“Her name is Vika. I overheard the countess saying it to herself in her rooms before you left for Bolshebnoie Duplo.”
“I . . . I don’t like the girl having a name.” Nikolai shook his head, as if he could shake her name right out of his skull. It made it harder to hurt her if she had a name. He could only kill her if he forgot she was a person. Maybe. Because he knew where she lived, and she didn’t know his identity. He could go to Ovchinin Island and find her house. Then when she least expected it, he could cause it to cave in on her. Or he could charm her pillow to smother her in her sleep. Impale her with a garden hoe.
The thoughts turned Nikolai a dismal shade of green.
Besides, it would never work. The girl would have cast protections on her home—if she hadn’t already relocated to Saint Petersburg—and she had already displayed far greater skill than Nikolai. And that had been in the woods when she had thought no one was watching, when her life was not even at stake.
But at the same time, Nikolai did not intend to lie down and accept loss without a fight. He had endured Galina’s tyranny in preparation for this. All that suffering needed to be worth it. If he won, he could finally be free of Galina, and he could finally have a place where he was respected and where he belonged. No more bartering for cloth or sharpening other people’s swords. He would be the tsar’s adviser.
Not to mention, Nikolai had no desire to die.
Renata put the remainder of the apple tart back on its plate and wiped her fingers on a cloth napkin. Then she walked back to Nikolai at the window. “You don’t have it in you to hurt the other enchanter.” She pulled his hands apart from each other. He hadn’t realized he’d been scrubbing at them again, still plagued by the memory of the tiger and the vipers and the lorises. So much blood.
“The Game ends when only one enchanter remains,” he said.
“Or until one proves he is better than the other. You don’t have to kill her. The Game will take care of that as long as there’s a clear winner.”
Nikolai retracted his hands from Renata’s. He leaned against the windowsill. It was true he wasn’t required to attack the other enchanter. But . . .
“I’ll only have more turns in the Game if the girl doesn’t kill me first.” Nikolai shuddered as he imagined his body pierced by hundreds of fiery arrows. Or spontaneously bursting into flame. Which would also happen if her moves were simply better than his. “What do my tea leaves instruct me to do?”
“Tea leaves never give instructions. Only observations. And I haven’t read your leaves since the time you forgot to lock your door.”
The very corner of Nikolai’s mouth smiled. But only the corner.
Renata reached up and brushed her finger against his dimple. She had always told him it looked like an accidental divot chipped out of the smooth planes of his face, for he only had one, not a matching pair. “There. I missed this dimple. This is a tiny bit of the Nikolai I know.” Her finger stayed for an extra second before it dropped away.
Nikolai tried not to think about the way she lingered. Instead, he tugged at his collar, where the scar seemed to threaten to burn through his cravat.
He could reface all the buildings on Nevsky Prospect as part of his move. Superficially, it would be a pretty gift to the city for Pasha’s birthday, and hopefully the tsar would appreciate the effort it would take to execute such detailed splendor.
It had to be more than just beautiful buildings, though. But what? Something to help himself in the Game.
Nevsky Prospect was the main thoroughfare through Saint Petersburg. Nikolai didn’t know where the girl was living, but surely she would make appearances on the street or in the shops there with relative frequency, wouldn’t she? Most of Saint Petersburg did.
Gargoyles! he thought. He could install gargoyles or something else discreet on the buildings, and then they could take care of the girl. If stone soldiers did the dirty work, it wasn’t really Nikolai killing her. Was it?
“Nikolai?” Renata asked.
He broke away from his planning. He’d forgotten Renata was still there.
“Yes?”
“You looked . . . like you’d been enveloped by a storm cloud.”
“Sorry.” He charmed an apple tart to float to him, and he ate it, although he didn’t pay enough attention to taste it.
“So you’re all right?”
Nikolai brushed a stray flake of pastry off his collar. “No, I’m not all right. I’m not sure I’ll ever be. But I’ll do what I have to. It’s what I’ve always done.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN