Tsarina

by Patrick, J. Nelle

I nodded too many times again. I was not ready. And I would not be all right.

  But Emilia was correct about one thing—it was time.

  She left the room, and I heard the water running in the sink, a sharp breath as she presumably splashed cold water against her face. I swallowed, stood up, and crept to the door. I opened it, shut it gently behind me.

  “Lady Kutepova.” Misha’s voice caused me to jump; I whirled around, saw him halfway up the stairs.

  “Misha,” I said cordially.

  “How are you doing? All things considered, of course?”

  “Not terribly well. I was hoping to go sit in the parlor for a bit before we leave—the bedroom is getting stuffy.”

  “Of course,” Misha said, stepping aside on the staircase. He nodded toward the wide window above the front door. “The carriage is ready to go, so as soon as the maid’s husband arrives to watch our prisoner, we’ll be off.”

  “The maid’s husband?” I asked, perplexed.

  “My soldiers were needed in the city, I’m afraid. News of the royal family’s demise has made tensions . . . Well, let’s just say things grow less friendly every second—oh, but there’s nothing to fear,” he said, answering an expression I wasn’t certain I was wearing. “I’ll drive and escort you to the station myself. You’re safer with me than anyone else in Moscow, I assure you.”

  “Thank you, Misha,” I cut him off, and brushed past him. He reached out, put a hand on my shoulder—too familiar. I froze.

  “Lady Kutepova,” he said quietly. “We will win this war. Alexei will be avenged.”

  “Oh,” I said, without looking at him. “I’m quite certain he will be, Misha. Thank you.”

  Misha seemed like he wanted to say more, but I didn’t give him the chance. I floated down the rest of the steps, curved into the parlor, and took a seat in a stiff-backed chair with lemon upholstery. Misha watched me for a heartbeat, then continued upstairs.

  The Reds were spreading. Pride nagged me—I had the power of the Constellation Egg. I could undoubtedly survive a trek through Moscow alone. And yet . . .

  I didn’t need to be safe, right now—I needed to get the Constellation Egg. As soon as Misha vanished, I rose, rushed to the kitchen.

  Leo was in the pantry, still tied to the chair. He looked up at me, and his lips parted in shock. I walked toward the basin and grabbed a knife from the adjacent countertop. I turned; Leo’s eyes widened, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. He swallowed, watched me approach him. He exhaled as I stepped behind him.

  I sunk the knife into the ropes by his wrist, sawed at them until they broke away. Leo turned, looked at me in surprise. I slid in front, cut apart the ones around his ankles. He was frozen, watching me as I stood up. Leo pressed his lips together, let his eyes move from mine to my hand on the knife handle. Though it tore at me, made me feel like my heart was melting in my chest, there was only one person who could help me get around the Reds and to the mystics.

  “The Reds have the southern half of the city,” I said; my voice didn’t shake the way my body did. “You’re going to get me through.”

  Leo took a shallow breath. “All right.”

  “This doesn’t mean . . .” I shook my head. “This doesn’t mean I . . . forgive you.”

  “I didn’t kill him, Natalya—”

  “This doesn’t mean I forgive you!” I repeated, voice shrill now. I didn’t mean forgive, I meant something else, though I was afraid to dwell too long on what the word I really wanted to use might be.

  “The southern half?” he asked, rising and shaking his wrists out.

  “That’s what Misha said. I’m not sure how far—”

  “Natalya,” a new voice said. I turned toward the kitchen door.

  It was Emilia, who looked frail and broken, like a doll whose joints weren’t tight enough.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, shaking her head almost pityingly. “Surely you’re not still going after the egg? There’s no point. The Romanovs are gone—”

  “Emilia,” I said. “Go to Paris. Go.”

  She opened her mouth, huffed as she tried to start several sentences. “Go . . . go to Paris? Go to Paris?” Her voice grew louder as she stepped through the kitchen door, arms flung out to her sides. “All I’ve wanted to do for ages is go to Paris! Alexei is gone, Natalya. There’s no reason for us to find the Babushka, there’s no crown to save—” She stopped short, and her jaw dropped. Her expression became one of horror, like she was witnessing a murder. “You’re not trying to save the crown anymore, are you?”

  I paused, unsure exactly what she meant.

  Emilia’s words were shaky. “Oh, Natalya. Natalya, no. Say I’m wrong. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Leo looked between us and suddenly he reached forward and put an arm around my shoulders. The touch made me jump, and I wanted to protest, to argue, but I saw what Emilia was assuming and Leo was doing. Emilia would come with us, if she knew the truth. She’d forgo Paris, forgo her last chance to leave the country, a country that would turn on her soon enough—especially if I failed to get the Constellation Egg.

  This is how it had to happen.

  “You’re not wrong, Emilia,” Leo said lowly, and I was grateful—because I could never have said that aloud. I cleared my mind, forced myself to become numb in order to forgo seeing Alexei’s face, hearing his voice in my head as Leo rubbed my arm with his thumb affectionately. My stomach churned with guilt and sorrow; I closed my eyes to get my bearings.

  “God, I knew it! I knew something happened in the forest, and then the way you looked at each other . . .” Emilia said, crying again. “Natalya, he’s a Red, he . . . he kidnapped us. And . . . you were Alexei’s! He loved you!” I could practically see the questions bubbling from her mind, dark and terrible.

  “Emilia,” I repeated hoarsely. “Go to Paris.” I reached up and placed a hand on top of Leo’s. He turned his hand over, held mine tightly, and I hated how much the act steadied me.

  Emilia looked like she might vomit, and her eyes grew colder by the second. It took her several beats to find the words, and when she did, they emerged from her throat like a curse. “You’re a traitor, Natalya. To me. To Alexei. To your family. You didn’t deserve to be tsarina. But I’m not letting you do something you’ll regret,” she whispered, shaking her head. She leaned her head backward. “Uncle! Uncle, he is escaping! Hurry! Come fast!”

  “Natalya,” Leo said fast, spinning me around to face him. “I need you to trust me.”

  I parted my lips, meant to speak, but stopped short. How could I say I trusted a Red, after what they’d done to Alexei?

  A flicker of hurt raced through Leo’s eyes at my hesitation, but it was gone in an instant. “Then I need you to believe I can get us both out of here. They’re never going to willingly let you leave with me.”

  I was about to nod when suddenly the kitchen door slammed open; Emilia deftly leapt out of the way to avoid being hit. Misha stood in the entryway, hair askew, alarm in his eyes. Leo grabbed the knife from my hand, spun me around; before I realized what had happened, his left arm was around my throat, his right arm brandishing the knife by my neck.

  “Stop,” he shouted. “Not another step. I’ll kill her.”

  “Don’t be stupid, boy,” Misha hissed. “You’ll never make it out of here alive if you hurt a hair on her head.”

  “But she’ll still be dead,” Leo said, voice curling dangerously. His chest was pressed against my back; I could feel his heart pounding. He gripped me tighter, took a step forward, forcing me with him.

  “He’s bluffing!” Emilia shouted. “He’s not going to hurt her, they’re having a . . . they’re in . . .”

  Misha turned to her, lifted an eyebrow.

  “They’re in love! He’s not going to hurt her!” she cried.

  Leo and I bolted for the kitchen’s g
arden door while Misha stood looking at his niece incredulously—it wasn’t much of a head start, but it was enough. I slammed the door back behind me as we stumbled into the garden; I heard it crack against Misha’s body, then the clacking of him struggling to reopen it. We stomped through a thick layer of mud encrusted with frost, toward the waiting carriage. The horse pranced warily as Leo leapt into the driver’s seat, leaving me to haul myself up beside him. Misha was sprinting for us, his eyes and nostrils flared, his hands outstretched.

  Leo cracked the reins and the horse launched itself forward. Wind whipped at us angrily as we charged away; I glanced over my shoulder to see Misha was already running toward the house, likely to telephone his men. Emilia, however, was standing in the road, arms at her sides, a portrait of defeat and betrayal.

  I turned my back on her to blink away my tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Leo only glanced at me once, nervously, then trained his eyes on the road. The horse was fast, its feet light on the stones as it darted into town. The sky had taken on a bruised color as the last bits of sun faded. I could hear the hum of the crowd in the square ahead as we turned another corner and the Kremlin towers came into view.

  “We have to get rid of this carriage,” Leo said. “The colonel will be—”

  “I know,” I answered shortly. Leo wheeled onto a side street where rows of carriages were parked, drivers awaiting their masters’ return. Our horse skidded to an uncomfortable stop and we leapt out, ran into the crowd as the other drivers watched us, confused. We hurried to the Iberian Gate, but I heard shouting behind us—it had to be Misha and his soldiers.

  I grabbed the sleeve of Leo’s coat and yanked him into the starry-roofed chapel between the gates. Gold statues of saints watched us slip through the plain brown doors and into a space hardly larger than a closet. Parishioners were already packed in, staring at an icon of the Virgin Mary by candlelight. I dropped to my knees, and Leo fell beside me as the shouting and hoofbeats outside grew closer, cutting through the mumbled prayers of our fellow visitors. The sound reached its peak as horses clattered through the gates beside us. Leo and I kept our heads bowed in prayer until the noise faded away; we rose together, ignored the annoyed eyes of the others, and slipped out of the chapel. We lingered by the chapel’s pale green walls for a moment, then slipped through the brick gates, into the square.

  In the strictest sense, it was the same square that it was yesterday—same buildings that had stood for hundreds of years, same towers, same carts, same statues. Yet, today it felt like a wildly different place: a place more sinister and less forgiving, like a cruel artist’s copy. There were red banners on every building, horse, and cart on the south side and white banners all along the north walls. People’s eyes were darker, colder, stones instead of pools in faces. They looked around at one another like every other person in the square was a potential enemy, not to be trusted.

  “It looks like Saint Petersburg,” Leo said under his breath. “Before—”

  “The world ended,” I finished for him. I expected him to shake his head, offer another conclusion to his sentence, but he merely nodded.

  Shouting, movement toward the center of the square commanded my attention. It wasn’t until a cart of potatoes moved out of the way that I saw the source: White soldiers, charging in from a side gate. Misha was with them, sitting tall and proud against a saddleless draft horse. The Reds instantly formed a line across the center, blocking Misha from venturing into the south side—their half of Moscow. Misha didn’t seem to care about their presence, inching purposefully toward them, barking orders to his men. I lifted a hand to my mouth worriedly.

  “Oh, Misha, no,” I muttered. The square grew strangely quiet as Misha’s eyes searched the crowd for me, for Leo—he looked panicked, desperate, painfully single-minded in his mission. He wasn’t paying attention, had forgotten that every city in Russia was a single hair’s width away from becoming Saint Petersburg.

  “They’re going to rush him,” Leo said. His voice was full of horrified certainty as we crouched against the wall, watched the Reds advancing, closing in, fanning out to approach from all sides.

  One of the Reds said something to Misha—I couldn’t hear what. Misha replied, they went back and forth, both sets of eyes frequently flirting back to the uneasy crowd. Everyone was still, everyone staring at them. Would this be how Moscow’s revolution began?

  Misha inhaled. I could feel the stiffness of the action from here—he wasn’t happy. The Red—a worker from a factory of some sort—began to back up carefully. Misha turned his horse and trotted away.

  A collective sigh of relief rose into the air, mostly from the cart vendors, who didn’t seem to care if their customers were White or Red so long as they were paying. Revolutions wouldn’t be good for business. I stood up straight, exhaled, found I couldn’t catch my breath for a minute. I pushed off the wall and started along the edge of the square, where I hoped I’d be better hidden.

  “Natalya,” Leo called after me as I snaked around a fruit cart’s display of orange-filled baskets. I didn’t turn. “Miss Kutepova. I don’t know the Reds here. I don’t know that I can convince them to let you through the southern half of the city. Especially on a night like this. We should wait till the morning.”

  I stopped, took a deep breath despite the fact that the air burned my lungs. Gaslights were flickering on now in the last of the afternoon light.

  “I’m not staying on the streets,” I told him, words acidic and angry. Even as I said this, I knew I might not have a choice—that Leo was right. Not only was it risky moving about when Misha was certainly out looking for me, but I looked like a noble again. The Reds would be suspicious.

  “I daresay that of the two of us, you’re far safer staying on the streets than me, given your recent . . . abilities. But fine. We can try to stay in the train station, if you’d rather,” Leo said, sounding bothered. I ignored him, because I didn’t want to tell him that staying in the train station would be too painful—a reminder that I’d broken Emilia’s heart. That she was now on her way to Paris without me. That she very well might hate me. I let my eyes run around the square. Everyone was packing up, on their way home, save for the bakers, eager to get rid of their goods before they went bad.

  “I have an idea,” I said, and hurried away from Leo. “Stay away from me.”

  “Why did you save me if you want—”

  “They’ll think I’m robbing them if you’re beside me,” I hissed. Leo froze in his spot, held his hands up apologetically as I walked the last few yards to a scarf dealer. She was almost finished packing up, just a few boxes to go, and an array of girls I assumed to be her little sisters helped her. It choked me, for a moment, thinking of Alexei’s many sisters, but I waved for her attention, smiled.

  “Hello,” I said. I swirled the silk scarf Emilia had put on me off my head as I spoke. “I’m sorry to bother you just as you’re leaving, but I wondered—a . . . companion,” I said, letting my lips curl so that she might make her own assumptions as to what I meant, “bought this for me, but it’s so grand a gift, I worry my husband might see it and . . . well. It might cause too much trouble. I don’t suppose you’d be interesting in buying it off me?”

  It was an expensive scarf—the sort that was every bit as pricey as the entire dress I was wearing. Rooms in Moscow couldn’t be terribly expensive, though; if she gave me a fraction of what it was worth, I might manage.

  The girl took the scarf from my hands, ran her fingers over it. She held it up to the quickly fading light and frowned, lips a tiny arc. She picked at a thread in the corner that I knew was insignificant—I prepared for her to give me a ludicrously low offer in an attempt to make easy money on the resale.

  The girl looked down, thrust the scarf back to me. “I’m afraid I can’t afford to buy this off you, Mademoiselle.”

  I stared, surprised—did she have nothing a
t all? I tried again.

  “Really, I can’t use it. I’ll take anything—”

  “That scarf is worth more than I make here in a day,” she said, gesturing to her cart. “These aren’t silk. These are for women like me to feel like women like you.” There was a note of scorn in her voice as she said this, though I didn’t feel it as much as perhaps I should have—or would have, several days ago.

  I dropped my voice again, stepping closer. One of the sisters, a tiny girl with thick black hair, clung to the girl’s shins. “I just need enough to get out of this city before the revolution hits—my husband refuses to let me leave. Please. You know it’s coming as well as I do.”

  The girl pressed her lips together, then nodded, began to fold the scarf haphazardly. “I really don’t have much. Fifteen? I can’t spare any more, I have to buy food for—” she began to gesture at the girls, but there was no need; I nodded enthusiastically.

  The girl handed over the money from a purse she kept tucked against her chest.

  “Well done,” Leo said curtly as I met back up with him. Together, we turned in the direction of the Kremlin.

  “Where should we go?” I asked, more of myself than Leo.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Your choice, Miss Kutepova. It’s just for one night.”

  I spun around, chose the first hotel my eyes landed on—a fairly nice one on the eastern side of the square, the sort wealthy merchant families would stay in while visiting the city. The woman at the front desk gave Leo and me a suspicious look, but I wasn’t willing to extend the illusion of us being a couple for her. Still, she handed Leo a key and led us to a room on the second floor, with windows that overlooked the Kremlin on one side and an alley of drunks on the other. I sat down on the edge of the bed; Leo sat in the chair on the far side.

  We did not speak.

  Not for a long time. Not until the sun had finally gone down and I was lying under the blankets, Leo still in the chair, arms folded and head down. I was staring outside, at the soldiers and Reds who lingered in the square, eyeing one another, waiting, watching. I was here, in a bed, warm, while Alexei was . . .