I nodded. Was I crying? I couldn’t tell—crying didn’t seem enough. I had never felt so ornamental: a useless noble, the very thing the Reds accused people like Emilia and me of being, the thing I never believed I was. This was my chance, the one thing I could do to save my country, and it was lost.
“It’s gone?” Leo asked. I didn’t say anything, which I suppose was answer enough for him. “But the room is fine—it isn’t torn apart.”
“Perhaps the family had someone move it for them,” Emilia said encouragingly, though I didn’t believe it. Alexei told me himself—no one knew about this room. No one except me.
“Perhaps,” Leo answered Emilia, his voice dropping. It was a strange reaction—more disappointed than hopeful. I turned to him, thinking perhaps I’d misinterpreted his tone. He was in the doorway, shaking his head, jaw gritted. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Leo easily found his way back through the hallways—I wasn’t entirely certain what route we took out of the palace, as I dragged my eyes along the soiled carpets. We emerged through a side door in the courtyard, close to where we entered. I glanced up—there were drunks on the roof, performing lewd acts with a few of the statues. I rolled my eyes at them, looked to our carriage.
I froze. Standing around it was a group of boys, our age, all with red bands around their arms. They had furrowed eyebrows and smudgy cheeks, and they constantly moved their hands—cracking their knuckles, adjusting their shirts, wiping their noses—like their bodies contained too much energy for total stillness.
Emilia made a noise like a small animal behind me, then grabbed my forearm with both hands. I looked to Leo desperately, though I didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t fight them all on our behalf, nor did I think the Reds capable of reason at the moment. Leo met my eyes, then turned back to the boys; I tugged Emilia back behind him.
“Any luck?” one of the boys said, walking toward us.
“Nothing,” Leo answered. He reached forward and took something from the nearest boy’s hand—a red band. “They’re the best bet, though.”
“Leo?” I asked, certain I was misunderstanding. He wasn’t—this wasn’t . . . no. “You’re a Red,” I said incredulously.
“Grab them,” Leo said, nodding his head toward us as he fumbled to loop the red band around his bicep. “And let’s go.”
CHAPTER NINE
Emilia didn’t speak, though I couldn’t tell if it was because she was angry with me or because she was simply too scared to form words. Or perhaps it was that after everything, she didn’t have the energy. She sat up straight in the carriage, eyes vacant, staring at the boys who sat silently across from us. I tried to focus my thoughts, come up with a plan, but my mind kept reverting to fantasies where the Whites came sweeping in, double-eagle flags waving, kicking up the ash of our fallen world as they pulled us to safety.
It’s not going to happen. Focus, I thought. We could try to leap from the carriage, but I didn’t think we could outrun Leo and his thugs. Besides, we were crossing the Neva onto Vasilevsky Ostrov, an island across from the Winter Palace that was populated mostly by immigrants and students. I certainly didn’t know it well enough to survive the streets.
Something, I had to do something. I turned to one of the men across from us, caught his attention. “So Uspensky is your leader, then?” I asked, dropping my voice so Leo couldn’t hear.
The boy, who was wearing a ripped and stained palace uniform, snorted, but didn’t answer. The others looked exasperated, but likewise stayed silent. I inhaled, tried harder. “The irony of it all. You don’t want a tsar leading you, but you’ll let a waiter do the job—” I began.
I flinched when the boy raised a hand like he meant to slap me. Emilia dropped her head, covered her ears; the boy’s hand hovered in the air, steady, strong, terrifying.
“I’d watch what you say, Miss Kutepova,” he snarled, his voice mocking my name. “That waiter is the only reason you weren’t in handcuffs from the moment you left his uncle’s—he’s kinder than I am. This is the new world. We’re done starving and freezing and dying while you go to little dances. Done bowing and pretending that you’re better than us.”
“I never said I was better than you,” I told him.
“No,” he said, lowering his hand slowly, fire in his eyes. “You never said anything to us at all. We weren’t worth the effort.”
I opened my mouth again, but Emilia jabbed me in the side, silencing me.
The carriage came to a hard stop, nearly flinging me from one side to the other. Leo jumped down, motioned for us to step out first. To my surprise, he offered Emilia his hand. She was too frozen to take it.
“Move,” one of the men in the carriage snapped.
“Give her a minute,” I answered, though I was too afraid to meet his eye.
“Come on,” Leo told her. His voice was far from gentle, but it didn’t come with the threat the other boy’s did. Finally, I nudged Emilia; she inhaled deeply, like she was waking from deep sleep, and slunk out of the carriage. She didn’t want to take Leo’s hand, I could tell, but the sun was setting, a layer of ice was forming across the road, and it didn’t take kindly to her heels.
“Now you,” one of the others said to me. Leo’s hand stayed extended, ready to take mine.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s move.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Uspensky,” I muttered, and stepped out of the carriage. I refused his hand—I’d rather fall on the ice than touch him. When my foot was about to hit the ground, however, one of the men still in the carriage brought his hand down hard on my backside. I jumped away, tried to spin around in outrage and not fall at the same time. Emilia grabbed to steady me, but missed; my right foot twisted under me and I tilted, crashing into Leo.
He moved fast, grabbed my arm, and pulled me up easily; I was already standing by the time I sorted out what just happened. The indignity of it all faded away, was replaced by rage, especially when I saw the men in the carriage were guffawing loudly. I lunged forward, uttering every curse I’d learned from undiscerning soldiers. My hand made contact with the nearest man’s wrist; I dug my nails in deep, raked them across his skin until blood sprouted. He shouted, leapt from the carriage.
“Stop! Both of you!” A deep voice. It was Leo—and he had his arms around me, was shoving me behind him. “You had it coming, Yuri. Stop showing off.” I stepped back to free myself from Leo’s hands. I wanted to be protected, but not by him.
“I had it coming?” the boy, Yuri, the same one who threatened to hit me earlier said, snorting. “Her kind have had it coming for three hundred years. Ought to treat her like they treated the Women’s Battalion in the palace last night—”
“That won’t get us any closer to the Fabergé egg,” Leo said sternly while my stomach flipped at the thought of the Women’s Battalion, at any woman unlucky enough to be in the way of the Reds last night.
“Take the carriage back to my uncle’s, will you?”
“Fine,” Yuri said, rolling his eyes as he jumped into the driver’s seat. Leo stepped forward, turned to face me—
I slapped my hand across his face, a bright, cracking sound that reverberated in the air. He flinched to the side, grabbed the side of his face. Emilia looked pleased as he opened his mouth, popped his jaw. I heard Yuri howl with laughter as the carriage jolted away. Leo glared, rubbing his cheek.
“Come on,” he hissed. “I just saved your life. Or at the very least, your virtue.”
“After kidnapping us,” I said. “So you’ll forgive me if I’m not especially grateful.”
Leo opened his mouth, looked like he might say something, but then shook his head, dropped his hand. There was a bright red handprint rising on his skin, which I hoped would take a long time to fade.
“Go on,” he said, motioning behind me. For the first time, I was able to focus on where we’d stopped—a smal
l house that had been converted into a theater. It was tall, made of stone and plaster, the exterior walls painted shades of turquoise and pink that were faded with age. A sign hung out front, naming it the Emerald Theater and advertising cheap vodka and singers with stage names like Heidi Holliday and Wink Dubois. The curtains were mismatched print fabrics, the door nearly falling off its hinges, but there were people streaming in, men and women alike huddled in coats and with their heads down.
Emilia and I trundled forward, trying to keep our eyes on both the building and its patrons at once. The other boys from the carriage moved ahead of us like a pack. By the time we got to the doors, people were staring—they recognized us, I could tell. I heard the ends of our names in whispers as we walked through the front door.
The theater’s lobby was something like a repurposed parlor. People hunched over on high-back chairs and settees that lined the edges of several frayed Oriental rugs. The room, like the people in it, was tired-looking, worn—the wallpaper was torn, the ceiling chipped, the rugs threadbare in places. The only thing in the room that had the faintest hint of shine was a far corner with walls covered in tin icons—pictures that displayed the Virgin Mary and various saints. There were curtains straight ahead, thick and dusty, hanging over a wide doorframe. I could hear voices beyond the curtains, just loud enough that if I listened carefully, I could likely have picked out the words. Leo stopped in front of them, turned to us.
“Wait here,” he said. “I need to warn them.”
“That they’re all dead as soon as my father discovers what you’ve done?” I muttered.
“That two noble girls are about to walk in, and they shouldn’t shoot,” Leo answered. “Don’t run. They’ll stop you,” he said, nodding to the others in the lobby. I didn’t need to look to know their eyes were on us, hard and angry. Leo brushed the curtains aside, stepped into the other room.
I leaned in close to listen; the sound of Leo’s shuffling footsteps was soon absorbed by murmurs, greetings. Then, a booming voice, thick and strong, a voice that reminded me a little of my father’s.
“Comrade Lenin will arrive in the next few days, courtesy of the Germans. He should have no real opposition, at least not here. The Cheka report the tsar’s new home is in Ekaterinberg—though that information doesn’t leave this building, are we clear? Comrade Lenin and his friends will depend on the Cheka to keep the family away, but on us to help run Saint Petersburg.”
I gritted my teeth. The royal family—in Ekaterinberg? I knew the town, though only by name—it was days away by train, a tiny, tiny village in the freezing east. I swallowed angrily and dared to peel the corner of the curtain back with my finger so I could get a view of the room.
There was a stage—short but deep, raked at a slight angle so that the back was a few inches higher than the front. There were tables and seats scattered throughout the auditorium, most occupied by faceless, shadowy people. The lights running across the front of the stage were on, glowing pale orange and shining through the half-emptied decanters of wine till they looked like jewels.
“Ha, yes,” a voice called, this one close to the curtain; it made me jump. “Let the royal family enjoy Siberia for a while. See if that changes their perspective. If they still think their rule is God’s will.”
Leo cleared his throat. I flinched and released the curtain as heads turned toward him, eyes glinting in the scant light.
“Mr. Uspensky,” the loud man said. “Did you retrieve your prize?”
“It . . .” Leo paused. “It was already gone.” There was a strange hum in his voice—nervousness. The room erupted into curse words that carried out into the lobby. I started when I realized the people in the lobby were now leaning toward the auditorium as well, listening closely while they sucked on cigarettes.
“Calm, calm, everyone,” the loud voice said again. “Remember that our revolution doesn’t depend entirely on a Fabergé egg. The people of Russia will have their voice, one way or another.” This did little to quiet the room; their grumbles turned to exasperated sighs and clipped insults.
“Wait, wait,” Leo said, shouting at first. “I don’t have it, but I’ve brought someone with me who can help me find it.”
This quieted the room. The loud voice asked, “Who?”
“Two . . . girls,” Leo said, an awkward hesitation in his voice. The hesitation, the concern, it gave me a hint of strength—Leo was not as powerful as he wanted us to believe. He wasn’t supposed to take prisoners. He had a single job: get the Constellation Egg—and he’d failed.
This might be the only time Emilia and I had the upper hand—they were disorganized. Thanks to my father I knew military strategy well enough to know an army was weakest in a moment like this. I closed my eyes, took a breath.
“Come on,” I told Emilia, then took a breath and brushed through the curtains.
Leo’s eyes locked on me, confused, panicked, perhaps—exactly what I wanted. I clasped my hands at my waist, felt Emilia walk up beside me. The room hushed, first the tables around us, then the quiet spreading out like a wave. The element of surprise, my father always told me, was priceless in a battle. I hoped he was right.
“Two ladies,” I corrected politely. Finally I turned to the room, keeping my eyes just above their heads instead of meeting any one person’s—an old finishing school trick. “I’m Lady Natalya Kutepova, and this is Countess Emilia Boldyreva.”
To my dismay, most of the crowd were wearing battered palace uniforms, household servant attire, army uniforms. Their voices were hushed and concerned—which is exactly what I’d hoped for. Leo mashed his lips together, tried to stammer an explanation to the crowd, but they weren’t listening. Revolution or no, it was risky to kidnap girls like me and Emilia. Even if the government fell and was unable to seek retribution, our fathers certainly would. I glanced at Emilia, who didn’t seem to understand my intentions; despite the calm, collected expression on her face, her hands were shaking.
The man on the stage was so tall and broad shouldered that he reminded me of the statue of Peter the Great that stood in town. His eyes were coal black, as was his expression.
I knew him.
“Lieutenant Lukirsky. You’re a long way from the war,” I said coolly.
“Please, Miss Kutepova,” he answered, voice matching mine. “There are no lieutenants or tsars or ladies or countesses here. I am merely ‘Viktor’ now. Leading an army for a tsar who doesn’t care for me didn’t suit me in the end. But I welcome you to my new army—the Palace Soviets.” He walked to the edge of the stage, leaning out so that his face fell into shadow. There was no mistaking, however, that he was glaring directly at Leo. “Quiet down, everyone. Leo, please tell us why you’ve brought two noble girls to our meeting?”
Leo turned, glared at me; I smiled kindly at him, knowing it infuriated him and unsettled the room. “They’re not just nobles,” Leo said quickly. “This one,” he jabbed a thumb toward me, “is the tsarevich’s girl.” Those at the table nearest me lit cigarettes, blowing the smoke at me and Emilia; I tried not to breathe so I could avoid coughing.
“Nobles and a personal friend of the former royal family,” Viktor said, laughing coldly. “And yet, no Fabergé egg. Excellent, Uspensky.”
“Come on, Viktor!” Leo finally said, exasperated. “As best I can tell, Natalya Kutepova is the only one outside the family who knew where the egg was kept. If she didn’t take it, she’s our best route to whoever did.”
“Is this true, Miss Kutepova?” Viktor asked. He hopped off the stage and edged closer, dragging his fingers across the backs of chairs as he moved. “It would be much easier if you were honest with me.”
“I don’t know who took it,” I said. “I don’t even know who else knew about it.”
“I don’t believe you, Lady,” Viktor said, voice firm.
I shook my head. “Alexei said they’d never told anyone else—he
wasn’t even supposed to tell me. You’ve kidnapped us for no reason whatsoever, sir.”
“Uspensky kidnapped you,” Viktor said, grunting at Leo. “And while I’ll confess it was foolish, what’s done is done. So either you are useful to us, Miss Kutepova . . .” He paused, ran his fingers across the knife at his belt lovingly. “Or you are not.”
Emilia’s eyes widened. She looked at me, desperate, begging me to give them something, some lie, some bit of information, something, anything to keep us safe. I tried to look reassuring as I shook my head. My body was drunk on fear; another shot of it hardly touched me. “Of course. That does seem to be in line with what the Reds are about. Burning stores. Destroying property. Killing innocent girls.”
“You,” Viktor said tartly, “are many things, Miss Kutepova. But you are not innocent.” He paused, looked around the room. “No noble is, if only by way of willing ignorance.” Viktor eased himself down on the closest table; it creaked under his weight. “So what will motivate you to tell us where the egg is, if not your own death?”
“Her father,” a voice called out. “The Whites are coming back to try to take the city, but half of the soldiers here are with us now. We’ll be able to capture her father easily.”
I squinted—the voice was female, from a corner by the stage, but I couldn’t see who in the light.
“Her father, you say?” Viktor said, looking smug. The speaker stood, continued.
“We can draw him in with her,” she said, weaving through the tables carefully, gracefully—in silhouette, she moved like someone from society, floating, never looking down. “Tell us what we need to know, Natalya, or it’ll be your fault that he dies.”
I recognized my name on her tongue before she stepped into the light. “Kache?” I asked, feeling as if I’d been punched.
“Miss Kutepova,” she said curtly. She looked as she always did: put together, hair pinned nicely, skin clean and pale as any noble girl’s. But there was a bitterness in her eyes I didn’t recognize, and yet it came so naturally that I was keenly aware: the anger was the truth, and the kindness she’d shown me the lie.
Tsarina Page 9
