by Amy Sumida
The mass amount of it.
It was as if they'd been trying to outdo the Sistine Chapel. Had I said that every inch of the exterior was covered? Scratch that. I mean; it was covered, but not in the way the interior was. Outside, patterns dominated the décor. Inside, the mosaics ruled. Walls, ceilings, arches, and even the window embrasures were all coated in intricately detailed mosaics enhanced with gold. Saints, flowers, and symbols were squeezed into every nook and cranny as if some insane, religious maximalist had designed the place. Michelangelo on crack. There wasn't a place to look that didn't boast some kind of decoration.
We strolled beneath enormous, gold chandeliers, hung in ways that made me nervous, down to the other end of the cathedral where a set of marble stairs led up to the altar. A lectern stood before it, bearing a plaque in Russian. People milled past, some stopping to read, but most just trying not to faint from the sheer magnitude of visual stimulation.
“Zis is vhere Alexander the Second received a fatal blow,” Kirill murmured after reading a bronze sign. “Zat's vhy it's called Savior on Spilled Blood.”
“I was wondering,” I admitted. “But Catholics often go with gory imagery when they name things so I figured it was normal.”
“Who's that?” Lesya asked as she pointed at the gleaming dome above our heads.
I looked up, saw the image of a man with his arms spread lovingly, and chuckled. “That is your Uncle Jesus.”
“Oh,” she said as if there was nothing strange about seeing a relative immortalized in a golden Russian mosaic inside a cathedral. “These are his people?” She looked around with interest.
“Um... the people who built this place were,” I amended. “I don't know if everyone here worships him or if they've just come to admire the art like us.”
“Okay. Can we go now?”
Kirill laughed. “Cathedrals aren't so fun for little girls, eh?”
“It's pretty,” Lesya said politely. “But mommy always says that pretty only gets you so far.”
I laughed so hard it was silent; only an open-mouthed gasping.
“Mommy's right but ve are here to see pretty zings,” Kirill reminded her. “How about ve ride boat to a palace?”
“A palace like our hotel?”
“Better zan hotel. Zis palace has gardens vith fountains and pretty statues.”
“Of Grandpa?”
I laughed softly again as Kirill answered.
“Your grandfather built it so, da, zere might be statues of him. Zere veren't any ven I lived zere.”
“What happened to the cabin?” I teased.
“Cabin vas only to live in until palace vas built but my father kept it as monument.” Kirill rolled his eyes. “It's still here somewhere. Zey moved it and put vall around it to preserve it, but it survived. Nothing much to look at.”
“Beyond the place where you spent your childhood,” I argued.
“Da, it vas good childhood,” he said with a soft smile. “But I don't vant to see it behind valls and in different place. Land vas more my home zan cabin.”
“Okay. I get it. No cabin, only palaces for us.” I took Kirill's free hand after he'd picked up Lesya again, and we left the pretty cathedral behind.
Chapter Eight
The Peterhoff Palace—did that man name everything after himself?—sits on a bluff and is actually a combination of several palaces. The main structure extends like a fortress behind neat lawns then flows back into an upper garden that then sweeps down a hill to a lower garden. According to Kirill, his father built the main palace after seeing Versailles. It had simply been about one-upping another king and it did indeed look as if Peter had been trying to out-gild, out-frill, out-statue, and out-garden King Louis. I don't know if he succeeded, having never been to Versailles, but I can say that the palace was even more impressive than the cathedral. I may have taken a few pictures for future reference.
There are 64 fountains that run without pumps down the incline of the gardens. Gravity works. And when I say fountains, I don't mean little pools with water spurts. I mean that each one is a piece of sculptural splendor; the kind of pieces that an artist would be proud to complete one of during his or her entire life. One of the fountains is even interactive. I kid you not. It's a giant bowl of fruit and when you reach for a piece, you get sprayed with water. But before we got to the gardens, we toured the palace itself.
I could barely believe Kirill had lived there. Not because it was a palace but rather the type of palace. Everything was done in a French style which means lots of mirrors, curlicues, hand-painted wallpaper, and gold. So much damn gold. It wasn't as dizzying as the cathedral but it came close and outdid it in sheer magnitude and attitude. And I don't mean ambiance; the palace had more than that. It seemed to sniff disdainfully at the humans who walked its halls and pull itself upright in indignation for being gawked at. Yeah, the place had attitude and it was a disposition that didn't match my husband.
We strolled over parquet floors, stared at paintings of naval battles, and even admired the drapes. But Kirill, with his chiseled jaw and muscular physique, looked so out of place that it was laughable. Like a lumberjack walking into a bridal shop. As good as my imagination was, I couldn't see Kirill striding around those prissy halls in a powdered wig.
“Did you wear a wig?” I asked him suddenly.
“A wig?” Kirill asked in horror then cast a look down at his hair pointedly.
I waved a hand at all the Frenchness in explanation.
Kirill chuckled. “It vas different vhen I lived here. Zere vas only main building, no vings, and it vasn't so... shiny back zen. My father added to it over many years. Zere vere no gardens ven ve lived here either,” he said as we stepped out onto a very Alice in Wonderland terrace with black and white checkered tiles. “Only vegetable kind.”
The terrace wrapped around the first fountain; one of Samson tearing open the jaws of a lion. I grimaced at that. What an ironic choice for the man whose son became a lion. Or perhaps it wasn't irony but a case of art imitating life. Had Peter been Samson; trying to force his will on Kirill? He had tried to kill him, just as Samson had slain the lion, sacrificing his son to the goddess Marzana to gain her favor. What kind of man does that?
I looked around and answered my own question.
Then I glanced at my husband. He was staring pensively at the fountain too. One long-haired man looking at another. And I suddenly saw the imagery in another way. Kirill was both Samson and the lion; a warrior touched by a god, forced to do horrible things with his strength, then tricked by a woman he loved, but also the beast; roaring in the face of death. Except in Kirill's case, it wasn't the woman who cut off his power. Kirill did it himself, going mad to escape his goddess.
“Why is that man hurting a lion?” Lesya asked in a small, sad tone.
“He's checking its teeth,” I said automatically. “That's Samson, he was a... dentist.”
Kirill made a surprised and repressed sound of amusement before doing his part to support my lie. “Da, Samson vas best lion dentist in city.”
“Oh!” Lesya laughed in relief.
I gave Kirill my okay-don't-get-carried-away look, and he winked at me then led us down the steps to the first gardens. We strolled past a cascade of water and through tunnels of vines—dead from the cold—until we came to an open area and spotted a free bench. There, we set the lion cub loose. Lesya ran off to make snowballs and throw them at helpless trees who couldn't avoid her vicious attacks while we sat down on the cool stone. I warmed it up with a quick blast of dragon heat through my clothes.
Kirill grinned at me. “I should make joke about your hot ass.”
“But you're too busy enjoying the benefits of its hotness?” I asked with a smirk.
“Da.” He shimmied closer to me and sighed.
After a few minutes of holding hands in companionable—and warm—silence, I asked, “How bad was it?”
Kirill's jaw hardened and his gaze shivered before it went distant.
>
“That bad?” I asked. “Why did you even want to come here?”
“It vasn't all bad and it vas home once.” Kirill looked at me and smiled. “It's my past; our daughter has a right to know it. To see vhere I came from and know zat you don't have to be a god to do amazing zings.”
“As long as that past doesn't lurch forward and bite you in the ass,” I said sternly.
“I'm not hurt.” He pulled me against his side and kissed my forehead. “I'm grateful. I know now vhat a good home is and I know how to fill it vith love.”
Kirill smiled at our daughter, who had met a young boy and had set to charming him even though he probably didn't speak her language. She offered him her snowball, and he grinned mischievously before her took it and promptly tossed it at her. Lesya shrieked and ran off to gather more ammunition. The battle was on.
“This place reminds me of vhat is most important.” Kirill looked back at me. “Not palaces or paintings or fountains. Not even winning wars or building cities. Zat's vhat's important.” He pointed at Lesya. “And zis.” He leaned down to kiss me tenderly. “My father lost so much by focusing on wrong zings. But, he vas different man zan me. Perhaps he vouldn't see it as loss.”
“Tell me,” I urged gently.
Kirill glanced at me as if weighing whether I really wanted to know. I blinked in shock at that.
“Kirill, if you want to say it, I want to hear it. You don't have to hide anything from me. I thought you knew that.”
“My father vas brutal man, Vervain,” he said softly. “A monster in many ways. Ze only person who could calm him vas my mother. His men would send for her ven my father got into one of his rages.”
“Rages? So, you get your temperament from her,” I murmured.
He shrugged. “From her or from a desire to not be him.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“Me?” Kirill asked as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Nyet. Never. I vas his prized possession; first son from his beloved second vife.”
“Second wife?”
“Da, his mother chose his first vife, and she bore him one son who survived; my brother Alexei. Zen Father divorced her; put her in convent.”
“As one does.” I grimaced.
“Zat vas least of his crimes and she vas likely better off for it.” Kirill paused then said, “I remember going into his office and opening a cabinet. Inside vere jars vith heads in zem.”
“I'm sorry... what?” I gaped at him.
“He kept pickled heads of enemies in jars. Clear glass jars.”
“What is this; The Walking Dead?” I huffed. “Are you serious?”
“Da. Serious as head in jar.” He grinned at me.
“Gross, Kirill.” I made a face at him.
“Imagine how vas for me,” he shot back. “I vas twelve.”
“Sweet baby Lucifer,” I whispered. “You were twelve when you found your father's collection of heads?”
Kirill grunted.
“Wow.” I paused. “If you were his favorite, why did he sacrifice...” I trailed off as I realized that was exactly why he'd been sacrificed.
“Ze greater sacrifice reaps greater reward,” Kirill said grimly.
“So, your dad wasn't just mean, he was also crazy.”
He gave another shrug.
“Kirill, he kept heads as souvenirs. That's not normal.”
“It vas savage time and he vas ruler. Rulers had to be brutal back zen. He may have done it for effect. To make enemies fear him.”
“We live in a far more savage world than he did and yet I've never caught you trying to stick a head in a jar.”
“But I've seen you toss a foot to faeries,” he countered with a twinkle in his eyes.
I squished up my face at him. “I'm a dragon. It's different. My beast wants to eat people. I think I do quite well, considering.”
“You do.” He squeezed me closer. “I'm trying for levity and you are ruining my attempt.”
“Sorry. What about your mother?” I asked to get us off the subject of his insane, egomaniac father.
“She didn't keep heads in jars,” he said solemnly. “Not human ones at least.”
“Jerk,” I huffed as I slapped his shoulder. “What was she like?”
“Incredible.” He grinned. “She made my father great. Mother vould go to var vith him—because of his rages—and once, she saved his army. Zey vere about to be destroyed by the Ottomans vhen she suggested zey offer her jewels and zose of other vomen zere, to Grand Vizier as bribe to allow retreat. It vorked. She vas hero. My father married her again, publicly, after zat.”
“What do you mean, publicly? He married her in secret?”
“First time.” Kirill nodded. “She vasn't... appropriate. She'd been married before and vas once servant and mistress to other men.”
“No kidding,” I blinked. “A checkered past. Go, Mama.”
“Da, but zen she met my father and he fell in love vith her. She vas very beautiful and... she vas just lovely person; kind and strong.”
“See? I knew you got your temperament from her.” I nuzzled his cheek.
He grinned at me. “She ruled after him; did you know?”
“No, I didn't.”
“Father changed laws so she could.” Kirill's smile softened. “I convinced Niyarvirezi to bring me back once so I could see her again. I vasn't allowed to speak to her, but I vas grateful just to see her doing vell.”
“Kirill,” I said softly and took his hand again as my stomach churned with hatred for Niyarvirezi. “I'm so sorry you were taken from your family.”
“I'm not.” Kirill pulled me onto his lap. “Every hurt vas vorth it to be here now vith you and her.” He nodded in Lesya's direction. “To hold you while our daughter plays in garden my mother once walked through, it feels like destiny.”
“And we know all about that,” I whispered tenderly.
“Da, and ve never mess vith destiny.”
“Not anymore, at least. I've learned my lesson.”
Chapter Nine
On our way back to the mainland on the hydrofoil—basically a boat on skis—I noticed a disturbance along the shore. A bunch of police cars were parked to form a boundary, barricading an area from pedestrians, and an ambulance was pulling up... without sirens; never a good sign. As we disembarked, I glimpsed a body bag being loaded onto a stretcher.
“This way, sweetheart,” I said brightly as I picked up Lesya and turned in the opposite direction.
Kirill swept in behind me to block Lesya's view, grinning at her as if nothing were wrong. It hardly mattered; she was so tuckered out from the day's excursions that she passed out across my shoulder as soon as she laid her cheek down.
“Here, let me take her,” Kirill offered.
I'm perfectly capable of carrying my daughter. In fact, I was probably stronger than Kirill. But that' wasn't the point. My husband wanted to do something nice for me. Plus, strong or not, carrying Lesya was more awkward for me than him. Kirill moved her gently from my shoulder to his and still had half his body free. This meant that I could hold his hand and stroll comfortably with him.
At least it would have been comfortable if my heightened senses weren't picking up the scent of decayed flesh on the breeze. Kirill made a low growl; he smelled it too.
“Let's catch a cab. They have cabs in Russia, right?”
Kirill grimaced at me and waved down one of the numerous taxis that were circling the area like hungry sharks, picking up people as they disembarked from the boat. It pulled over and we climbed in gratefully. Kirill directed the driver but even after we started moving, they kept speaking animatedly.
“He says zey found voman in river,” Kirill translated for me. “Several people have gone missing recently, and he assumes she's one of zem.” He frowned. “Maybe ve should go home.”
“Because a human is killing people?” I asked in surprise. “That hardly puts us in danger.”
“You're sure you're okay vith staying?
”
“As long as we can keep all this away from Lesya, I am. Plus, we're leaving tomorrow, aren't we? We'll be in Latvia, far enough away from here that it won't matter.”
“True,” he conceded.
“Look, we had snacks for lunch. I'm starving. Let's get some dinner and think about it.”
“Okay.” Kirill had a discussion with the driver and our cab turned down another street. “He suggested a place; Severyanin. He said it's good for children.”
