“What happened, Boris?” Ilya asked, throwing his greatcoat onto a hook and rolling up his sleeves to help in whatever manner he could.
Boris made the sign of the cross across his body. “They all went to the fete on the Neva and ate the magical food and wine. It’s made everyone violently ill. No good can come of gifts from the devil, and the tsesarevich and his witch are proof.”
Ilya lowered his voice. “You could be arrested for speaking against the tsesarevich like that.”
“After tonight, see if there aren’t more men who agree with me.” Boris threw his arms in the air and gestured at the soldiers around them. “Besides, I doubt anyone can hear me above this noise.” More retching and groaning echoed through the barracks.
“What can I do to help?”
“You can start by emptying buckets. We’re going to need more soon.”
Ilya made the error of looking into one and gagged. But he was a soldier and had spent his share of time on latrine duty in school, so he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, tied it around his nose and mouth, and picked up the bucket.
Come tomorrow, the underground movement for a constitutional monarchy would have plenty of men to recruit. They could use as many soldiers as possible for their cause, as they were planning a revolt in the summer. And Volkonsky would count on Ilya to convince these men to turn on the tsardom.
Ilya’s stomach twisted again, although this time, it was because the reality of the revolt drew closer. And it wasn’t against Tsar Alexander now, as originally planned. Since the tsar was dead, it would be a revolt against Pasha, whom Ilya actually liked.
These were the reasons Ilya hadn’t reported anything to Pasha about Volkonsky. Ilya’s loyalties were conflicted in too many ways.
But he believed in the constitutionalists’ cause. Nobles and serfs and everyone in between should be equal. Even as the fourth son of an aristocratic family, he’d felt the sting of being cast aside as unimportant. He could hardly even conceive what indignities serfs had to suffer.
Most of all, Ilya believed in Volkonsky. So he would do it. He would clean vomit tonight and recruit men tomorrow. And when the revolt came, he would stand behind Volkonsky. Even if it meant no longer serving by Pasha’s side.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
As soon as Vika left Pasha and stepped out of the Winter Palace, she whistled into the dark sky, a long, melodic summons.
A few minutes later, an albino rat appeared on the cobblestones at Vika’s feet. She knelt and scooped Poslannik up onto her shoulder. They didn’t have to wait long for the hum of moths’ wings and the hiss of all the city’s stray cats to fill the air. Vika circled her pinkie over them and made the enchantment permanent this time, so that they would be able to understand each other without the need for additional magic every time.
“I need you to find Nikolai,” Vika told them. “He’s cast a barrier over himself, so I can’t trace his magic. You might be able to find him, though. It’s not as if he’s invisible, just . . . stealthy. But so are all of you. You’ll be much faster than I am, traipsing through the streets and alleys and bridges on my own.”
Poslannik, who acted as general of this army, squeaked his assent to her command.
“Oh, one more thing,” Vika said. “Nikolai is a shadow now, so don’t look for an intact person.”
The moths batted their wings and the cats hissed in understanding.
But Vika shuddered as what she’d said resonated fully, for it was true in a horrible sense, wasn’t it? Nikolai was not intact. He’d been broken, and it was as if a jagged shard of his soul was leading the remainder of him.
And now, just as the tea leaves had predicted, Vika was fighting against him. Trying to trap him. Ushering in death once again.
But it had to be done. Nikolai’s threats were not abstract anymore, and Russia’s future teetered on what Vika did. She would find him, put him somewhere safe only she could access, and then save him. Somehow.
Well, perhaps I can just focus on the first and second steps now and deal with the third later.
Vika waved her arm in the air, and thousands of moths flew off all at once, the noise of their wings like a forest shedding its leaves all at once. The moths filled the sky, first as a white cloud blocking out the moon, and then they spread out, a net cast over Saint Petersburg in a hunt for a shadow boy.
The hair on the backs of the cats stood on end, and they scratched at the icy cobblestones at their feet. Vika nodded at Poslannik. He squeaked a series of commands. And then the cats screeched and bolted out of Palace Square in every direction, a beautiful pandemonium of determination.
I hope Nikolai surrenders easily, Vika thought as she watched the last of Poslannik’s army go.
But what were the odds of that? Absolutely none.
When the sound of her army dissipated, though, it was not quiet that fell upon the night, but pandemonium of a different kind.
Shouts. Deep, rhythmic, and unified.
They were not far away, possibly on the Neva, where the disastrous fête had been. Vika evanesced herself to the frozen river.
She gaped at the detritus of Nikolai’s party, not only tables covered with leftover food dripping off their dishes and overturned chairs, but also decapitated dolls with their heads smashed in. It was like the state of Nikolai’s soul, laid bare on the ice.
There was also a crowd gathered on the embankment. They formed a circle, surrounding something Vika couldn’t quite see. But their chanting was unmistakable.
“Burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”
Vika gasped and ducked behind a nearby tree. This was what Sergei had warned her about when she was young, that normal people would not be able to understand magic, that their fear would propel them against her.
And it was Vika they wanted to burn, not Nikolai, for she’d convinced Pasha and Yuliana that it was better not to reveal the existence of another enchanter, because the city was frightened enough of one. Hence, Vika shouldered the blame (again) for what Nikolai had done. But it was to protect him, and to keep some semblance of sanity in the empire.
Vika was not sure if the latter was working.
A girl’s scream pierced through the mob’s shouts. “Let me go! I’m not the witch! Someone help!”
“Tie her tighter,” a man yelled. “Don’t believe her lies!”
Oh, mercy, they’re trying to burn someone else in my place! Vika spun away from the tree and hurtled toward the mob. She probably should have cast a shroud around herself, a disguise or at least less identifiable hair, but all she could think about at the moment was getting to the girl.
The crowd was larger than she’d initially thought. They formed a tight-knit ring, six to seven people deep. Vika tried to shove them aside but was met with snarls and elbows.