“You are not cursed, my love. I know it feels dark now, but the light will shine on you again. And when it does, we will face it together.”
His words are a balm. In the rain, I let him hold me until the sobbing ends and I can finally find my breath again. Only then does he lift me gently and carry me back to my rooms.
I do not take supper that night or the next. Pushka does not leave my side, preferring to worry over me from his spot curled at my feet. My grief is heavy, and so is my shame. I cannot think how disappointed my father must be as he watches me from heaven, seeing how weak I’ve become. Petra stays with me, and we pray. She bathes me and plaits my hair, telling me of her husband with a smile on her lips. Only sometimes does she seem sad—only sometimes do I catch her with a melancholy expression. On the third day, she crawls into bed beside me and whispers.
“Please, Lizzy. You are all I have now. You must not desert me.”
And for the first time, I realize that it is left to me now. Petra is wed, her title and prospects signed away with the stroke of a quill. I am the last Romanov princess, the last branch in a tree over-pruned nearly to ruin.
“I will have justice,” I promise her. “For our mother and for us. I swear it.”
The next day, I wake restored. My maids seem relieved as they dress me with vigor, gossiping idly and sharing details of the wedding plans with me. Charles wants it kept a surprise—of course. But secrets are difficult to keep in such a small estate.
Once I’m dressed and fed, I make my way to the office. I know I must write in support of my nephew. It is the only way to keep their eyes off me, the only way to assure I do not seem a threat in their eyes. Though I do not know how, I’m convinced Menshov is behind the death of my mother, and I have only to bide my time. Once I’m back in St. Petersburg, I will find a way to deal with him and his lot.
The office is not empty, however. Sergei sits at the desk, reading over the day’s letters.
“Sergei,” I say, taken aback. “What are you doing here? Where is Charles?”
His head snaps up, his eyes bleary. “He is…uh…indisposed.”
“Indisposed?”
He nods, then glances away.
“You are a terrible liar, Sergei,” I tease. “I fear court life will not suit you at all.”
Sighing heavily, he eyes me. “Charles isn’t feeling well. The doctor is in with him now.”
My mouth twitches even as my mind processes his words.
“He didn’t want anyone to tell you. You’ve been so grief stricken, and he did not want to add to your worries,” Sergei insists. “And it is not so terrible.”
Backing away, I nod. “Then perhaps I shall go visit him, speak to the doctor myself.”
I make to leave, but Sergei closes in quickly, sidestepping and blocking my way. “Perhaps you should wait until he is well. It would not do for the bride to be ill on her wedding day.”
“Don’t be silly.” I brush past him. “The wedding in in a week. We shall surely have to postpone if he is unwell.”
Sergei follows me to Charles’ door, where Pushka sits, his tail wagging. I pause to give him a loving pat. “How do you always seem to be exactly where I need you to be?” I whisper to the beast before motioning for the footman to announce me.
There are voices inside, but I do not wait for an invitation. When I step inside, the doctor is packing his case. He turns to me with a grave expression, pulling me to a stop.
“What is it?” I demand with all the authority and strength I can muster.
“Fever, Your Highness. We are ready to bleed him.”
“I would see him first,” I say, and he bows.
Once in Charles’ chamber, I see it is much more than fever. Charles is pale, his cheeks gaunt. When he coughs, it is a sticky, wet sound. I rush toward him, but he holds up a hand.
“Not too close,” he begs, his voice hoarse.
“My love, why did you not summon me when you first fell ill?”
He waves his hand weakly. “It is nothing. A small fever. I shall be fine.”
“Should we postpone the wedding?” I ask.
“Of course not. I will be on my feet tomorrow, I’m sure.”
Despite his warning, I go to him, sitting at his bedside.
He coughs again, covering his mouth with a bit of cloth. Once he’s settled, he shows it to me, grinning. “See? No blood. It is only a passing chill.”
“Don’t you dare leave me, Charles. You promised.” I fight to keep my tone light, but there is a tightness in my chest I cannot ignore. “I need you.”
He smiles again, reaching up to trace my face with the tips of his fingers, “My love, you do not need anyone. You are a storm wrapped in skin. I am just glad to stand in your wake.”
Lowering myself over him, I kiss him softly on the forehead. The doctor is right. There is fever there, enough to instantly warm my lips.
The days and nights pass slowly. I try to busy myself with wedding preparations, with assisting Sergei and Karl as they tend to the needs of the principality. Most nights, I spend in a chair at Charles’ side, reading him verses from his favorite books or keeping him informed of the goings-on.
“Karl,” I begin after a particularly quiet evening leaves me with a deep feeling of dread I cannot explain. “I think you should leave for St. Petersburg immediately.”
He studies me quizzically, his red eyebrows knitted together. “What makes you say that?”
I tap my fingers anxiously on the table between us. “The wedding is in two days—Charles will not postpone. And I will marry him at his bedside if I must, but I fear… If he does not recover soon, postponement may be our only option. I would not like to give Menshov opportunity to see threat in the delay. If you were there, in council, attesting to the truth of our postponement, perhaps they will believe.”
“If it is your will, Your Highness, I will go immediately,” he agrees, taking a long drink of ale. “I shall bid Petra remain here with you until the wedding, but then she must go to Kiel.”
“I agree,” I say, unable to keep the sadness from my voice. “Petra is all I have now—my only family. Promise me you will care for her—always.”
He jerks his head sternly. “Of course, Your Highness.”
When I leave dinner that night to visit with Charles, I’m surprised to find him sitting up in bed. His complexion is still waxy and sallow, but his eyes are gleaming as he scribbles on a stack of papers atop a lap desk that covers his legs.
“Peacocks,” he says as I walk in.
“Geese,” I say in return, and he gives me a puzzled look.
“I thought perhaps we were just naming foul,” I tease. “Or are you requesting a meal of the poor bird?”
He grins. “At the wedding. We should have peacocks roaming the grounds.”
“And they can be on golden cords,” I add.
“Why not?”
Sighing, I sit beside him. “Firstly, my love, because we have already spent all the dowry on jugglers, fire dancers, and golden tapestries to adorn the walls. There is nothing left.”
He shrugs. “We will dip into the royal coffers.”
“And let your people go without the grain you’re going to need to buy from France once winter sets in? Besides, there is a bridge that must be repaired, along with the threat of sweating sickness from Russia. I think the royal funds are best put to more pragmatic uses,” I say firmly. “So, no, my love. No peacocks.”
He frowns playfully, and I cannot help but laugh.
“I am glad to see you in such good spirits.”
Reaching out, I touch his cheek, which is still blazing. He seizes my hand, pressing a fever-hot kiss into my palm.
“And I am glad to have such a clever wife to tend to the kingdom in my absence,” he says, taking a deep breath before launching into a fit of wet coughs.
“Oh, Charles, please let’s postpone. Or if you will not, I will bring the cardinal right now and be wed by your bedside.”
He bristles. “No. I’ll not hear of it. I’m much recovered, my love. I will stand beside you, under the light of God, and make you my wife in two days’ time, and that is the end of it.”
I chew on my lip, and he pulls it free with his thumb. “Elizabeth, I will not abandon you.”
I want to believe him. With all my heart, I do. But I’ve heard the same promises before.
“Rest my love, I will see you on the morning.”
Kissing him once more, I slip back to the hall where the physician stands. “We must bleed him again, Your Highness. Draw the sickness from his body.”
“Of course, do whatever will bring him back to me,” I instruct.
My bones are weary as I trudge to my room, only to be intercepted at the door by Lady Lucretia.
“Your Highness,” she says with a quick dip. “May I speak with you?”
Forcing a pleasant smile, I turn to her. “Of course, shall we walk? Or would you like to come in and sit?”
She wears only a light robe over her nightgown, and she wrings her hands in front of herself. “Perhaps walking would calm my nerves.”
I lead the way, motioning for her to join me. “What troubles you, my lady?”
“It’s Charles,” she says in a rush of words. “I’ve been praying for him, and for you.”
“Your prayers are appreciated,” I acknowledge.
“But I must be blunt, Your Highness. There is a chill in me I cannot warm. I fear my son is dying.”
Stopping mid-step, I pivot toward her. “You must not think such things. Charles is strong. He will come back to us.”
She shakes her head, one grey curl falling from her head. “No, he will not. And should he pass before you are wed, all the lands and titles go to my daughter Penelope.”
“I have not seen Lady Penelope in weeks. I thought she was away on travels. And that she did not so much appreciate my presence here,” I say.
Truthfully, her presence is like a dark cloud when she’s here. Penelope is a sullen girl who often balks at Charles’ attempts to find her suitors. It wasn’t until I’d discovered her in the company of one of my maids that I understood why.
The next day, she was gone. I have told no one, and I will not, but she hasn’t given me the chance to tell her so. She simply left to visit her aunt’s estate in Latvia.
“Penelope can be a temperamental girl, but she loves this land and its people. Should it come to a debate, she would have the people on her side,” Lucretia nudges, splaying her hands.
“Be plain, my lady. What have you come to say?”
She hesitates, then takes a deep breath and comes out with it. “My son will die. I feel it in my marrow. He will not live to be wed. And I know he has only yesterday signed a document naming you as his heir. But should you accept, this small nation will tear itself apart. We cannot have a disgraced former princess lording over Holstein-Gottorp.”
Her words are like a slap, and I take a step back from the shock of her cruel candor.
“Then perhaps you should stop wishing your only son dead and spend your energy nursing him well instead,” I demand, turning to my room.
When I finally dress and climb into bed, it’s cold, and I wish more than anything I didn’t share Lucretia’s dread—or see the wisdom in her plea.
The next morning comes too soon, and I’m sewing with my ladies when Sergei comes to my chamber door.
“Your Highness,” he begins, sounding breathless. “He’s calling for you.”
Leaping to my feet, I rush out the door and down the hall as fast as my legs will carry me. When I approach, Lucretia is outside the door, sobbing into a handkerchief, the doctor soothing her. I do not speak to either, bursting into the room and rushing to Charles’ bed.
Sitting at his side, I lay a hand on his chest, searching for its rise and fall.
It does not come.
Outside, the bells in the steeple chime, the sound drowning out my cries as I slip to the floor. Sergei stands beside me, but he does not move to touch me. Instead, he slides down next to me, inches away.
“I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” he says through his own tears. “I know you loved him, and he you.”
My cheeks still wet, I face him. “If he loved me, he would have stayed. If he loved me, he would have kept his promise,” I challenge, grief heating to an angry boil.
“That is your grief speaking,” he says. “And you are not the only one he has been taken from.”
I look at him again, realizing for the first time they were not just friends—more like brothers. And he may be the only person in the world who will miss him as I will. His own face is pale, his eyes rimmed in red, and his cheeks wet with tears. There is an ache in him as there is in me. In a way, it binds us.
“You are right,” I say softly. “It is only that he was not only my love, but he was also my safety. I am lost and vulnerable without him.”
Sergei shakes his head. “No. He had me draft a proclamation before he passed. He has named you his heir and successor. You will stay here. You will be safe.”
I sit back, thinking not only on Lucretia’s fears, but also about how such a thing would look to those who fear my name.
“No, I cannot accept. No one else knows of this?”
He shakes his head, appearing confused.
“The people do not want a foreign ruler—a woman not even wed to their sovereign. And to Russia, it will seem as though I’m seizing power to reclaim my father’s throne. No, we must destroy it. Sergei, can I trust you to see it done?”
His expression is surprised, but gentle. “I will, Your Highness. But where will you go? Lady Penelope will not want you to stay. You could go to Kiel with Petra.”
Forcing myself to my feet, I lean over Charles one last time, kissing his forehead gently before straightening and wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my gown.
“No. I am unwed. Therefore, I have not forsworn my claim to the throne or renounced my title. I will go back to St. Petersburg. If the Supreme Council seeks my title, they will have to come and claim it. But I will be on my home soil once more.”
“You will be unprotected, Your Highness. I will offer myself to your guard.”
His offer is not a light one. I search his face for any hint of fear, any crack of doubt—and find none. Only the young, brave Sergei I have become so fond of. Holding his gaze, I nod once. “I accept your offer. You will be my general, Sergei Salkov. And, God willing, we will restore dignity and justice to the house of Romanov. Now, we must prepare for my return.”
About the Author
Sherry is the author of over a dozen novels for teens and young adults including the best selling Stolen Empire series. She can often be found browsing her local bookstore with a large white hot chocolate in one hand and a towering stack of books in the other. That is, unless she's on deadline at which time she, like the Loch Ness monster, is only seen in blurry photographs.
You can find her at her official website, www.sherryficklin.com
Also by Sherry D. Ficklin
Canary Club Novellas
Gilded Cage
All that Glitters
Nothing Gold
* * *
Stolen Empire Series
Queen of Someday
Queen of Tomorrow
Queen of Always
The Winter Queen (Novella)
Stolen Empire Boxed Set
* * *
Geek Girl Mysteries
Playing with Fire
In Too Deep
Digital Horizon
* * *
The Lost Imperials Series
Extracted
Prodigal
Riven
* * *
Dark of Night Series
Chasing Daybreak
Chasing Midnight
* * *
Losing Logan
Haunting Zoe (A Losing Logan Novella)
* * *
Twists in Time (Anthology)
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The Winter Queen Page 5
