The Crown’s Game (17 page)

N
ikolai had seen Pasha slip out a service door, but he had not anticipated such a long delay between the announcement of the tsar and tsarina and the official announcement of Pasha’s arrival. But when he saw his friend come down the marble steps, he understood the reason why: he was no longer the playful angel Dmitri but was instead the staid heir to the throne, complete with
a forced smile and formal military uniform. No mask.

“The Tsesarevich, Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov!” the majordomo shouted.

Poor Pasha.

After he descended the stairs, Pasha turned and bowed to the tsar and tsarina, who were sitting in a balcony above the rest of the ballroom, not unlike a box at the opera, well separated from the ordinary people. Yuliana hurried to Pasha’s side, her movements
somehow graceful and graceless at the same time, and he kissed her hand. And then half the guests abandoned their current conversations and
rushed to give their birthday wishes to the tsesarevich, no longer caring whether their masks fell and their true identities were revealed. In fact, many of them purposely ripped their masks off their faces, the better for the tsesarevich to recognize them
and take note of their show of loyalty.

If only they knew that Pasha was likely not keeping track.

Nikolai let his shroud fade away, and he appeared once more against the backdrop of the curtains. Renata quickly found him.

“I was beginning to wonder whether the tsesarevich would come to his own birthday ball,” she said, watching the queue of people lined up for the possibility of a few words
from Pasha. “But it’s a shame that he hates it.”

“Hates what?”

“Being the tsesarevich.”

“How do you mean?”

Renata shrugged, as if the observation were obvious. Then again, she was disarmingly good at seeing through to the truth of people. Most of the time. “He winced when the majordomo announced him.”

Nikolai also watched Pasha. Now that he had come down from the steps and was able to interact
with the guests one on one, Pasha’s smile had grown more relaxed. “No, you’re wrong. He doesn’t hate the position itself. He hates the formality of it. But he has great respect for the tsardom and the people of the empire. He only wishes it came with less pomp and ceremony.”

As if to emphasize Nikolai’s point, Pasha tossed back his head in laughter in response to something the pirate, Renata’s
former dance partner, was saying. The pirate beamed.

“Ah, all right, I see what you mean,” Renata said. “It’s a pity, though, that he won’t get to enjoy the costume aspects of his own masquerade.”

Nikolai nodded. Pasha would also lament that his other goal for the ball—meeting Vika—had not yet come to fruition. It was already half past nine. Would she make an appearance at all?

Nikolai absentmindedly
pressed his hand to the spot where his scar lay beneath his cravat. The wands didn’t burn; because he’d built the Masquerade and Imagination Boxes, it was currently Vika’s move. He half hoped she would appear and cast something stunning. He half feared she would, too. He’d even considered wearing Galina’s knife tonight, but then left it behind when he realized it would be confiscated at
the door. No one could have weaponry at the tsesarevich’s ball.

“Do you think she’ll come?” Renata asked, her eyes on the placement of Nikolai’s hand on his scar.

He dropped it down to his side. “I don’t know.”

She wrinkled her forehead, studying him. “Do you want her to come?”

Nikolai charmed his face to smooth out the emotion so Renata couldn’t read him. “I don’t know that, either.”

But
it didn’t matter what he wanted or how he felt, for in the same heartbeat as Nikolai uttered those words, Vika appeared in the entry.

A hush blew through the ballroom until even the couple bowing to Pasha rose to see the cause of the quiet. Pasha turned. All eyes were on the girl on the stairs.

Her ordinarily red hair was pale blue tonight, and the black streak had been transformed to silver,
like a sliver of
mercury. On her face, she wore a mask made of birch wood, rough white with flecks of gray. But it was the gown that had triggered the silence, for it was unlike anything the guests had ever seen. The bodice appeared to be carved from white ice, reflecting the light from the chandeliers on its polished surface, and yet it hugged the curves of her frame and moved with her as if
made of water. The skirt was similarly frosty, an endless eddy of snowflakes, like a blizzard erupting from the ice above. Even the air seemed to chill around her. This was not from Nikolai’s Masquerade Box. This was far beyond his tailoring and imagination.

She was a diamond in a quarry full of quartz.

Even the majordomo stood agog. It was a good minute before he gathered himself and inquired
the girl’s masquerade name. And that of her chaperone, a lady dressed in a rich brown dress that, from Nikolai’s vantage point, seemed to be made of actual chocolate, and that would usually have elicited awe and admiration had it not been upstaged by Vika’s gown.

“Madame Chocolat . . . and Lady Snow,” the majordomo yelled, and it was arguable whether he had announced the tsesarevich or Vika with
more reverence.

“Good gracious.” Renata trembled beside Nikolai. “No wonder you feared her the first time you saw her.”

But fear no longer described how Nikolai felt. As soon as Vika floated into the ballroom, he’d felt her pull. She was the sun, and he was a mere rock, drawn in by her gravity. He needed to be closer, to feel her magic, to touch . . . her. He trembled at the thought. And he
took a step in her direction.

Renata reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Be careful. . . .”

And then she let go. For even she knew there was only so much one could do to protect a winter moth drawn to an icy flame.

V
ika paused at the top of the ballroom stairs, not because she wanted everyone’s attention, but because she had no idea what to do or where to go next. She was already self-conscious that they were so late—creating the gowns for Ludmila and herself had taken a great deal longer than she had hoped it would—and now it was evident that they had arrived well after the imperial
family. Even a country girl who knew nothing of the rules of Saint Petersburg society could deduce that that was an insult.
Please, please don’t let the tsar hold it against me
. She did not want him to declare a winner—and loser—tonight.

“I think we should pay our respects to the imperial family,” Ludmila whispered. “And smile.”

Vika tensed but forced up the corners of her mouth. She and Ludmila
were only halfway down the stairs when the tsesarevich began to come up. Vika stood paralyzed. She had disrespected him once by freezing him in the forest. Now she had offended him by arriving late to his birthday
ball. Although she couldn’t be sure he knew she was the girl from the woods, she suspected her icy dress gave her away. It had been part of the point of her costume. Perhaps an arrogant
and foolish point.
Please let the tsesarevich be as kind as Ludmila thinks he is. Please don’t let him take offense.

Ludmila curtsied on the steps. Vika not so much curtsied as fell to her knees in as low a genuflection as she could manage without sitting down. Her skirt spread across the stairs like an avalanche cascading over the sides of a mountain.

The tsesarevich stopped in front of her.
“Please rise, Lady Snow.” He offered his hand.

Vika was aware that all eyes and ears in the ballroom were on them. What she said and did next could seal her fate. She took his hand and kissed it.

His laugh echoed through the entire room. He didn’t sound cruel, but then again, the worst kinds of cruelty come in the guise of kindness.

“Take my hand, Lady.”

She glanced up briefly and laid her
gloved fingers in his. He pulled her up from the steps, but she kept her head bowed. When she was standing again, she said quietly, “Your Imperial Highness, please forgive us for our late arrival. It is entirely my fault, and I assume full responsibility. I did not mean any offense. I owe you my deepest apologies.”

This time, the tsesarevich lifted
her
hand to his mouth and kissed it. “You are
forgiven.”

Vika startled and met his gaze. The blue in his eyes sparkled with his smile.

“May I have the honor of dancing with you?” he asked.

Vika nodded, unable to utter a word.

The tsesarevich turned to Ludmila. “Would that be all right, Madame Chocolat?”

Ludmila giggled. “Oh, yes, quite so, Your Imperial Highness.”

He bowed slightly to her, then offered his arm to Vika and led her down
the remaining stairs.

The grand princess awaited them at the bottom. She had dark-blond hair that matched the tsesarevich’s, and broad shoulders like his, too. Her gown was made of violet velvet and tulle, and her neck was adorned with an entire treasure chest of jewelry.
It’s a minor miracle,
Vika thought,
that she can stand beneath the weight
. Like the rest of the imperial family, the grand
princess wore no mask.

She eyed Vika, then turned up her nose at her (which was quite a feat, since the grand princess’s nose was already upturned in shape). She said to her brother, “Don’t tell me you were going to take her to dance without introducing her first.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the tsesarevich said, although from the barely concealed smirk on his face, Vika suspected he’d at least
considered it. He turned to Vika. “This is my sister, the Grand Princess Yuliana Alexandrovna Romanova. And this,” he said to the grand princess, “is Lady Snow.”

Again, Vika curtsied low to the ground. The grand princess also curtsied, although barely. “I gather you two have met before,” she said. There was a thinly veiled hint at impropriety in her tone.

Against her better judgment, Vika scowled.
She also flushed, which only made her scowl more that she’d let the grand princess get to her.

The tsesarevich simply waved off his sister’s implication.
“In fact, we have not.” Which, technically, was true, as Vika had fled when she last saw the tsesarevich rather than properly paying her respects. He turned to Vika. “Please ignore my sister. She’s a bit protective of me.”

“With good reason,”
the grand princess said. But she dipped her head at Vika to indicate that she was dismissed, and Vika tried not to bristle. Not visibly, anyhow.

The orchestra had begun to play again, and the other guests pretended to return to their conversations all while keeping their focus on the newcomer monopolizing the tsesarevich’s attention. He led Vika past the now-broken queue of people who had been
waiting to wish him well, until they arrived in front of the balcony where the tsar and tsarina presided.

Vika held a very long breath.

“Father, Mother, may I present to you Lady Snow.”

Vika smiled as if she had never met the tsar before, and she curtsied to the floor again.

“That is an impressive gown,” the tsarina said when Vika had risen. “The shimmering fabric gives the illusion of the
snowstorm being real. Wherever did you have it made?”

“I tailored it myself, Your Imperial Majesty. I am very grateful that it pleases you.” Vika cringed at her own words. She sounded like such a sycophant. But what was the appropriate thing to say when the tsarina complimented your magic, without knowing it was magic? There was certainly no etiquette manual to cover that.

“Take care not to
become too enamored of the tsesarevich,” the tsar said. “It will require more than a showy gown to be worthy.”

Vika’s hand fluttered to her collarbone. She had charmed
her scar to be invisible tonight, but it still burned. And even though the tsar was commenting ostensibly on her dress, his warning was clear: he was not impressed by the enchantments recently cast over the city by her and the
other enchanter, Nikolai. They would have to do more to win the right to advise him.

But at least it seemed that he would not end the Game tonight. He would give them more chances to prove themselves. A little of the tension leached from Vika’s shoulders.

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” she said. “I understand completely.”

The tsar grunted. The tsarina nodded and said, “Enjoy the ball.”

As the
tsesarevich led Vika across the ballroom, he said, “Now it’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry my family are so . . . dreadful.”

Vika shook her head violently. “Oh, no, Your Imperial Highness, they’re not—”

He grinned, and it appeared more the expression of an impish boy than that of the heir to an empire. “Please, call me Pasha. And it’s true, they are dreadful. Well, not my mother. But Father
and Yuliana can be. Father is an awfully good tsar, though. And Yuliana can’t help being dour; she was born that way.”

Vika didn’t know anything appropriate to say.
How to respond when the crown prince pokes fun at his family
would also not be in the etiquette manual. She could respond with something clever or snide—
I never thought kindness was a prerequisite for world domination anyway
—but Vika
didn’t fancy being arrested tonight for treason. So she kept her mouth shut.

As they approached the center of the ballroom, a bald man in white uniform—not a military one, but something with silver tassels and epaulettes nonetheless—scurried up to the tsesarevich.

“Your Imperial Highness, would you like the entire floor to yourself?”

The tsesarevich scrunched his nose. “Goodness, no, Fyodor.
And ask the orchestra to play a waltz, please.”

Fyodor, whom Vika deduced must be a dance manager of some sort, scuttled away and began waving urgently at the costumed men and women around the room. As Vika and the tsesarevich took their place, the dance floor around them began to fill with other couples. Nearby, a peacock and a young man in a harlequin mask caught her eye.

The tsesarevich took
her hand and rested his other behind her opposite shoulder.

“Oh! I, uh . . . I’ve never waltzed before, Your Imperial Highness. Actually, I must confess I have never danced any sort of dance.”

He blinked at her. “
Any
dance?”

“Folk dances. But not proper ballroom ones, Your Imperial Highness.”

The tsesarevich lifted her left hand and placed it on his shoulder. “Will you please call me Pasha?”

“I—”

“I will call you Vika, if that makes it a fairer trade.”

“I . . . Wait.” A tiny laugh escaped her. “You do know who I am.”

“The gown was a clever clue. My boots are still cold from that day. I’m very glad you accepted the invitation. My
apologies for its last-minute nature. You’re a difficult girl to track down.”

Now Vika truly laughed.

“So you will call me Pasha?” He tilted his head,
and he looked like a little boy asking for something as simple as ice cream. As if calling the heir to an entire empire by his nickname were such a simple matter.

But why not? He was a person, just as Vika was. “All right then. Pasha.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, and the delight lit him from within. Those around them on the dance floor smiled, too, as if his joy were contagious.

He could smile
like that and have anyone agree with him, about anything,
she thought. It wasn’t magic, but it was close.

The orchestra began a gentle rhythm, and Pasha squeezed Vika’s hand. “Just follow my lead.”

At first, she concentrated on her steps. It would be best not to make a complete fool of herself, since everyone was watching. Thank goodness for the mask. Although it would not save her from the
tsar. He already knew who she was.

They spun around the floor, and Vika tried not to step on Pasha’s toes. Soon, however, she figured out that they danced in the shape of a box, and she was able to release some of her focus and let him guide her.

“Thank you for what you’ve done to the city,” he said close to her ear.

“What I’ve done?”

“You know: Nevsky Prospect, the Neva Fountain, the Canal
of Colors, the music box pas de deux,
the pumpkin kiosk, the Masquerade Box . . .”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Pasha whirled her around easily. “I think you do. By the way, you dance exquisitely.”

Vika’s stomach fluttered, and she had to charm her face to conceal her surprise. “I assure you, any ability I have in this waltz is all on account of you.”

“But the city . . .”

“Was not all my
doing.”

Pasha missed a step. When he recovered, he said, “You’re not the only enchanter?”

Now it was Vika who stumbled. Had she really confessed she was an enchanter and revealed that there was more than one, all in a single breath? Pasha had complimented her on her dancing, and because of a few honeyed words, she’d let down her guard? The snowflakes on her gown blustered.

“I didn’t say I was
an enchanter.”

Pasha smiled. “But I did. And you haven’t denied it.”

She glanced over her shoulder. No one was close enough to hear their conversation, although she could swear that the harlequin was paying more attention to
them
than to the peacock with whom he danced. Vika lowered her voice. “Being an enchanter is much more complicated than charming a few things to look pretty.”

“My apologies.
I didn’t mean to imply that it wasn’t.”

The waltz ended, and across the floor, the dancers all bowed and curtsied to one another. The floor manager hustled to Pasha’s side.

“Does Your Imperial Highness have any requests for the next dance?”

“A mazurka, please, Fyodor. I feel rather energized after that last one.”

“A mazurka it shall be, Your Imperial Highness.” He ran off to inform the orchestra.

Pasha offered Vika his arm. “Would you care to dance again?”

The harlequin slipped beside him, the peacock close behind. “It would be poor form to keep Lady Snow all to yourself,” the harlequin said. “Even if you are the tsesarevich, and it’s your birthday.”

Vika stared at him, her mouth open.

“Ought I have his head for his impudence?” Pasha asked her. But then he burst out laughing. Pasha
seemed always to be smiling or laughing. “Yes, it would indeed be poor form to keep such a beguiling lady to myself. I suppose you’ve come to steal her from me, Nikolai?”

The harlequin inclined his head.

Vika swallowed.

He was here. It was Nikolai.