“How did you figure that out?” Leo asked, clearly impressed.
“Our gardener is short,” Emilia said a little wistfully. “He always had to get a stepladder. He was so proud of his roses, though—the Yusupovs planted these gorgeous burgundy roses in the back garden ages ago. Did you ever come over in the summer and see them, Natalya?”
“I never got the chance,” I said.
“That’s a shame. Especially since they’re ash now,” Emilia said, voice dropping to a dark tone; she glared at Leo.
Leo pressed his tongue against his teeth rather than respond, then walked to the front door. He rapped on it, the sound abrasive against the flickering rhythm of the Neva behind the house. Nothing happened. He tried again, louder, rubbing his knuckles as he waited for a response.
“Perhaps she left Saint Petersburg,” I said. “It’s dangerous these days, you know.”
“That wouldn’t be good,” Leo said, “seeing as how you have to help me find her before you can go to Paris.”
I sighed, marched forward, knocked for myself; the wood scraped my knuckles but I refused to wince in front of Leo. “Babushka?” I called. “Are you there?” I leaned in close. “It’s Lady Natalya Kutepova and Countess Emilia Boldyreva.”
Still nothing.
“She could be telling fortunes somewhere else, since the bookshop is closed,” Emilia suggested. “She’s often at the Mariinsky Theater.”
“Which is on the opposite end of Saint Petersburg,” Leo said.
“Pity the streetcars aren’t working,” I said pointedly.
“If the drivers were treated like humans instead of cattle, they would be,” Leo bit back, but I could tell he, too, recognized how much easier this all would have been with a streetcar to help us.
“Wait,” Emilia said from where she stood in the tiny strip of grass out front. She was peering in one of the windows, angled so she could see past the drawn curtains. “What if she is home, and someone beat us here?”
“Who could have?” Leo asked, spinning to give me that look, the one where he appeared to be trying to turn me to stone.
“Glaring at me like that doesn’t mean I know more,” I answered. “Haven’t you worked that out yet?”
“Stop it, both of you,” Emilia snapped, brushing past me to the front door. She began to rap hard, then push on the handle. “I think I see a shadow. What if one of the other Reds came over here last night?”
“The Palace Soviets are the only Reds who know about the egg,” Leo said.
I shrugged. “Then maybe one of them came and got it last night.”
“Are you suggesting one of my friends is a traitor?”
“I’m suggesting they’re all traitors to their country—”
“Enough! Help me open the door,” Emilia said, voice harsh. Her tone made Leo and me jump in near unison; we dropped the argument and knocked louder, jiggled the handle, hoping the ancient lock would give. It held tight. After a few moments, Leo stepped back, cracked his knuckles.
“I can break it down,” he said. “Step back—”
“Oh, don’t be stupid, Leo. Just because you’re the size of an ox doesn’t mean you have to act like one,” Emilia muttered. She pushed him aside, reached up, and yanked the pins out of her hair. It tumbled down her back, still curled, still lovely, but more unwashed than I’d ever seen it before—it looked like a maid’s hair, now. I watched as Emilia jammed both pins into the keyhole and pressed her shoulder to the door, feeling for something with the pins.
“I used to do this all the time as a little girl,” she muttered to us, grimacing as one pin temporarily jammed. “When Mother locked the kitchens up, afraid I was getting fat.”
“You?” I said, laughing.
“Trust me, Natalya,” she said. “If I had things my way, I’d be delightfully fat. Fat and full of cakes and in Paris.”
“Soon—” I began, but didn’t have time to finish. The lock suddenly clicked; Emilia nearly fell into the house as the door gave. Leo and I were behind her, eyes skirting for any sign of the Babushka.
The house was similar to her space at the bookshop—dusty, old, but warm-looking. There were a few small rugs lined up together to make one large one in the center of the floor, and a fireplace full of ash with a single rocking chair in front of it. There was a wooden bed, tiny and squat just like the Babushka, tucked away in a corner and partially obscured by a curtain. Leo dashed to it, upset the blankets, but there was no one. He ducked into the bathroom, then the kitchen.
“The shadow I saw was just the icon, I think,” Emilia said, looking dismayed. She pointed to an icon of Saint John hanging in the small kitchen window. The window allowed a square of light into the kitchen—which was little more than a cast-iron stove and a basin—and the icon disrupted that, creating a shadow across the floor that looked like a person looming. Emilia slumped into the rocking chair and pulled her boots off like she was a welcome guest.
“Come on,” Leo said, staring at her like she’d lost her mind. “We can’t stay here.”
“I can’t walk any farther,” Emilia said, voice breaking. She was moments from crying or screaming, perhaps both. “Grant me a moment, at the least. And shut the door—it’s freezing out there.”
Leo looked unsettled, like he was suddenly aware of the fact that we’d just broken into a house, but moved forward and clicked the door shut anyway. He paced back and forth in front of it for a moment, boots heavy on the wood floors. “We could wait here,” he finally said. “Maybe she really is just out reading fortunes.”
“She’s not,” I said, rising. My voice felt far off, broken, as I picked my way over to the bed. Among the blankets that Leo had thrown back searching for the old woman was a piece of fabric, silk while the rest were wool. It gleamed dark blue, a royal blue, and I saw the head of a golden eagle spying at me among the folds. I stooped, lifted the scrap of material. It was sleek and gentle in my hand.
“What is that?” Emilia called from the rocking chair.
“It’s from the Winter Palace,” I said, cradling it against my chest. “It’s from the room the egg was in. She must have taken it herself. I assume one doesn’t take a magical Fabergé then go to work as per usual.” Leo marched over, held out his hand; I shot him a disgusted look, displayed the scrap but kept it out of his reach. His lips parted, half angry, half confused.
“Where would she have gone?” he murmured, more to himself than Emilia or me. “If she’s taken it for the Reds, she’s still in Saint Petersburg, surely. The revolution’s home is here.” He walked to a wooden dresser with a faded filigree pattern across the sides and flung one of the drawers open. It clunked open easily—the drawer was completely empty. Leo growled, slammed the drawer shut; I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.
“Maybe she’s protecting it,” I said. “Honoring Rasputin’s wishes. Taken it out of Saint Petersburg to keep it away from your revolution.”
“Again, I will remind you that you two don’t go to Paris until we have the egg. I wouldn’t look so pleased with yourself, Miss Kutepova.”
Leo tugged the hair at the back of his head for a moment, thinking. I ran the fabric from the palace through my fingers, watching it curve around my knuckles.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “Come on.”
“Wait, what—” Leo began, looking uncertain as I walked toward the door. I left the Babushka’s home and went down the street toward another house, Emilia limping along, Leo following behind her reluctantly. “Miss Kutepova. Miss Kutepova! If you say anything—the mystics are Whites, and if—”
“I know,” I snapped. “Stop shouting. Though I suppose it’s probably not too lovely, to look around and discover you’re surrounded by the enemy, is it?”
“No different from the last eighteen years of my life,” Leo said darkly.
I rolled my eyes and approached the door
. This house was almost identical to the Babushka’s, save for the lack of roses out front. A cat hustled out of the windowsill as I walked up, sending a salmon-colored curtain swinging. I lifted a hand, rapped hard on the door.
“You’re just going to call on a neighbor and ask where the Babushka went with a Fabergé egg?” Leo asked. I ignored him, leaning forward to listen. I knocked again as Leo continued, “If she took a train, maybe someone at the station remembers her . . .”
The door swung open so fast it caused all three of us to jump. The woman before us had thick silver hair and deep wrinkles, but she was tall and bony, like a stretched-out version of the Babushka. Her eyes were small and tired-looking, and the memory of last night’s lipstick and kohl eyeliner hung on her face.
“I’m sleeping,” she said. “What do you want?”
I exhaled. “My name is Lady Natalya Kutepova,” I said, lifting my chin and straightening my spine. “My friend—Countess Emilia Boldyreva.”
I could tell the woman was torn—I spoke like nobility and yet my clothes didn’t make any sense. She rubbed her eyes, made a face. “And who is he?” she asked, pointing to Leo. “King George?”
“No, he’s a footman,” I said pleasantly. Leo sighed behind me as I continued. “I apologize for our appearance—we had to disguise ourselves to escape Upper Nevsky with our lives. A group of us are on our way to Paris, but thought it prudent to consult with the Babushka before we leave—the old woman who lived in the house with the roses? She doesn’t appear to be home. Do you know when she’ll return?”
The woman leaned in her doorway, folded her arms. The ends of her elbows stuck out, knobby and red, and she chewed her tongue for a moment. “Afraid I don’t know.” It was impossible to tell if this was a lie or not. Still, I carried on.
“Oh no!” I said, affixing my best dismayed face. I looked at Emilia, who mirrored my extreme disappointment. “Our families will be so upset. We’ve consulted her for ages now—”
“Yes, she always was popular among the nobility,” the woman said drily. “Sorry for your poor luck.”
“Indeed,” I said, turning away from the door. I walked away, linking my arm with Emilia’s as I did. “Her poor luck too,” I said to Emilia. “Father would have paid any price to find out if Paris is the right decision.”
We made it a few more steps, Leo at our heels, when the woman called out. “Wait!” She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, walked toward us. “Perhaps I can help. I’m as experienced a mystic as your Babushka.”
I smiled. “Oh, thank you, but no. We’ll just hope she comes home before our train leaves—perhaps she’s just in the market. We have a bit of time.”
“She’s gone,” the woman said, shaking her head. There was a hunger in her voice now, a powerful sales pitch. “She’s out of town. She won’t be back anytime soon.”
Emilia and I glanced at each other. I frowned, rocked on my heels. “I’m not sure. We have a relationship with her, you see. I’d hate for her to come back from someplace nearby and find we’ve asked someone else—”
“Lady Kutepova, she’s in Moscow,” the woman said, shaking her head. “She’s gone to the mystic colony there to visit with our high priestess. She won’t be back anytime soon, I’m afraid. Perhaps it was fate that brought you to my door instead. Let me help you know your future.”
I bit my lip, sighed, then nodded. “All right. All right, I suppose that would work. Could you meet us at the Tsarskoye Selo station tomorrow afternoon? Three-thirty? Our train leaves at five.”
“That sounds fine,” the woman said, looking pleased. “Cards?”
“Perfect,” I said, and reached down, took the woman’s hand. She looked perplexed, but allowed me to squeeze it gently. “Thank you so much,” I said. “It’s such a frightening time.”
“Indeed,” she said. “I can expect payment there?”
“Naturally,” I answered, and we parted ways, wishing each other a fine evening despite the city’s chaos. It wasn’t until we were nearly back to the Babushka’s that Leo spoke.
“Well done,” he said, the compliment awkward in his mouth. He held open the door as we walked back inside the Babushka’s home. Emilia dropped into the rocking chair again and began unlacing her boots while I leaned in the kitchen doorway.
“There’s a group of Reds not far from here—I have to check in and let them know we’re going to Moscow,” Leo said, looking from me to Emilia meaningfully. “I won’t be gone long.” The last bit wasn’t a promise, but rather a threat—that he wasn’t walking so far he wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on us.
“Moscow?” Emilia sighed. “I hate Moscow.”
“It’s a fast trip,” Leo said, then walked toward the kitchen. He grabbed a broom, then stalked toward the front door; after pulling it shut behind him, he wedged the broom between the knob and the frame, so that it locked the door shut from the outside. He gave Emilia and me a stern look through the window, then hurried down the street.
“Emilia,” I said firmly, keeping my eyes trained on Leo’s back.
“Hm?”
“Put your boots back on. We’re leaving.”
MOSCOW
Saint Petersburg was a cup tipped over, its contents splattered across the floor. Moscow, however, was a cup balanced on the edge of a table. The people in this city walked carefully, spoke carefully, breathed carefully, keenly aware that any wrong movement could leave them spilled across the Russian landscape as in Saint Petersburg.
It was the price, the Babushka supposed, of getting the Constellation Egg. Though it didn’t really matter to her what the Reds or the Whites did, who stormed whom, who won the fight. The affairs of common Russians were, to her and the other mystics, beneath their meddling. The mystics’ identities were precious, their traditions handed down, their secrets locked up tightly.
Still, it was making the journey through Moscow rather irritating. Reds and Whites glowered at one another across the square, each daring the other to snap first. She stopped to complete a few card readings so she could afford to take a carriage through town, all with the egg tucked away in a satchel made of rags. When her carriage rounded the big brown train station, she saw the monastery, finally. She was home. And soon, she’d be a hero.
She walked across the bridge to the island in the Moskva, one of a handful that dotted the river at its widest point. The monastery on the island was older than the Romanovs, so old that no one remembered exactly who built it or why they left it behind. It was no matter; it was the perfect place for the mystics, and the rumors they spread of ghosts in the buildings meant they were largely left alone.
Mystics greeted her, ran out of their tents, and patted her back. She smiled, nodded, hugged, but kept the egg tight against her body. This was something for the priestess to see first. The Babushka wound her way through the monastery, stepping over fallen bricks and broken glass, cringing as bats dove from the empty bell tower, flying far too close to her face for comfort. She walked to the former sanctuary, where the priestess’s rooms were.
She knocked on the door once, waited to hear a call to enter, and then pushed it open. The sanctuary was an enormous round room. The pews were gone, replaced by tables, a bed, dressers lined with tarot cards and crystals and tools for séances. Rays from the setting sun streaked into the sanctuary from the open door, falling across a girl sitting at a desk. She had thick black hair and a long, oval-shaped face that was pretty at first glance, and rather frightening at the second—something to do with the angle of her cheekbones, the Babushka always thought.
“Sister,” the girl said. She was eighteen, but she was well aware of the power she held as the high priestess. “A vision last night predicted you would arrive with news of our curse.”
“I’ve done far better than news, Maria,” the Babushka said, stepping into the sanctuary.
The door slammed behind her, taking
with it most of the room’s sunlight. The room was now lit mostly by candles that were lined up on every flat surface, their flames still and tall. Maria rose, tall and elegant—she’d once nearly been a full-fledged member of the Russian court, but in the end she embraced this life instead. It was probably for the best—the aristocracy likely couldn’t have come to accept the far-off, haunted look in her eyes.
“You don’t mean . . .” Maria began, biting her lip, like a child speaking of Christmastime.
“I do,” the Babushka answered, grinning at her own cleverness. “I have the Constellation Egg. Alexei Romanov’s girl stumbled into my studio and told me exactly where.”
“Show me,” Maria demanded, clapping her hands together. She looked almost frightened as the Babushka walked to the table in the center of the room and set her satchel among the spilled tarot cards. She unwrapped it slowly, piece by piece. Finally, the last bit of fabric fell away and the Constellation Egg was revealed.
Here in the dim of the sanctuary, it looked more inky black than royal blue. The diamond-stars gleamed in the candlelight, the quartz base looked so cloud-like it was hard to believe it to be a solid thing. Maria seemed to have stopped breathing. She extended trembling fingertips toward the egg; when they finally made contact, she exhaled, melted in relief.
“My God. This is it,” she whispered. She now looked on the verge of tears; when she spoke again, her voice was raspy. “Do the Whites know it’s gone?”
“No,” the Babushka said. “I took it from the Winter Palace myself. I was able to sneak in through a back door during the riots—it was guarded by a wounded soldier. It hurt my heart to kill him.”
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