Tsarina

by Patrick, J. Nelle

  “I’ve had the entire train ride,” I reminded him.

  Leo shrugged. “Are you going to tell her it’s for me?”

  “No,” I said. “You’re still a Red.”

  “You know, you don’t sound as angry when you say that now,” Leo said, giving me a wry sort of smile.

  “Just used to it, I’m sure,” I answered, though I wasn’t certain he heard me—he was staring at the history museum, whose brick facade was so red it looked like a hot iron cooling. We paused by the patina statue of Minin and Pozharsky while Emilia frowned, looked across the square. Leo hardly noticed we’d stopped, but I looked to Emilia, worry in my eyes—we couldn’t keep this up forever.

  Emilia swallowed. She then looked across the square meaningfully.

  It took me a moment to see it—the uniform, crisp navy with gold buttons running down the sides. He was on horseback, which helped, a great beautiful gray horse that walked delicately around the crowd. Emilia’s uncle. Here was our salvation, only a few hundred yards away.

  Here was our salvation, only a few seconds away.

  My eyes widened as I watched her uncle, his eyes trained on the Reds, their eyes on him. Neither looked eager to engage the other, so they simply kept their distance, each wary but ever aware of the other’s movements. I supposed it would only take a single shot, or a single brick through a window, for Moscow to fall apart like Saint Petersburg.

  I turned back to Emilia. She would need to go to her uncle first. He wouldn’t be able to take Leo in alone—he’d need a moment to gather a few men. I inhaled as she turned toward Leo, frowned.

  “I think I should ask someone,” Emilia said carefully. “I don’t see many mystics here. Perhaps they congregate elsewhere now.”

  “Ask who?” he answered.

  “One of the few mystics who are here.” Emilia pointed to a group of women in violet and blue dresses, hair long and loose. They scurried throughout the crowd, flirting with men and shuffling cards in the faces of women, daring them to come learn their futures.

  “All right,” Leo said, and started for them. Emilia grabbed his arm, shook her head.

  “I’m going to say I’m the Babushka’s granddaughter,” she said, fluffing her already chaotic hair so that it looked more like the mystics’. “They’ll never believe me if I’m with the two of you. We look like hooligans.” As she said this, she stepped off. Leo suddenly moved as if to grab her; Emilia spun around, gave him an offended look.

  “I—I’m sorry,” he said swiftly, sincerely. “It’s just . . .”

  “What?” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll stay with you. Like you said back in Saint Petersburg, Leo—Emilia isn’t going to run without me.”

  “After this morning, I’m not running anywhere for a long while,” she said, and started away again. Leo seemed at a loss—like he knew he should stop her, but was ashamed that he wanted to. He watched her disappear into the crowd, and I worried he’d see her veer off from the mystics and approach her uncle. I pressed my lips together, turned around, and put my hand on the base of the Minin and Pozharsky statue.

  “Do you know the story?” I asked, drawing his attention from her. It worked—Leo met my eyes, then looked up at the statue. It was of two men: Minin, the one standing, and Pozharsky sitting by his side and holding a shield.

  “You think they teach that on farms in Samara?” Leo said, and smiled at me. I swallowed.

  “You’ll like it,” I said, tilting my head at the statue. “It’s one of my father’s favorites. During the Time of Troubles, when the entire country was fighting about who would ascend the Russian throne, Polish soldiers invaded, hoping to capture the throne for themselves. Pozharsky was from the nobility, a Rurikid prince and a war hero. He rallied his troops against the Poles, but was injured and lost—the Poles nearly burnt Moscow to the ground. Minin, meanwhile, was a butcher, from the lower class. But he convinced everyone in the city—from nobles to peasants—to rise up together, to form a militia. Rumor is that he kidnapped the city’s girls and held them hostage till the men agreed to fight,” I said. I smiled at him. “I figured you’d like that part, being a kidnapper and all.”

  Leo half laughed, shook his head at me. He looked over his shoulder, and I hurriedly continued. “So Minin and Pozharsky combined their troops, the nobility and the peasants. They marched into Moscow together and took back the city from the Poles.” Leo stared at the statue for a long time. He let his eyes fall to the inscription on the statue’s base: To Minin and Prince Pozharsky, from a thankful Russia. Leo ran his fingers across the words. He grew still, like he was admiring something far more beautiful than carved letters.

  “What happened afterward?” Leo said. His voice was lower now. Flatter. He didn’t need to say it aloud for me to understand—he’d figured it out. He knew what we were doing. I closed my eyes, tried to breathe. My stomach felt heavy, like this was a mistake, like I should tell Leo to run. But no, no, it couldn’t be a mistake. This was the plan. Leo kidnapped us. He had to be caught. I had to get the egg. I had to. I have to.

  “They put the Romanovs on the throne a year after,” I continued quietly. “And then they made Minin a noble.” I saw a pale gray horse out of the corner of my eye, brown hair that I suspected belonged to Emilia racing back to me, but I was afraid to fully turn and confirm it. I felt like I’d been running and was now trying to stop abruptly, tripping, stumbling forward as she and her uncle grew closer . . .

  Leo smiled a little, but it was a sad expression. “I wonder if it worked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They gave him a title and some fancy clothes, I wager. But I wonder if Minin was ever really a noble.”

  “Leo—”

  He spun around to face me, and suddenly I wondered how I’d ever thought his face cold. It was anything but at the moment; it was hurt, disappointed, but not the slightest bit cold. Before I could stop him, he’d reached forward, grabbed my hand—at first tightly, like he planned to run with me, to yank me along behind him as we sprinted away. But then his grip loosened, and he looked down at his fingers around mine. The rest of my body was shaking, but my hand, small in his, was still. Leo lifted his eyes to mine for a moment, a small moment, before turning toward Emilia and her uncle.

  Colonel Ivanovich was exactly how I remembered him: handsome, with dark eyes and a face that made it hard to pin down his age. He had a handgun in his lap, and his mouth was a hard line. Afraid Leo would run, I gripped his hand tighter; he responded by doing the same. Other than that, he didn’t budge, hardly breathed.

  “I suppose all’s fair in war,” Leo said under his breath.

  “Just go with him,” I said, unable to take my eyes off Colonel Ivanovich, like he was a dog about to attack. “Don’t cause trouble.” My words were severe, serious—because I knew if Leo so much as flinched, Emilia’s uncle would kill him. There were two more soldiers now, approaching us from our left and right, moving slowly, silently so as not to cause a scene. I wanted to save Russia—but I didn’t want Leo’s blood on my hands.

  I didn’t want him dead at all.

  “All right, comrade,” Colonel Ivanovich said, not entirely unkindly. His voice was firm, his posture on the horse practiced and regal. “Let’s be wise about this. See my friends here?” The Colonel nodded to the approaching soldiers, who were closing in. One brushed me out of the way unceremoniously, causing me to stumble into Emilia; Leo watched my hand slip from his like something precious was breaking.

  “They’re going to walk on either side of you, and you’re going to move along quietly to my house. Are we clear?” Colonel Ivanovich said.

  “Perfectly,” Leo said, sounding defeated. He lowered his eyes to the ground, staying sandwiched between the men as they led him off without ever laying a hand on him. I expected him to run, expected that I would have to watch Colonel Ivanovich down him with a single, perfect shot.
But no. Instead, I watched them move carefully through the crowd, across the square and around the various street vendors, until they vanished from sight. My knees were wobbly, my hands shaking. I couldn’t find my voice to speak. How could this have happened so . . . quietly?

  Colonel Ivanovich kicked down from his horse, pulled Emilia close, ignoring the stares of people who wondered why an officer was embracing a dirty maid. Emilia began to cry, clutched him till his uniform puckered around her fingers. The colonel looked shaken; he pushed Emilia back, looked at her, at the clothes, the smudges on her cheeks, the scrapes on her hands. He shook his head, like he found the entire thing impossible, and then pulled her close again. He extended a gloved hand to me over her shoulder, which I took more out of politeness than for comfort.

  “What are they going to do with him?” I asked. “When they get to your house?”

  Colonel Ivanovich frowned. “They’ll watch him until I get there.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I can assure you, I’ll punish him as I see fit,” he said, smiling kindly, now releasing Emilia. He bowed to me, drew my hand to his mouth and kissed it. It was a normal action, something dozens of other suitors had done a million times before, but I was unprepared and nearly jerked my hand away. He didn’t seem to notice, instead adding, “You don’t need to worry about such things, Lady Kutepova. You’re safe now.”

  Colonel Ivanovich insisted I call him Misha, though, truth be told, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with such a familiar moniker. Misha had an impressive house in the northern part of the city, back toward the train station. It wasn’t in a particularly rich neighborhood, which I suspected was why he could afford it on an officer’s salary. Emilia’s title came from her father’s side of the family; her mother’s side—the side Misha was from—was of a lower rank. It became clear, as Misha showed us through his home, that he was doing everything he could to disguise that fact.

  “I’ll ask a dresser to come over this afternoon,” he said, sounding hurried. He kept placing his hands behind us gently as we walked through doors, as if we might topple over. “I promise, by this evening, you’ll look sparkling.”

  “Thank you, Misha,” I said. When I found the Babushka, it would surely help persuade her that the egg was safe in my hands if I looked like my old self. “I don’t suppose you know how to send a message to my father? I’m sure he’s worried about me.”

  Misha nodded. “He was last stationed toward Siberia, on the eastern front of the war. I believe he’s currently looking for the royal family—”

  “You don’t know where they are?” Emilia asked, sounding stunned.

  “No,” Misha said. “The Reds have managed to keep that information well-guarded—”

  “Ekaterinberg,” Emilia and I said in unison, eyes wide.

  Misha raised an eyebrow at us. “Ekaterinberg? What makes you think that?”

  “We know that, Uncle,” Emilia said. “We heard the Reds.”

  “There’s no doubt,” I added. I couldn’t help but feel pleased—I already planned to save the throne for Alexei, and now Emilia and I might shorten his suffering as well.

  “Well,” Misha said, like he wasn’t sure how to handle two noble girls bearing such precious information. He cleared his throat, let his eyes glance around the room. “Well,” he repeated. “I’ll get word out soon, for them to give Ekaterinberg a once-over.”

  “Once-over?” I asked, offended. “That’s where they are.”

  “Of course,” Misha said, but I could tell he was still wary. I felt my face flushing in irritation, but clamped my mouth shut—he was convinced enough to pass along the information, and that was what mattered. Still, what did he think we were? Incapable ninnies?

  “There are two guest bedrooms upstairs,” Misha said, seemingly glad for the change of topic. “The maid is putting fresh linens in both as we speak.” I looked up the dark wood staircase to the landing, where a portrait of a man I presumed to be Emilia’s grandfather hung, keeping watch over the house. The furniture was clean and polished, the rugs freshly beaten, and there was already a tea service with sliver-rimmed teacups waiting in the sitting room. I suspected one of the colonel’s men warned the help that company was arriving. Misha gestured toward it.

  “I’ve prepared some tea, if you’re hungry—did they serve a meal on the train?”

  “Not really, Misha,” Emilia said swiftly. She’d skipped the finer points of our trip—mainly riding in a freezing boxcar from Saint Petersburg to here. I couldn’t tell if she’d done so for Leo’s sake, or to keep a bit of our dignity.

  “Well, tea, then. Please stay away from the dining room, though. Our prisoner is in the kitchen adjacent, and I wouldn’t want you to be further traumatized should you hear his voice.” I exhaled and almost commented on the absurdity of Misha’s concern, but Emilia spoke first.

  “Thank you,” she said. “While we appreciate the tea, I think we’d both like a bath first and foremost.”

  “Of course,” Misha said, and looked relieved she’d said it so he didn’t have to suggest it. “I’m afraid there’s only a single bathroom upstairs—”

  “Natalya can go first,” Emilia said. “She’s more a guest than I am, after all. Perhaps the three of us can reconvene for supper after the dresser arrives?”

  “Of course,” Misha said kindly, nodding to the two of us before taking off his riding gloves and dropping them on the foyer table. He then made his way through the dining room—likely to the kitchen. The way Misha walked made my stomach turn; his fast, angry stride betrayed his plans for Leo.

  “Take the tea with us upstairs?” Emilia suggested under her breath. Her eyes were locked on the tray, the biscuits and the slices of sugared grapefruit.

  “Perfect,” I said, and we grabbed the tray.

  It was a relief to be out of Misha’s sight. Emilia pulled the maid’s clothes off without the slightest bit of restraint, tied a silk robe around herself, then fell onto the mattress in the guest room, clutching the grapefruit to her chest like it was a treasure. I poured myself a cup of tea, added far too much milk, and stirred it quickly. It wasn’t until I lifted the cup and saucer, preparing to take it to the attached bathroom while I got in the tub, that it rattled and I realized how badly my hands were shaking.

  “It’s all right, Natalya,” Emilia said gently. She was now leaning against a linen pillow, bare feet flexed so I could see the soot on them. “We’re safe now.” Safe. People kept using that word.

  “The Constellation Egg isn’t safe yet,” I said. I stepped into the bathroom and set the cup down, then stooped to turn the faucets on. My body was stiff and achy; it took some effort to sit down on the white tile floor and pull my boots off. Emilia had to help me with the dress. It fell to the floor in a heap, so unlike the stiff dresses I typically wore that kept their shape on or off my body. Emilia slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door to a crack. I heard her tumble back onto the bed with an exhausted sigh.

  The water wasn’t that hot, but it still burned as I inched in. I took a sip of tea, leaned my head back, and looked up. There were exposed beams, bright white, against the pale yellow ceiling. There was a grand mirror on the wall, its frame painted gold. Glass vases awaited flowers, and a dozen fluffy, warm towels were stacked beside them.

  I wanted to rest. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to stop. Go to Paris, be with Emilia, and wait for Alexei to arrive. Would life really be so terrible, if the Romanovs lost the Constellation Egg and their crown? Things would be like they were before, when he couldn’t be a soldier, when I was a noble girl, when there were no white elk or blooming sunflowers . . . I reached up, touched the place where my lip healed after jumping from the train.

  It would be easier.

  And yet I felt sick at the thought of walking away. This was my country, and this power a gift. How could I just cross my fingers that the Babushka could
keep it as safe as I could? How would I explain myself to Alexei, when we were together again?

  Suddenly, a scream rose up through the house. A horrible sound, one that seemed to emanate from the floors and walls, muted but still intense. I jerked my knees to my chest, an action that caused the water to slosh everywhere and knock my teacup off the bathtub’s edge. It shattered when it hit the floor.

  Leo’s voice. That was Leo’s voice.

  “I told my uncle not to kill him,” Emilia said faintly from the other room, her voice wavering. “I told him Leo was confused, but not dangerous. Uncle said keeping him here was safer—that if he took him to the jail, it might cause a riot. But . . .”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and dropped down under the water, listened to the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. Emilia was wrong—Leo wasn’t confused. Not at all. Crazy, perhaps, but not confused. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he wasn’t afraid, even though perhaps he should have been.

  I was afraid for him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The dresser arrived at four o’clock: a tall, thin woman with quick fingers and sharp eyes. She clattered her way up the steps with a suitcase full of dresses and another of shoes, undergarments, even sanitary towels. I suspected the last was her own addition, as I couldn’t imagine Misha thinking to request such a thing.

  “I wish we’d had your measurements,” the dresser said as she flung the suitcases open across the bed we’d just vacated. “Then we really could have done this right.” Emilia and I glanced at each other as she opened the suitcases. Right? I thought. It seemed so strange, to hear a suitcase full of clothing described as “right.” Nothing was right, nothing could be made right, nothing could undo what we’d gone through—it almost seemed insulting that anyone should think a dress would do the job.

  The dresser grinned as she unpacked things into neat little piles, fabrics that looked like jewels on the white and blue blankets. “Your uncle said your arrival was unexpected?”