But there must be something in here that either proves the tsar was Pasha’s father, or that he wasn’t. Already, Yuliana had found a few letters from noblewomen reporting to the tsarina on seeing Okhotnikov at this or that ball, in this or that parlor, and what he wore that night, with whom he danced, if he complimented anyone for their piano playing. There were mentions, too, in earlier letters of other men, possible lovers. Yuliana sighed. She didn’t know if she wanted to grow up. Court life for women seemed so terribly predictable and dull.
At least if Pasha became tsar, he’d let Yuliana help. He understood that she was more Catherine the Great than Marie Antoinette. Although Yuliana did have an appreciation for petits fours and beautiful gowns.
She laughed, something she only allowed herself rarely, even when alone. Then she bent over a new pile of letters, even though her neck ached from the hours of reading before.
“I will solve this,” she said, as she opened another envelope. “One way or another.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Can you make room for my mother?” a boy asked that evening, as he pushed his way into the mass of people in the nave, the church’s main room. He neared Pasha, who stood in the center of the crowd, disguised as a dockworker. Behind the boy trailed a woman with a gray shawl wrapped around her head, her posture stooped and her footsteps halting. She was probably no older than thirty, but life was hard on ordinary Russians, the ones who swept streets and labored in factories and raised a half-dozen children before they died of cholera or consumption or simply exhaustion. The rest of the worshippers wore similar expressions, weary and resigned, as they stood in the nave awaiting the liturgy.
“Make way,” Pasha said, parting the crowd with his arms. The boy and his mother nodded gratefully.
The church was a simple one on the outside, nothing much to look at compared to the grand cathedrals in other parts of Saint Petersburg, but those were churches for the moneyed. This was a place of worship and shelter for everyone else.
And yet intricate, gilded icons of the Holy Trinity and saints throughout history adorned the iconostasis, a wall-like screen that divided the nave from the altar, and up above, the ceilings were painted with holy scenes. No expense was spared when it came to honoring the Lord.
Pasha settled back into the crowd. He wore a plain tunic and trousers, as well as a false beard to cover most of his face, but it didn’t matter much, for everyone was too busy whispering their own prayers to look at those around them.
“Please save the tsesarevich from the devil’s magic.”
“Have mercy and spare us from the witch.”
“Tell us what to do, O Lord, send a sign, and we will follow.”
The nave seemed to grow smaller; the curdled smell of fear lay like a heavy blanket in the church, and it was harder and harder for Pasha to breathe. He wove through the masses, but everywhere he turned, they whispered the same entreaties. Help us. Rid the city of the witch. Exorcise the demon from the tsesarevich.
It seemed Vika’s tree and Pasha’s entreaties to the city to believe in him had not convinced everybody. Not even close.
He strode out of the nave and burst out through the doors of the church. The frigid air outside rushed into his lungs, and he gulped it down in ragged breaths. Had he made a mistake in endorsing magic? There was a reason the tsars and the church had hidden it in the past—most people could not handle that there were powers larger than they are. Now, however, they knew about magic again, and things were spinning out of control.
I don’t know how to do this, Pasha thought, as he leaned back, head tilted against the chilly church walls. The wind bit into his cheeks, stinging him with sharp needles of sleet.
I don’t know how to be tsar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After Galina fired her, Renata had scrambled to find work. It was only through the connection of another girl who’d worked at Ludmila’s temporary Saint Petersburg kiosk last fall that she secured a position at Madame Boulangère, the Parisian-style bakery on Nevsky Prospect.
It wasn’t a glorious job, although no bakery job could ever be called such. The air was always sweltering from the constant heat of the ovens, the hours were grueling, and the owner of the shop, the so-called Madame Boulangère herself, had lost her taste buds in a childhood accident but refused to acknowledge it, and thus complained constantly of the lack of flavor in the store’s pastries, when any lack thereof was the fault of her own tongue.
Still, it was employment. Besides, Renata had weathered much worse working under Galina all those years. A tasteless proprietor was nothing remarkable to bear.
Renata was often the last at the bakery, for she was also the newest employee, and thus had the dubious honor of cleaning the shop. She was about to light more lamps—it was only early evening, but the sun set by late afternoon in the winter in Saint Petersburg—when the front door opened and closed again.
“Uh, hello?” she called into the near dark. She thought she’d locked the door. Perhaps Inessa, the girl who’d helped her secure the job, had come in to help? Although Renata had no idea why anyone would volunteer to do so.
“Renata Galygina, I’ve wanted to meet you,” a raspy voice said.
Definitely not Inessa. Renata backed up behind the bakery counter. “I—I’m sorry. We’re closed for the evening.” She looked around for a knife, a spatula, anything with which to defend herself, but either the girls had tidied up too well during the previous shift, or there wasn’t enough light in the shop for Renata to see. Or both.
“Do not be afraid, my dear. I mean no harm. I am Nikolai’s mother, Aizhana Karimova. I am here to ask for your assistance with my son.” Aizhana did not advance, but rather remained near the entrance of the bakery.
“Nikolai’s gone,” Renata said. She had returned to the steppe bench after he’d wiped most of it away, but she hadn’t found him there again. She hadn’t worried, though. If he could survive the Game, he must’ve survived the bench. But she wouldn’t tell this stranger of a woman any of it. Not until she knew for certain who she was.
Renata wrapped her fingers around a rolling pin. Finally, some measure of defense.
“On the contrary,” Aizhana said, “he’s come back.”
He’s come back . . . so she does know that he’s alive but was elsewhere for a while.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Renata asked.
“It’s your choice whether you believe me or not.” Aizhana laughed. “After Nikolai escaped the bench, he went to his old home to seek shelter and to find you. His former mentor turned him out, and you had been relieved of your duties there. Since then, he has been, shall we say, preoccupied, but I know he would like to see you again.” And then Aizhana proceeded to tell Renata about Nikolai’s challenge to Pasha.
Renata dropped the rolling pin on the counter. It clattered and fell onto the floor.
Nikolai threatened to destroy Pasha and take away the throne? That didn’t sound like the Nikolai she knew at all.
“You will assist him,” Aizhana said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am not asking you. I am telling you.” Aizhana began to limp toward the bakery counter. She crossed into a sliver of light cast from the streetlamp outside, and Renata saw her skeletal face and the patches of long, greasy hair.