“Mon dieu! What a state Russia is in these days.”
Nikolai turned around, curious as to the identities of the speakers. But both the men were masked, and one of them, upon seeing Nikolai, said, “Let’s not discuss this tonight,” before he herded his friend away.
If only they knew about magic and the Game, Nikolai thought wryly. Then they’d truly wonder at the state of Russia these days.
Nikolai brushed aside the men’s talk—it was not only Galina’s set that liked to whisper about gossip and scandal—and began to scan the crowd again in search of Pasha. Surely he was here in disguise.
But before Nikolai had looked at an eighth of the room, a familiar swirl of braids caught his attention. She wore the same gray tunic as the rest of the servants, although she shouldn’t have, for she did not work in the Winter Palace. She did not belong here at all. Nikolai strode across the ballroom and caught her arm.
“What are you doing here, Renata?”
“Nikolai!”
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
Renata wrenched free of his grip and maneuvered so that a divan stood between them. “What do you think?”
“If the girl tried to make a move in the Game tonight, there would be nothing you could do to stop her.”
“I could try.”
“By doing what? Distracting her by reading her tea leaves?”
Renata’s face crumpled, and she looked away.
Damn it. Again with the clumsy words. And this time he didn’t have vodka to blame. Nikolai reached across the divan and put his hand on Renata’s arm, gentler this time. In the background, the waltz and its music came to a close. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to belittle your abilities.”
“It’s all right.” She rested her hand on his. “I know you’re under a great deal of pressure. I thought I could help by coming and keeping watch on her.”
“Vika will be in costume. It will be hard to keep watch on anybody tonight.”
Renata inhaled sharply. “Since when did you start saying her name?”
Nikolai dropped his hand from Renata’s arm and stepped back. Had he said the girl’s name? He hadn’t meant to. Until now, it was a boundary he hadn’t crossed. The Game would have been easier if she were unnamed, if she remained a stranger.
But it was already too late for that. From the moment she’d charmed the canals, it was too late. And then she had spared him from the lightning storm, and he’d made her the Imagination Box. . . . Yes, it was much too late. In more ways than one.
Renata stood on the other side of the divan, awaiting his reply.
He cleared his throat. “How did you get into the palace in the first place?”
She gave a melancholy laugh. “Servants are interchangeable. They don’t keep track of us. I slipped in through a service entrance and picked up a tray, and they pointed me in the direction of the uniforms without even looking at my face.”
Nikolai frowned. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d been mistaken for a servant at one of Galina’s fetes, back when he wore whatever rags she scrounged up for him, before he learned to make his own clothes. And if Galina had never plucked him off the steppe, he could have been someone in a gray tunic, permanently. So it seemed patently unfair to Nikolai that he could be here, on one side of the ball, while Renata, his loyal confidante, could be on the other, wiping up spills and serving tea.
“Come with me.” He had an idea. Perhaps not a wise one, given his suspicions of how Renata felt about him, but he could not let her spend the evening slaving away when she had come for his sake.
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere, and at the same time, somewhere better than this faux café.”
He came around the divan and led Renata farther into the corner. Then he raised his arm above them both and cast a shroud, such that if anyone looked in their direction, they would see only the curtains.
“What are you doing?” she asked, but her voice was steady, her eyes large and curious rather than afraid.
Nikolai untied a peacock feather from one of the garlands and gave it to Renata. “Hold this.”
She clutched it to her chest, and he pointed his fingertips at it, then lifted his right hand up and pressed his left, down, as if stretching the feather to Renata’s full length.
“If you are going to be here at the ball, you might as well enjoy it,” he said.
Renata looked down. “Oh, Nikolai!” Her plain tunic had metamorphosed into a green lace bodice and a skirt composed entirely of peacock feathers. Her shoes were patterned to match.
“And of course you’ll need gloves and a mask.” He clasped his hands, and when they opened, white gloves and a mask of green, gold, and blue glitter appeared.
She picked them up as if they would vanish if she handled them too roughly. She slipped on the gloves, and Nikolai helped her fit the mask on her face.
He bowed and offered her his arm. “May I have the honor of dancing with you?”
“I—I don’t know how.”