Based on my history lessons about Napoleon and a couple of documentaries I half-watched on cable, I had the idea that it was impossible to cross Russia in winter. Not if you’re Russian, apparently. The royal train can make the trip to Moscow in a matter of hours. We’ll be back for New Year’s Eve, and the single biggest ball of the season on January 1.
“I want to meet the engineer!” Peter says as we climb the velvet-cushioned steps into the royal car. “Can’t I, this time, please?”
“You will remain with me, like your brother,” Tsar Alexander insists. He doesn’t even smile at his youngest child. “You’re old enough to begin hearing about matters of state.”
He’s ten. But I hold my tongue. By now I know contradicting the tsar can only make things worse. My father, standing slightly to the side and carrying his own valise, tightens his jaw the way he does when he’s angry but trying not to show it.
The tsar gives Peter a contemptuous look. “Or would you rather sit in the back with your sisters, embroidering flowers?”
“No, I’ll stay with you,” Peter says, though he looks petrified. Poor little thing. Once Tsar Alexander has turned away, Dad pats Peter’s shoulder and says, “On the way home, you and I will come to the station a little early, so you’ll have time to talk to the engineer then. How would that be?”
Peter brightens, and when he and Dad smile at each other, I wonder—is it possible that Peter is his son too? Somehow I sense not, and yet Dad still devotes himself to the little boy. He takes care of Mom’s son for Mom’s sake, an act of love she can never see, one that has lasted for nearly a decade after her death.
“My lady?” Paul says quietly.
I blink away my tears. “Ash in my eye. That’s all.”
While the big manly menfolk go to the next car to talk diplomacy and drink vodka or whatever they do in there, Katya and I remain in the royal car. For once, Katya’s not dedicated to annoying me; she’s too busy playing some card game with Zefirov.
Paul remains at attention at the front of the train car. I read the latest newspaper, at first in an attempt to settle down, but with more interest as I go on.
It’s sort of fascinating: what Paul said about patterns reoccurring in different dimensions is definitely true. Some of the same people who were famous in my universe are famous here, but in unexpected ways. For instance, the “famed songbird Florence Welch” is finishing a concert tour of Europe, where she’s been singing librettos from operas. Bill Clinton has recently been elected to his second term as President of the United States; he ran as the candidate of the Bull Moose Party, and his photo shows him with muttonchop whiskers and a mustache any hipster would envy.
And this news item from New York City is accompanied by a photograph of the acclaimed inventor Wyatt Conley.
As the train car sways back and forth, I fold the crinkly newsprint and peer more closely at the picture. Conley’s wearing an old-timey suit and has his hair parted in the middle—seriously not a good look, how was that ever popular? Otherwise he seems much the same. His aw-shucks grin doesn’t conceal his confidence, any more than his boyish face hides his ruthlessness. The story is about his invention of the moving picture, and says he’s made films “as long as two minutes,” which makes me smirk. Apparently Conley is famous for innovation in any universe.
The brakes squeal against the tracks as the train decelerates; I brace my hand on the velvet seat, frowning. A glance out the window confirms that we’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow-covered fields and pine forests, still far from Moscow. “Why are we stopping?”
“There may be snow covering the tracks,” Paul says, but his expression is wary. “Put on your coat, my lady. Just in case.”
In case of what? But I do as Paul says, slipping into my long sable coat even as he walks through to one of the other cars to find out what’s going on.
“Do I have to put on my coat?” Katya asks Zefirov.
“Not until I win this hand,” he says, laughing.
But there’s something odd about his laugh.
Slowly I rise to my feet. “Katya?”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” she says.
Zefirov looks up at me, his beefy face smug, and my heart sinks. Something is wrong, desperately wrong. He knows what it is. The rest of us are about to find out.
“Katya!” I put my hand out for her. She turns to me, angry, and would start calling me names. But that’s when the gunfire begins.
15
“KATYA!” I GRAB HER BY ONE ARM AND TOW HER TOWARD me. Her cards scatter across the floor of the train car, diamonds and clubs like litter at our feet.
Zefirov doesn’t move, only smiles at us, a grin so nasty I want to slap it off his face. “We’ll see who’s so high and mighty now. Who has to play cards with spoiled brats instead of serving like a real soldier.”
Katya starts to cry. I hug her to my chest. Although I want to ask him what’s going on, I already know. “Grand Duke Sergei. He’s behind this, isn’t he?”