Tsarina

by Patrick, J. Nelle

  “When we get to Paris, Natalya, the first thing I’m doing is getting a silk robe and wearing it for a month and a half,” she said. “No, wait—the first thing I’m doing is taking a bath. The sort where they fill the bathtub with milk.”

  I reached under my own dress and tugged at the corset I was still wearing. The boning was forgiving, much better than the stiff sorts some of the older women wore, but it was still uncomfortable, especially after several days straight of wearing it. From the wiggling Emilia was doing, I suspected hers had spun around her body during the night. She stopped, scowled, then looked at Leo.

  “Turn around,” she barked, and he obeyed so quickly that I’m not sure who—Leo or me—was more surprised. Emilia turned, motioned for me to unbutton the back of her dress. I did—one of the plain black buttons fell off in my hand—and she then reached underneath it, began twisting and turning and, before I knew it, pulled the corset through the skirt.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said, inhaling deeply and flopping back on the bed. She stretched her arms above her head till they struck the stone wall that served as a headboard. “Want me to do yours?” she asked when I buttoned her back up.

  “I . . .” Did I want to be parading about in a dead maid’s dress without underwear? No, not at all. But I wanted to breathe, and to release the pressure on my ribs. I sighed, looked at Leo, whose back was still turned. “All right.”

  It was a tremendous relief, I had to admit. When Leo finally turned around, he frowned as he surveyed us.

  “What changed?” he asked.

  “This is why men wear the same suit over and over,” Emilia muttered.

  It was perhaps more difficult to fold up the corsets and leave them behind than it should have been—it felt like we were stripping away one of our last bits of home, of our real lives. But we did, tucking them in one of the Babushka’s drawers while Leo watched like he was experiencing some strange ritual.

  “Right,” he said when we were done. “Come on. We’ve got to leave if we want to catch the nine o’clock train.”

  “Should we wash the soup pot?” Emilia asked, looking in the kitchen. I could tell she was hungry again—I certainly was. In a way, it would have been easier to just keep on with the hollow, starved feeling, as now the soup felt like a taunting memory.

  “I think she’ll forgive us for leaving things a bit messy,” Leo said. I thought the words were sarcastic, but when I looked at him, his face carried none of the mockery I expected. I frowned, walked to the glass by the front windows, and used the reflection to pin my hair neatly.

  “You’re doing that?” Emilia asked, frowning at me. “Should I?”

  “Not much point,” Leo said. “No one’s going to see us on the train.”

  “Someone’s always watching, especially when you’re at your least attractive,” Emilia said, which was something she used to tout as an excuse to wear ball gowns to tea. She sounded halfhearted now, though, not like she didn’t believe it to be true, but like she believed it to be more true than ever. Emilia yanked her hair up, pulling it into a twist so halfhearted that she looked like one of the ladies who always drank too much at state dinners.

  “So we’re ready then?” Leo asked shortly, walking to the door. He was still wheezing a bit, though it sounded better than yesterday. He opened the door, looked outside, then turned back to us.

  “Don’t run,” he said testily, though it was as much a question as a statement.

  “We won’t,” I answered. And it was true—what would be the point? Like it or not, we needed Leo’s help to get through Saint Petersburg; we’d likely need him in Moscow as well. At least, up until the point where we turned him over to Emilia’s uncle.

  We began to walk, the mist of early morning sweeping across the streets before us. The rain had left the roads glistening and the canals fuller than normal. We were headed back into the main stretch of Saint Petersburg, toward Nevsky Prospekt, the road Emilia and I were searching for during our failed escape attempt. It was a road we were familiar with—that everyone was familiar with, as it cut straight through Saint Petersburg, through Upper Nevsky, ending at the Winter Palace. It was always busy, and today was no exception; in fact, it was disconcerting how quickly people seemed to be returning to errands and trips and work. The red and yellow streetcars were stalled on their tracks, but people were merely walking around them, like they were new monuments instead of victims of the revolution.

  Then there were the Reds. There were dozens—most Leo’s age, some shabbily dressed and others, I suspected, not much worse off than the nobility. They chanted about victory, about the end of tsar oppression, about the new order that would fall into place as soon as Lenin arrived in Saint Petersburg. Emilia and I immediately ducked our heads as we approached them, and I noticed Leo tried to cross the street whenever one was ahead of us. They didn’t seem angry, like they did the night of the riot, but excited, cheeks flushed and eyes shining.

  “Don’t say anything,” Leo said under his breath suddenly, as we approached the side of a closed leather shop.

  “To who?”

  “Finally,” a new voice said. “You’re late, Uspensky. You were supposed to check in ten minutes ago.” It took me a moment to find the speaker in the sea of bodies, and a moment longer to place the man—it was Yuri, perhaps the only Red I currently hated more than Viktor. Emilia sunk a little, looked at me warily.

  “Yuri,” Leo said firmly. “You can tell Viktor all is well.”

  “I will,” Yuri said with a sort of sneer. “And I’m here to take the spare.”

  “What?” Leo asked, blinking. People were looking our way now, mild curiosity threatening to become real interest.

  “The countess,” Yuri said, voice brimming with disdain for Emilia’s title. “You don’t need to worry about two girls on a train. What did you do to your arm?”

  Emilia took a sharp breath in, but held her ground, looking firmly ahead—it impressed me and seemed to shock Leo, who looked back at her like he anticipated more fainting. He turned back to Yuri, who looked irritated to have been assigned girl-prisoner duty.

  Leo cleared his throat as I linked my arm tightly around Emilia’s. “It’s fine, Yuri. I can control these two. Obviously,” he said, motioning to the fact that we were standing so near him. “They’re noble girls, not escape artists.”

  Yuri frowned, looked from Emilia, to me, to Leo. “Then how’d you hurt your arm?”

  “I didn’t,” Leo said swiftly, reaching up and yanking the sling off. His arm dropped easily, and I knew the pain had to be intense. He didn’t grimace. “I heard the trains are packed. Figured an injury and two girls might get me a free seat, since we don’t exactly have the money for tickets.”

  “Oh!” Yuri said, nodding like this was obvious. “Still, though—Viktor wants the countess back.”

  Leo shook his head, stepped between Emilia and Yuri. “Trust me on this. They’re easier to handle together—as long as I’ve got one, the other stays. You take the countess and I’ll have a harder time controlling Miss Kutepova.”

  “What am I supposed to tell Viktor?”

  “Tell him I’ll be back tomorrow,” Leo said brightly, then reached forward and clapped Yuri on the shoulder. Yuri looked unconvinced, but extended an arm and grabbed Leo’s shoulder tightly, familiarly. I saw the faintest idea of a grimace on Leo’s face; then Yuri dropped his hand and uneasily retreated. Leo watched him go for a moment, then winced and backed up to the leather shop, clutching his bad arm with the other hand. I snatched the sling from him and roughly reassembled it, ignoring the curious looks of passersby.

  “Thank you,” Emilia told him, though she seemed conflicted about saying it. Leo looked equally conflicted about answering, and opted to hold his tongue.

  The train station was ahead, across from a massive church with domed towers. The Nicholaevsky Station was certainly one of t
he busiest in the city, and likely the most beautiful. It was two stories tall and painted pale peach. Enormous Venetian windows with white panes lined the upper level, and in the center of the station was a clock tower that stretched high into the cloudy sky. The lower story had a half-dozen or so doorways with crisp white arches above them, each capped with a little circular window, like a porthole no one could reach. People were filing in and out, mostly workers and merchants. Leo gave Emilia and me a harried look as we grew closer.

  “We’re going to sneak on the passenger train. Just get on, take a seat, and we’re on our way. They key is to look like you know what you’re doing. Think you can handle it?”

  “My dear Mr. Uspensky,” I muttered, “we’re from the Russian court. We’re excellent at looking like we know what we’re doing.”

  We made our way into the station, Emilia and I pushing together to avoid the elbows and bodies of men who smelled like sweat and vodka, young women with smudges on their faces and kerchiefs holding their hair back. Everyone seemed to want out of the city, something that I could tell discouraged Leo—perhaps his revolution wasn’t as popular as he hoped. I looked up at the ceiling, arced high above, a space that looked strange and empty compared to the sea of humanity around us. There was a roaring sound, screeching, the thrumming of a train pulling in. People milled about, rushed toward it—Leo grabbed my hand, met my eyes, and quickly switched to my wrist; I took Emilia’s hand, and we hurried with the crowd. The train came to a stop; its whistle blew deafeningly.

  “Back! Back!” someone shouted as soon as the whistle subsided. The crowd stopped; disapproving mumbles rushed across us. I stood on my toes to see what the problem was. The conductor stood in a smart blue uniform, holding a gun above his head so the crowd could see it. “Ticketed patrons only,” he shouted. “Ticketed patrons only! We will be checking! Ticketed patrons only!” My eyes ran along the various cherry-red cars I could see—there were railway employees at the door to each, all with guns drawn, hands extended for the precious tickets that so few in the crowd had to offer.

  Leo cursed, released my wrist, and put his hands on his head. Emilia gave me a worried look.

  “Lady Kutepova?” a quiet voice said, an old voice—one with the lilt of aristocracy. “Lady Natalya Kutepova? Is that you?”

  I spun around, eyes wide; my gaze fell on an older man with practiced posture and a lifted chin. A woman was on his arm, dressed not unlike me—in a maid’s dress that was slightly small, with skin and nails far too flawless to belong to any real maid. Leo shifted but was unwilling to make a scene by pulling us away.

  “Count Demidov,” I said, alarmed. He looked side to side nervously when I said his name, pulled the gray-haired countess closer. “I’m sorry,” I continued. “I’m just so surprised to see you here.”

  “It’s understandable,” the count said. “We are, indeed, alarmed to be in such a state. We should have gone to England months ago. Poor Russia. Poor Nicholas—”

  “I’m sure Russia will prevail,” I said. Leo caught my eyes and gave me an exasperated look. I added, “She always does.”

  “Of course, of course,” the countess said, though she looked at me worriedly. “Darling . . . you have heard, haven’t you? The rumor?”

  “There are so many,” I answered. “One loses track.”

  “They’re saying . . .” The countess caught the count’s eye for a long moment, one in which I felt my heartbeat quickening. “They’re saying that Nicholas abdicated the throne to try to please the Reds. That Alexei is the tsar now.”

  “Oh, I . . .”

  These were the only sounds that made it from my lips. The only words my mind could form. It couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be true. Nicholas would never abdicate, he’d said so a thousand times—what sort of sovereign walks away from his throne? But of course, he could never have known his family would be kidnapped. Be put in so much danger. Held hostage. How did the Reds break him? I whirled around to look at Leo, hoping for some sort of confirmation that this rumor wasn’t true, but I found him avoiding my eyes, which answered my fears.

  “Alexei is the tsar?” Emilia murmured, shaking her head. I closed my eyes, tried to slow the swiftly tilting world beneath me. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen—wasn’t how he was to become the leader of Russia.

  It doesn’t matter. You and Alexei will be together, in the end. That’s what the fortune said. And if you get the Constellation Egg for him, he’ll rule for a long, long time. It’s a tsar’s legacy that matters, not his coronation.

  Or lack thereof.

  “Is that you . . . Emilia Boldyreva?” the countess said while I tried—and largely failed—to reason with myself.

  “Yes ma’am,” Emilia said. “Where are you traveling?” I opened my eyes again, looked down at my hands; my mind felt too muddled. God help him.

  “We hoped to go toward Paris,” the count said somberly. “But it appears few trains are running, so we thought we might be able to at least get to Moscow. The rail workers are still striking; only a few companies have working trains. They don’t seem to care if you’re Red or White, thankfully, but they don’t even care if you’ve got four times their ticket price—”

  “Hush,” the countess said swiftly. “We’ll be mugged.”

  “Of course, darling,” the count said. He finally realized Leo was not merely another passerby, but was standing resolutely behind Emilia and I. “Do I know you from court, sir?” he asked, clearly trying to place Leo among the many young nobles. It was a silly endeavor—Leo was twice the size of the noble boys. Even the noble boys in the military were mostly cavalry officers, lanky things whose entire bodies could fit in the space of Leo’s shoulders.

  “I suspect not,” Leo said politely. I thought it kind he didn’t laugh at the prospect of being at court.

  “Leo is not from . . . our neighborhood,” Emilia said carefully, nearly bumping into the count as a woman with a baby wrapped in a coat brushed past. “But he’s helping us to Moscow.”

  “Oh, quite good of him,” the count said. “How pleasing to see there are still royalists among the . . . well. You know. I don’t suppose you have a cigarette I might borrow, do you, boy? I didn’t think to grab my rolling papers before we left the house.”

  “I’m afraid I’m fresh out,” Leo said tartly, though he patted his coat pocket as if genuinely looking.

  “Ah, well then. Good luck to you,” the count said, patting me on the shoulder. “Perhaps we’ll have tea in Paris sometime? I’ve a summer home there.”

  I blinked. “Perhaps,” I said. The word was difficult to say, as my mind was preoccupied repeating the impossible over and over: Nicholas has given up his throne. Alexei is the tsar. The tsar. The tsar.

  The count and countess gave me a meek look, then vanished, headed back to the ticket counter. The farther they got, the less I noticed their gait, their raised chins, their trimmed hair. The harder it was to tell they were any different from anyone else in the station.

  “Natalya?” Emilia whispered. “Are you all right?”

  “He can’t be the tsar,” I said, voice hoarse. I looked up at Leo, narrowed my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I only heard it last night, while I was getting food,” he said, holding his palms up. “I thought it might be a rumor.”

  “This isn’t . . . this isn’t how it was supposed to happen,” I said, shaking my head. I’d pictured the day Alexei would become tsar plenty of times. I thought we’d be married, when it happened, and I’d be well practiced in the art of being a royal. I wagered Nicholas would die an old man, and Alexei would be strong, loved, respected, a powerful military leader, a cunning strategist. He’d be crowned amid pomp and circumstance, a day of parties and parades and dinners and dances. I’d be at his side, of course, the tsarina, wearing the old-style Russian gowns and walking hand in hand with him to the throne in the Win
ter Palace. Soldiers would march outside, precise, perfect, marvelous, and we’d set off fireworks over the Neva.

  I didn’t think it would happen while I stood in a crowded train station and he suffered at the hands of kidnappers.

  Leo looked at the train. “We can’t sneak on. Not with the security they’ve got today.” He looked around the room anxiously, like a solution might be painted on the walls or the back of someone’s coat. I ran my eyes again over all the cars. Passengers were now seated, watching with dismay as the crowd grew ever angrier that the trip was sold out. The conductor was still shouting, brandishing the gun, calling out, “Passenger cars one through ten, two hundred seats only!”

  “Wait,” Emilia said, her eyes lighting. She spun to me. “Passenger cars.”

  “What?” I asked, dazed.

  “Passenger cars,” she said, nearly shaking me to snap me back to life. It worked, reminded me that standing here in a train station feeling overwhelmed did nothing for Alexei. He was the tsar now—keeping the egg safe for him was more important than ever.

  “Passenger cars . . . I . . . oh!” I said, blinking as I realized what Emilia meant. We glanced at Leo, then hurried away, leaving him no choice but to follow. We ran down to the first floor, where the noise dropped off considerably and people were wandering about, like they’d given up. We walked outside, into the gray, and started around the side of the building. Leo was pleasantly silent as we guided him down the side of the building, to a smaller street and—

  “I don’t think the tsar’s private car is attached this time around,” Leo said witheringly as he saw where we were headed. It was the tsar’s personal platform, a house-sized building that looked like a miniature version of the station. On the awning there was a bent, torn bit of metal where the rioters tore down the Romanov crest. The doors were smashed and open, but the interior was surprisingly untouched—I suppose the Reds had the Winter Palace’s wine cellars to raid, after all. The space was simple, with inlaid wood floors and a high cupola in the center of the ceiling, where arched windows let in the scant daylight. On the far end was a portrait of Peter the Great; on the other, an oil painting of Nicholas, each with slim claw-foot tables underneath them. How did I never notice, before, just how much Alexei looked like his father?