“I don’t . . . I admit I didn’t think it through quite that far.” He tugged on his hair, and the fisherman’s cap fell off.
Nikolai picked it up and tossed it back at him. “I’m right, you know.”
Pasha turned the fisherman’s cap in his hands.
“Let it go,” Nikolai said, as much to Pasha as to himself. “Forget about trying to control the Game, and let it take its course. It will end how it needs to end.”
Pasha frowned. “I wish there were something I could do to change it.”
Nikolai closed his eyes. “Me, too, Pasha. Me, too.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Vika sat on the floor of the apartment and stared at the Imagination Box. She had brought it inside the flat after the ball, a rash and likely imprudent carryover from dancing with Nikolai, and it had been there ever since. And unlike the Masquerade Box, the Imagination Box’s magic hadn’t been extinguished. Vika hardly blinked as she looked at it.
One panel was covered with the word Father carved over and over, followed by the words lies, lies, lies, lies, lies.
Father, Father, Father, she thought.
I miss you, Father. I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t know, Father.
Lies, lies, lies.
I don’t know my father. Or my mother. Was everything you ever told me a lie?
The other panel on the Imagination Box was covered with angry slashes, and the words the Game and Galina and Nikolai and blame.
It’s your fault. Without you, without the Game, he’d still be alive. It’s all your damn fault.
Vika growled through her tears. Then she reached out and touched the Imagination Box.
She obliterated the words with a single, violent swipe.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The bridge spanned the Fontanka River, composed of two stone arches with a wooden drawbridge in between. Four Doric pavilions housed the drawbridge mechanisms, and it was in the corner of one of these pavilions that Pasha stood, hiding. He’d grown out some of his blond stubble into a two-day-old beard, shadowed the rest of his face with a wide-brimmed hat, and donned a frayed coat over a common laborer’s rough tunic and breeches. He’d even sewn lopsided patches onto the knees.
“Hello, Frenchie,” Ludmila said as she approached the opposite side of the pavilion.
He peeked out from under the hat. A grin spread across his bearded face. “Why, if it isn’t my Aphrodite of the pumpkin. How did you find me here?”
“A hunch.”
“Ah, it was Ilya, wasn’t it?” Ilya was the youngest member of Pasha’s Guard, but the best one at guessing his whereabouts. “I’ll have to be slyer to outwit him. Though he doesn’t inform the rest of the Guard, which I appreciate.”
“He thought you’d be watching the boats.”
“Indeed. I’m trying to work out the inefficiencies in the water traffic around the city. There are times when there is too much traffic, and others when there is none at all. The delays cause all manner of problems, from spoiled goods to missed connections to accidents while the boats wait in the queue.”
“Ah, and here I thought Ilya meant you were merely watching the boats as boys do when they dream of becoming sailors.” Ludmila chuckled. “Don’t you have a harbormaster whose job it is to manage this?”
“I do, and the tsar has asked me to meet with him several times, but he knows nothing except what’s written on his timetables. But that’s just paper. And reality isn’t paper, is it?”
Ludmila shook her head.
“So I came to see the situation for myself. Also, I just like looking at boats and dreaming of becoming a sailor.” Pasha flashed his famous smile. “But you did not seek me out to discuss river traffic. What can I do for you today, Madame Fanina?”
“It’s about Vika.”
Pasha inched closer to where Ludmila stood. “I’ve been wondering where she is. There haven’t been any new enchantments in a fortnight. I thought perhaps it was because the festivities for my birthday had concluded.”
Ludmila hung her head. “Vika’s father passed away.”
“Oh no.” Pasha left the cover of the pavilion now and came out to the main part of the bridge.
“She received word two weeks ago. I haven’t been able to convince her to leave the flat.”
Pasha continued to stand still and steady, as a tsesarevich should in the face of tragedy, even though he wished he could fly to Vika’s apartment that very instant to gather her in his arms. “What can I do?” he asked Ludmila.
“Will you talk to her? Invite her for a walk, or do anything to take her mind off her father for a short while? I realize it’s bold of me to ask, and you have the boats to observe—”