Tsarina

by Patrick, J. Nelle

  Maria lifted the egg in her slender fingers. She held it closer to a candle to allow light to bounce through the blue glass, then rapped on it with a well-manicured nail; her time with the nobility meant she was perhaps the most polished of all mystics.

  “Shall we claim it for the mystics then?” the Babushka asked. “I imagine the Reds will want it. If we take it, we rule Russia as we always did—in silence. The Reds will overpower the Romanovs, they’ll think they’ve won, and we can go about—”

  “That won’t work,” Maria said sharply, like she was being woken from a dream. “It can’t be claimed for all of us—it must be claimed for one. For a new tsar—or, I suppose, in our case, tsarina.”

  “One?” the Babushka asked. Her heart fell to her feet—all this, and her powers wouldn’t be returned?

  Maria smiled brightly, in a carefree way that reminded the old woman of fashionable ladies in Saint Petersburg. “Don’t worry, Babushka. That is merely the limitation of an object—it follows the rules Rasputin set. I will claim the egg, then return the power to the mystics. I’m not Grigori Rasputin—you can trust me.”

  Maria walked across the sanctuary and lifted an athame from an end table. She quickly, easily slid the blade across her palm—it wasn’t a pretty thing, this sort of magic, but blood was necessary. Maria watched her blood rise like it pleased her, tilted her hand, and watched a few drops fall to the floor. When Maria looked over and saw the Babushka staring at the wound, she narrowed her eyes. The Babushka dropped her gaze to the floor, muttered an apology under her breath—it was a well-known fact that Maria hated to be stared at.

  Maria sniffed; the apology was nice, but didn’t erase the hot feeling that was bubbling up in her chest. She’d spent far too long being stared at, being the odd, dirty, strange girl in the Russian court. The little pet to the real nobles, something to play with until a better toy came along or her father returned from a romp in the bedroom. Eyes, eyes that told her she wasn’t good enough, wasn’t pretty enough, wasn’t powerful enough.

  She hated to be stared at.

  Maria shook off the heat of her memories and tried to focus. Her lips slowly parted, though it wasn’t clear if she was smiling or baring her teeth.

  “I claim this,” she said to the egg, like she were speaking to a lover. “I claim you.”

  Maria expected a thunderclap. A storm, lightning. Something grand and frightening, something worthy of the act. Instead, there was nothing, save the cry of a few ravens in the rafters. The Babushka looked up at them warily. Maria cursed, pulled her hand away. The excitement that had been building in her, waiting, eagerly gnawing at the corners of her heart, fell away so sharply that she sucked an angry breath in and slammed her hands down on the table.

  The Constellation Egg’s secrets were locked up tighter than she anticipated. But she would break in. She would find a way. No matter the cost.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “We’re leaving?” Emilia asked, eyes widening like she was certain she’d misheard me. “But Leo’s—”

  “The window in the kitchen,” I said swiftly. “We can fit through it.”

  “And then what?” she said, though she spoke with little doubt—and she was already lacing her boots. “I don’t know the way back to Upper Nevsky. It hardly feels like we’re in Saint Petersburg, to be honest.”

  “Look,” I said, pointing out the front window. “The Smolny Convent towers. If we follow the towers, we’ll eventually reach Nevsky Prospekt. We can take it straight to the Moscow train station.”

  “Wait—what are you talking about?”

  I wrung my hands together—we didn’t have long. “Your uncle is in Moscow—he can keep us safe once we get there. So we’ll board the train, go to Moscow, find the Babushka, get the Constellation Egg ourselves and take it to Paris. We can keep it safe there for the Romanovs—we can still save Russia, Emilia.” The plan didn’t feel real until I said it aloud; suddenly it wasn’t just a plan, it was a mission, something that wasn’t an option or up for debate.

  “They’ll put me in the Fortress,” Emilia said, eyes wide. “Natalya, no. They’ll lock me up, I can’t—they’ll just telegraph ahead, have Reds waiting for us at the station.”

  “The telegraph lines are down. They can’t contact anyone. Think of it, Emilia, we’ll be heroes—”

  “I don’t want to be a hero,” she snapped. “I want to be alive when this is over! All I wanted to do from the start was go to Paris!”

  “I know, please, Emilia—Leo’s gone,” I said, motioning to the window. “We’re not far from the station. We can make it. We can do this.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  I stopped, looked down. “What if they don’t let us go to Paris when they’re done either way, Emilia?”

  Emilia blanched, trembled. “But they said—”

  “They said they were Russians too, but look at them.”

  Emilia’s face crunched up. She folded her arms across her chest and looked like she might be sick. Seconds were ticking by—

  “We have to go. Now.” My words were sharp, so sharp that Emilia almost looked hurt. Still, to my relief, she ran after me as I bolted for the kitchen window. I yanked the Saint John icon down as I wrenched the window open—one of the peddlers outside the station would surely give us a little money for it, enough to get on the train.

  One of the windowpanes shattered as it slammed against the top of its sash. I helped Emilia through first; I glanced over my shoulder, certain I’d see Leo barging through the door as I placed a boot firmly in the basin and heaved myself into the frame. It was a farther drop than I anticipated; I crushed dying sunflowers as I fell into the garden.

  My feet were burning with blisters, and Emilia was limping, but we sprinted along the Neva, behind the house’s gardens. The road twisted ahead, curving up and into the marketplace; I grabbed Emilia’s hand as we entered it. Everything was a blur—faces, hands, livestock, children flitting around by our feet. I wanted to move faster, run faster, but every few feet there was another body, another wall of humanity that slowed us down, and my heels kept slipping between the cobblestones. I glanced back—I didn’t see Leo anywhere. Emilia met my eyes and gave me an encouraging look.

  I couldn’t see the Smolny towers for a moment, my view blocked by a massive apartment building with boarded-up windows. We broke through the other side of the marketplace, panting, sweating so hard I desperately wanted to shed my coat. Yes, there they were: the towers ahead of us again, slightly to our left. When we took a third turn, I dared to slow to a walk, panting, gasping for breath. The roads here were thin, uneven, and busy; it felt like the buildings on either side might crumble on top of me from the flow of the people rushing by them. I jumped at the dull sound of a whistle blowing, then turned to Emilia, perplexed. I realized the answer to my question before I could ask it.

  “The factory whistles,” I said, and she nodded. I’d never heard them so loud before—but then, the factories were far from any part of Saint Petersburg I frequented.

  “Do you think Leo’s realized yet?” Emilia asked, bumping into at least a half-dozen people as she looked behind us warily.

  “Surely,” I said, eyes darting to the skyline as I hugged the Saint John icon closer to my chest. The sun seemed to be against us, descending ever faster. When it set, we wouldn’t be able to see the towers at all. We took another sharp turn; music from a bar across the street danced in our direction, as did the eyes of several men standing outside smoking cigarettes.

  Now that workers were released by the factory whistle, the already-busy streets were beginning to truly fill with men walking home, roaming in packs and covered in grease, sweat, or both. I realized Emilia and I didn’t look entirely unlike the other women walking about—maids and housekeepers heading home for the evening, still in uniforms similar to the borrowed ones we were wearing.

  The horiz
on glowed red; the Smolny towers were silhouettes now and the streets grew shadowy and frightening—all strange lights, strange leers, strange signs advertising female impersonators and nude dancing. It was a section of Saint Petersburg I knew existed but never would have ventured to. There were plenty of boys my age in the streets, students from the mining college and sons of merchants eager to spend their parents’ money. Most seemed harmless, but plenty looked like they had dark evenings ahead. I swallowed hard as one such man crossed in front of us, his eyes wandering up and down our bodies in a way that made me shiver with disgust.

  “How far away are we from the station?” Emilia asked, voice filled with dread. The streetlamps flickered on. The ones in this part of town were rather plain, and instead of bathing us in comforting light, they merely made the shadows even more spiky and threatening. To our right was a police wagon lying on its side by an alleyway, like an animal’s corpse. Someone had painted Down with the German woman!, a reference to the tsarina, across its undercarriage in bright red.

  “We can’t be far,” I said. “I remember I could always see the convent towers from the left windows of the station. We should reach Nevsky Prospekt any minute now. We’re almost there, Emilia.”

  There was a circus ahead. Two women stood out front in clothes so small I knew they had to be freezing; corsets that pushed their breasts up, tiny sleeves that barely covered their arms, hair down and tangled seductively. They called out to groups of men, lured them in with promises of a French movie followed by a wrestling match. After the circus, the crowds on the street got thinner. There were stores here, but groceries, pharmacies, places that were closed and locked up for the night. I was relieved for a moment—there were fewer lecherous eyes, fewer people who might recognize Emilia or me as nobles. This section of town, after all, was surely crawling with Reds who meant us harm. I looked up at the horizon.

  The towers were gone.

  “Natalya,” Emilia said suddenly, voice a grave whisper. “I think we’re being followed.”

  “By who?” I asked, not daring to turn around. “Leo?”

  “No,” she said, voice now breaking. “A group of men—I’m not sure.”

  I waited a few beats then pretended to fix my hair, turning just enough to look behind us. My stomach dropped, turned in on itself. Three men, our age, perhaps, but with shadows under their eyes and tension in their shoulders. They were staring, staring so hard I could feel it as I turned back around.

  “Do we run?” Emilia asked.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet. See the corner ahead? If we turn there, it should take us back around the block, near the theater. There are more people there.”

  “Natalya,” Emilia said tensely. We were walking faster, but I could see their reflection in store windows—they were keeping pace with us, glancing at one another. Worse yet, I could see the man in the middle was smiling, smiling in a way that made me feel sick. I should turn around, I thought. Turn around and face them. See if they can advance while looking me in the eye. It was, after all, easier to shoot someone in the back than meet face-to-face. Yet I couldn’t. I felt hypnotized, afraid to turn around, look at them, confirm this was real. It made me feel weak, feel stupid, but I pulled Emilia around the corner.

  I opened my mouth to tell her to run, but there was no need—our feet pounded on the dirt. We leapt over mops and buckets and empty milk crates that were stacked outside the back doors of storefronts; I finally felt free from the paralyzing fear and looked over my shoulder.

  They were behind us. Behind us, laughing, walking fast—but not running. Why weren’t they running? I turned back to the path ahead, stumbled over a broom handle.

  That’s why they aren’t running.

  Ahead, where the alley should have let out by the theater, was the overturned police wagon. The back section was tilted toward us, blocking the alley entirely. I heard Emilia cry out, but she didn’t stop, so neither did I—we kept going, ran up to it. I grabbed hold of one of the wooden benches, tried to climb up, feet scraping against the wagon bed. I could hear the music from the theater on the other side, hear people milling around—but it was so crowded, so humming with nightlife that I don’t think they heard me as I screamed out for help. The men were running now, they were getting closer, closer.

  I turned to face the boys, then swung the Saint John icon back.

  “Oh, we’re going to fight, are we?” the boy in the middle said, rocking back on his heels. “I like fighting.”

  I charged forward, swung hard; the icon made contact with a loud clank, and the boy bent over, clutching his cheek. The icon was crumpled now, cheap and bent. The boy rose again, came back toward me.

  The plank hissed past my face. Emilia. She’d grabbed one of the planks from the wooden benches, and cracked the boy so hard that he fell into a heap. The boys cursed at her, ducked to help their friend up as I looked over at Emilia’s panicked but furious form. She had the plank lifted, her nails digging into the wood and jaw clenched.

  “Whore,” the one we hit growled as he clambered to his feet. “I thought we could do this the easy way.” His face was badly bleeding where his sparse beard met his cheekbones, his eyes glowing dangerously. He and the others looked at one another, had some sort of silent conversation, then advanced again, this time all three at once. I steeled my jaw, waited until they were close to lash out with the remains of the icon.

  This time they were ready. The nearest one knocked the icon away so easily I was ashamed of myself. Emilia managed to strike one other with the plank, but there were too many; she screamed as they grabbed her by the wrists. She kicked the closest boy hard, but he grunted, fought back; one of her borrowed shoes went flying. Another one of the boys grabbed hold of my arms, pinned them behind my back. The one we hit was suddenly on me, grabbing my face with his hands, snarling.

  “Shut up,” he hissed at me, and I heard the clattering sound of him frantically undoing his belt with one hand. I closed my eyes, screamed again, again, but nothing—

  A thick sound, feet hitting the earth. Then a scuffle, and suddenly I was free. I opened my eyes, disoriented with fear, and fell backward. Emilia was there, caught me by the shoulders. I turned to her, grasped her dress, and suddenly realized what was happening.

  It was Leo, hands curled into tight fists. He moved fast, swinging first at the boy who threatened me. Leo socked him hard in the eye then barreled into him, pulling him to the ground and getting in two more punches before the other two boys hauled Leo off. One tried to hold him so the other could punch; Leo twisted away easily, shoved one boy into the other so they both toppled backward into a store’s back door. They were quick to recover, along with the first boy; all three approached Leo slowly, methodically. Leo looked from side to side; the plank Emilia fought them with was near my feet. I ducked down, slid it through the dirt to him.

  Leo grabbed it, swung out. He cracked one boy on the side of the head. Another dove for Leo, knocked him backward and into the dirt. Leo struggled, tried to claw his way out, but they were on him; one boy held him flat to the ground while the other ran up, kicked Leo so hard in the chest that I heard his ribs crack. The pain seemed to give Leo new life; he flipped over, kicked the boy holding him away. He grabbed the one who kicked him, yanked him to the ground, and pushed his face into the dirt. Leo then shoved the boy toward Emilia and me; we pounced, taking advantage of the dirt and dust in the boy’s eyes, kicking him hard in the shins. I knotted my hand into a fist, punched him hard; it felt like my hand was exploding, though I was pleased when he collapsed to the ground, rubbing his face dizzily.

  The last boy—the one who threatened me—was approaching Leo when he realized that both his friends were down. Leo grinned; his lip was busted and his eye blackened, and I could tell by the way his arm was twisted that at least one bone was broken. Still, he looked strong, looked ready—looked happy, even, to be fighting. The boy lunged forward, Leo du
cked, wheeled back around, and cracked the boy hard in the throat with his elbow.

  The boy coughed, sputtered. He nearly dropped to his knees, but seemed to think twice about it; instead, he turned and ran. His conscious comrade—the one I punched—stumbled after him. Leo glanced toward the unconscious one, and, seeing that he wasn’t waking anytime soon, exhaled. He turned toward us, face now fallen. He grabbed his broken arm, limped to the doorway of the nearest store, and silently sank to the ground. I could hear him wheezing, his eyebrows knitting together in pain with each breath.

  Emilia looked at me, sweating, still reeling from what had just happened. I pressed my lips together, then walked to Leo’s side. In the distance, I heard the whistle—the train. We’d missed it. Emilia closed her eyes and exhaled, defeated.

  “Let me see your arm,” I told Leo flatly. He glanced up at me, trying to hide the pain in his eyes. It didn’t work, especially when he tried to lift his arm for my inspection.

  “Stop, stop,” I said, kneeling down beside him. I squinted—the light was dim here, the sounds of the revelry on the other side of the toppled wagon picking up. “It’s broken.”

  “Clearly,” he said through gritted teeth.

  I ignored him. “I can set it.”

  “You can what?” he said, eyes widened. He pulled his arm away from me, crying out in pain as he did so. “You’re not setting anything.”

  “I worked in a hospital ward with Olga Romanov for months,” I said. “I can set it. Trust me. It’s easy.”

  “Natalya,” Emilia finally said. Her voice was shaking, but not weak. “Perhaps we should get out of the horrible alley before we set anything?”

  “Of course,” I said. “It’s just . . .” I rose, looked down at Leo. “Can you walk?”

  Leo nodded, went to stand, but doubled over clutching his ribs. Before I thought about it, I swooped in, relieved to see Emilia was doing the same. We each looped an arm under his shoulders, steadied him. He gave me a concerned look, like he was certain I was moments from breaking his good arm. I couldn’t exactly blame him—I considered doing so. Perhaps I would have if I weren’t becoming keenly aware of the scrapes on my own palms, the cuts and bruises swelling up across my body.