“Merely observant.”
He sighed as they stepped into the maple grove. “It’s just that my mother is very ill,” Pasha said. “It has been one thing after another, and the doctors are at their wits’ end. Their last hope is to send her to the South in hopes the warmer weather will do her good. I love her dearly, so I, too, hope it is the cure, but the truth is, I doubt it. Her problems began long before autumn arrived.”
Pasha released Vika’s arm and began to pace along the path. He thought of his mother’s life; it had not been easy to live in the Winter Palace with his father. The tsar had had many well-known affairs. Other children, borne by other women. The tsarina could have left and taken Yuliana with her, but Pasha would have had to remain behind as official heir to the throne. As such, his mother had stayed and abided a mountain of insult and indignity for the love of her son.
“I wish there were some miracle that could heal her.”
“Are you asking me to use magic on her?” Vika asked.
Pasha stopped his pacing. Hope caught in his throat. “Can you?”
Vika exhaled slowly and rubbed a spot just under the collar of her coat. She took several more breaths before she replied. “I can heal cuts and broken bones, but what ails your mother sounds much deeper. I think I’d do her more harm than good.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry. Magic is not always the answer. It’s old and very complicated, and comes tied with many strings. Even this”—she tapped the knot of the maple tree, which began to pour amber liquid into a bucket below—“one of Ludmila’s innocent ideas, has consequences greater than syrup.”
“What do you mean?”
Vika pointed up at the branches of the maple. The green leaves that swayed in the wind began to blur, then vanish. They were replaced by dead limbs.
“What . . . how did you do that?”
“The leaves are a mirage. These trees have actually been drained completely of life.”
“In order to create one thing, you had to sacrifice another.”
“Yes. Sometimes, magic is deadly.” She frowned.
Pasha eyed her. “Are you telling me you’re dangerous?”
Vika’s frown vanished, and she laughed, almost too wildly given what they’d just been talking about. “Quite so. But I’m no danger to you.”
The moon shifted then, and its light slivered through the bare maple branches and landed in pale stripes on Vika’s face. It highlighted her delicate cheekbones. It emphasized her otherness. Pasha couldn’t resist stepping closer to her. He reached out to touch her face.
“Please don’t,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, I just—”
She didn’t move away as his fingers hovered next to her cheek, aching to brush against her skin. But she said, “I mean, you don’t want this.”
“What if I do?” He wanted to kiss her. And not just her lips, although he wanted that, badly. He also wanted to kiss her neck, to peel away her coat and touch his mouth to her pale shoulders. He wanted to feel the softness and warmth of her skin. Pasha leaned closer.
This time, Vika backed away. “Trust me, you don’t. I’m too complicated. I am bound by too much not in my control.”
Pasha sighed. He, too, was bound. By his father. By duty. By the people of an entire empire. He wondered what trappings hindered Vika.
“There’s no such thing as simplicity,” he said.
She took off her glove and ran a finger through the trickle of maple syrup, frowning at the crystallized lumps in it. “I’m beginning to fully comprehend that.”
“I like you,” he said. “More than like you.”
She shook her head slightly, but more to herself than to him. “I don’t want to like you.”
“But you do?” Pasha went to run his hand through his hair, but caught himself before he gave his nerves away.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I’m only asking about you.”
Vika focused on a deformed crystal of syrup on her thumb. “I’m not in a position to fall in love. With you, or with anyone else.”
If he could, Pasha would have sucked the sugar off her finger. But it wasn’t appropriate, and she’d made it clear she wasn’t interested, so he settled for removing his glove and wiping the sugar crystal off her fingertip, lingering for a second as their hands touched. Even that sent sparks through every one of Pasha’s nerves.
“Will you tell me if that ever changes?” he said, his voice a touch hoarse.
She frowned. “I doubt it will.”
“But if it does?”
She looked up at Pasha, and it took everything in him not to bend down and steal a kiss. “Yes,” she said. “If it changes, I will tell you.”
He sighed again.
“You have a lot weighing on you,” Vika said. “I’ll leave you to enjoy the island and sort through your troubles. I hope for the best for your mother.”
“You don’t have to go—”