“No. We would be terrible.”
Nikolai exhaled slowly, in that haunting, painful way only a shadow could. It was impossible to know whether he was angry or disappointed, or if he could see at all the truth of that particular future.
“But . . .” Vika looked up him. She remembered his laugh from not too long ago, the glimmer of the old Nikolai still buried inside this one. “I do love you.”
He pulled back a little in surprise. “You don’t act like it.”
“I do. The Nikolai I once knew would see it.”
He shook his head, as if doing so would obliterate the truth that there was a difference between him and whom he’d once been.
“Please, stop whatever you’re planning. Your mother’s energy taints you. But together, I’m sure we could still make things right.”
He furrowed his brow. “I doubt that.” He turned as if to go.
“Nikolai, wait.”
He didn’t look at her again, but he hesitated, his hand still in hers.
It was something. More than something. She would hold on to it as long as she could.
“No matter what happens,” Vika said, “don’t forget.”
“Forget what?”
“That I love you.”
His fingers tightened around hers for a brief moment. “I love you, too,” he whispered.
He shook himself and disappeared from the dream.
Vika stayed, looking at the spot where Nikolai had stood. Only minutes later, however, the walls of the volcano began to tremble. No, not just tremble, but quake. Chunks of basalt rained down on her, and lava began to roar into the room. Vika shrieked and backed into a corner.
“Don’t be afraid, my dear,” a voice that sounded eerily similar to Vika’s said, echoing throughout the cylindrical chamber. “You were born of this. It won’t hurt you.”
Vika pressed herself against the wall anyway. She stretched and yawned and shook herself awake, just as the lava began to lick at the soles of her boots.
She gasped as she jolted upright on the Dream Bench. She gulped in the fresh air, no fire and ash here.
Then she hurried back to the dock for a ferry. I’m really beginning to hate dreams.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
A guard knocked on Yuliana’s antechamber door and announced Pasha. She looked up from where she’d been working at her desk.
Pasha frowned as he walked in. He took in the room, still full of letters and envelopes, then looked pointedly at Yuliana. “Who are you?”
“What?” She scrunched her nose.
“This room is a disaster. My sister would never tolerate something like this. Therefore, you are clearly an imposter.”
Yuliana could see the grin itching to break at the edge of his mouth. “Very funny.”
“I thought so.” He allowed himself to grin now and cleared a small space on the chaise longue. He picked up an envelope as he sat down. “So tell me, why is it such a mess in here?”
Yuliana rose and grabbed her notes from the desk, then wove through a thin break between the stacks of papers. Pasha shifted on the chaise to make space for her.
“These are Mother’s things,” she said as she sat down beside him.
Pasha nodded. “I recognize her perfume on the pages. But that doesn’t answer my question of why it appears a storm has blown through your quarters.”
“I went through her letters to figure out who your father was.” Yuliana shoved her notes at Pasha. There were pages and pages of neat columns, listing dates and descriptions of the contents of each letter.
His grin disappeared. “I’m afraid to ask what you’ve discovered.”
Yuliana scooted closer to him and took back her notes, shuffling through them until she found what she was looking for. “Well, to be honest, I haven’t found anything definitive yet. The rumors are that Mother and Okhotnikov were involved early in 1808, right? Which would mean he could be your father, since you were born in October that year. And yet, look.” She pointed to several entries, dated 1807. “These are the letters in which Mother’s friends console her over the loss of ‘the candle that lit her nights.’ From what I can gather from her other correspondence, that’s code for her lover.”
Pasha leaned in for a better look. Yuliana could hear that he was holding his breath.
“He died in 1807?” Pasha said.
She nodded. “I think so.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“I’m going to keep reading.”
Pasha rose and kissed his sister on the top of her head. “I’ll check the Imperial Army’s historical rosters. That ought to give us an answer for good.”
She looked up at him. “All right. But be careful.”
He tilted his head quizzically.
“It’s been too quiet since Nikolai tried to kill us with the carriage made of swords. He’s up to something.”
Pasha sighed. But then he nodded. “I’ll figure out what he is doing.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The soldier on duty at the Imperial Army’s office was asleep at his desk. Pasha frowned. He had gone to all the trouble of disguising himself as an infantryman from a regiment out of town—complete with a story about why he needed to access his uncle’s records for an honor his fabricated city was bestowing upon said uncle—but it seemed all his preparations were unnecessary. It was also a bit disappointing that this was what a soldier in Pasha’s army did when no one was looking. Then again, this was a records office, not an outpost at the edges of the Ottoman Empire. Even Pasha had to admit that if his job were sitting at this desk, he’d nap to pass the time too.
He slipped into the back of the office, past the snoring soldier, and availed himself of the files in the drawers.
The records were tidy, and this was certainly something of which Pasha could be proud. The Imperial Army was one of the finest in Europe, from their fighting against Napoleon down to their polished boots, from the wisdom of their commanders to the documentation for every soldier, so precise it was as if Yuliana herself had made the notations for each one.
Pasha riffled through the yellowed papers, working backward in time until he found 1807.
Please, let there be a record here of Okhotnikov’s death.
He peeked through the door to the soldier out front, and upon hearing him still snoring, pulled a fat stack of papers from the drawer. Pasha sat with them on the floor, out of the soldier’s line of sight, in case he woke.
Records of new recruits. Of retirements. Of promotions and approvals for sick leave.
And then, a notice of death.
Alexis Okhotnikov, staff captain of the Guard.
Cause of death: stabbing, assailant unknown.
Pasha’s breath came fast and shallow. He clutched the paper to his chest, squeezed his eyes shut, and leaned back against the wall.