I use the moment to finally wipe my face. But the blood is dry and flaking, and I doubt I’ve gotten it all.

  “You gave him every chance,” I say firmly. “Every opportunity to come back to his place.”

  Father had called Alexi to his side a dozen times. But my cowardly half-brother had run away to Austria, plotting and scheming to usurp the crown. He’d never forgiven Father for sending his mother—Father’s first wife—away. “He was foolish and reckless. Had he taken his place as your successor, he would have brought ruin to our country—and to our family name.”

  Father smiles sadly. “He was angry. Anger breeds fear. And fear…”

  “Breeds failure,” I finish.

  He points the tip of his quill toward me. “If your brother had half your temperament,” he begins, but the thought remains unfinished.

  “I will be a worthy heir,” I promise.

  My mother buried two sons before I was born, leaving me as the sole heir to my father’s throne. I’ve been preparing for that moment my entire life. Mother never put much stock in formal education for her daughters. Thankfully, Father disagreed. Thanks to my tutors, I can speak Italian, French, and German, as well as read and write in Russian and Latin. He’d brought the finest teachers of science, math, and diplomacy to foster my education. I can ride, hunt, and shoot a bow. Thinking back on it now, I can’t help but wonder if he knew—somehow—that this day would come. If he prayed for it as I have.

  Had Alexi lived to take the throne, he likely would have had my mother and her children imprisoned, or worse. He hated us, and the feeling was mutual. Since his mother had been first sent to a convent—and then, later, executed on charges of adultery—his own place within the line of succession was as questionable as my own. Why Father had tolerated his existence as long as he had was beyond me.

  Father puts down the quill, holding my gaze. “My clever girl, I am afraid I have some difficult news to deliver. During questioning, we discovered Alexi has a son. A male heir,” he clarifies.

  It takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying.

  “The child’s mother died shortly after the birth, but the boy lives. He is currently in the care of his mother’s sister. I’m sending for them both immediately.”

  I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “A male heir,” I whisper, the edges of my vision dimming. “My half-nephew.”

  Father nods. “My Elizabeth, I will speak to the council about making you my legal heir, as it is my deepest wish. But it may not be so. Never in all of history has a woman sat on the throne of Russia.”

  “But you are the king,” I stand, nearly shouting. “Surely you may choose for yourself.”

  He sits back, smirking at my outburst. “You will be a queen, my little Romanova, of that I am absolutely certain. God himself has affirmed this to me. Though the way of it has yet to be decided.”

  Nodding once, I put one hand to my chest. “I will make you proud, Papa.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt.”

  2
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  France, 1725

  The stable is dark, the grooms long since turned in for the evening. Carefully, I light a lamp, setting it in the hay in the empty stall. Around me, the horses shuffle in the soft glow, nervous at my presence. Despite all the luxuries and decadences of French court, their steeds still have nothing on strong, stout Russian breeds.

  “Why you insist on meeting in this odor-filled barn, I will never know,” a voice teases from behind me. Turning toward him, I lower the hood of my black cloak.

  “It’s the only place my maid won’t come searching for me,” I explain, motioning to the horses. “She’s terrified of the creatures. She was kicked as a child or some such thing.”

  He laughs, his golden curls framing his face, “Well, that explains the one odd eye. I swear I can never tell if she’s looking at me or someone down the hall.”

  Laughing, I step into his outstretched arms. He draws me close, engulfing me in his warmth as he lowers his mouth to mine for a deep, long kiss that sends heat through my chest.

  When I finally pull away, he groans, his blue eyes hooded.

  “Elizabeth, my Elizabeth.”

  “Not yours yet,” I tease, drawing free of his embrace. “Not until the engagement is official.”