The question was whether she was supposed to destroy him, save him, or rule the empire by his side. This was what Vika hoped to answer if she could see him.
Regardless of the outcome, though, she wouldn’t be subordinate to anyone. Not Nikolai, not Pasha. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have use of magic right now, or that she was bound by a bracelet. I am Vika Andreyeva, and I am as important as anybody else.
Vika rang the bell and studied the carvings of roses on the door while she waited for an answer. A minute later, a footman opened the door.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he said.
“Bonjour. I’m here to see Nikolai.”
The footman clucked his tongue at her. “His Imperial Highness is not accepting visitors.”
“Oh, are we doing that now, using formal titles?” Vika bristled. “Then tell His Imperial Highness that the Baroness Victoria Sergeyevna Andreyeva is here to see him.”
The footman blanched. “You’re the witch. You’re the one who made us all sick from the fete.”
“I did no such—”
The footman shut the door in her face.
Vika tried to charm the door to unlock. But her bracelet singed her immediately, and she cried out and crumpled on the front steps.
She clutched her wrist and pressed it onto the ice on the step in an attempt to cool it faster. The pain would subside soon, for it was only a brief burn like touching a hot pan, but she sucked air through her teeth while the hurt faded.
Damn you, Yuliana. And Pasha, too. Vika was chained to the tsardom, but they’d forbidden her from using the very magic that provided the basis for why she was chained in the first place. Like this, Vika wasn’t a dragon on a leash; they’d rendered her a mere lizard.
And yet, she knew she had been the one who’d taken the vow to the crown. She had been the one who wanted to be Imperial Enchanter. Under no circumstances would she have given up her ability to use magic, even knowing that the power came at a steep price.
Vika would just have to create her own destiny with what she had. She knocked on the door again.
It opened and the footman reappeared. “You’re still here.”
“Yes, and I’m not going away until I can see His Imperial Highness.”
The footman frowned but said, “At least I don’t have to chase you down to deliver this. His Imperial Highness, in all his magnanimity, has a message for you.” He clearly disapproved of Nikolai’s supposed “magnanimity,” though, for the footman hurled a note card at Vika. It ricocheted off her coat and into the snow. Then he slammed the door again.
Unbelievable.
Still, Vika fumbled for the note in the snow.
I cannot be seen associating with you. I am sure you understand why.
But it doesn’t mean we cannot meet where circumstances are not quite so real.
Close your eyes. Feel the magic.
And find me there.
—N
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Vika tried to shut off her brain and feel the magic, as Nikolai had instructed. She used to do that more often when she was younger, but ever since the Game began, she’d found herself thinking more and feeling less.
She closed her eyes. She didn’t need to enchant anything to sense the presence of magic that already existed. Even normal people, if they were aware enough, would be able to identify what was ordinary and what was extraordinary. They just hadn’t had the practice to know the difference.
The invisible string that connected Vika to Nikolai twitched. She let her feet follow, and she tripped a little down the steps, along the canal, through the streets toward the bay.
Toward Letniy Isle.
Of course. Nikolai’s benches were there, and where else were circumstances less real than there, where dreams constituted a reality in which a shadow boy had lived?
Despite everything that had happened, Letniy Isle was the place that still tethered them together.
Or it could be a trap.
Vika stood on the banks of the Neva a moment more. It would be wiser not to go.
But sometimes, destiny pulls so taut, one follows no matter what the consequences might be. Besides, caution was not part of Vika’s vocabulary.
Well, perhaps a tiny bit of caution would be smart, given that she didn’t have use of magic right now. She rang the bell again.
The footman opened the door and didn’t even bother to speak this time. He simply arched a brow.
“Could I borrow a quill and ink?” Vika asked.
“If you have a response for His Imperial Highness, I can simply relay it to him.”
“No, I’d rather write it down.”
The footman sighed, closed the door in her face (again), and returned a minute later with a quill and an ink pot. Vika flipped over the note card Nikolai had sent her and, holding it on her lap, composed a quick message on its blank side:
Pasha,
I’ve gone to Letniy Isle to meet Nikolai. It’s possible it’s a trap, although I hope not.
However, if you do not hear from me by sunset, please reinstate my ability to use magic so that I can free myself.
—V
The footman tapped his boot. Vika rose and pushed the quill and ink pot back into his hands. “Thank you.” She turned and descended the front steps.
“What about the note for His Imperial Highness?” the footman asked.
Vika turned back and winked. “Oh, it’s for a different Imperial Highness.”
The footman puffed out his chest and grumbled.
Vika smirked as she hurried off, stopping at the Winter Palace to leave the note for Pasha with a guard (the palace was on the way to the ferry), then made her way toward the singular place that existed only because of her and Nikolai.
She closed her eyes when she arrived; she didn’t need to see what they’d created. Vika knew the layout of the island because she’d invented every tree and rock, every path and every dead end. She knew the lanterns Nikolai had charmed to drift above the leaves and branches, and she knew his Dream Benches. But what she didn’t know was where their magic truly intersected, and how.
The tugging in her chest guided her. It was still faint, so she lost the pull as she wandered through the maple grove, overwhelmed by the remnants of her own magic and the sugar-sweet scent of syrup in the air. Vika almost opened her eyes, but she stopped herself. She concentrated harder instead.
Remember Nikolai, she thought. Remember his warmth and elegance, not the cruel magic from the dolls’ fete and the carriage of swords, but when his magic was like silk dancing in the wind.
The breeze quickened around Vika—her breath did, too—and with it came what felt like a wisp of silk that curled around her body before it spun away again.
But it was enough. She chased its wake, and, although she lost the feel of the silk, she heard something. The wistful melody of an oboe. She followed it and found the thread again. The music accompanied Nikolai’s magic! Not like the orchestra at his party on the Neva. This was as quiet as the lullaby a bird murmurs to its unhatched eggs.