The Tsarina's Legacy (33 page)

She drew a deep breath, taking in the terrible bleach smell and trying not to stare at his eye. She couldn't let the panic consume her, no matter how hard her heart thudded in her chest. But she didn't believe him. He wasn't okay. He was here because of her. This had happened to him because of her. She turned to the guard, pressing her lips together until she could speak in lucid, proper Russian. “May we have a few minutes of privacy?”

The guard tipped his hat. Eyes wide, Michael watched him retreat to the other end of the corridor. “I don't think he's supposed to leave you alone with me. I thought he was going to bark at you and tell you we only had two minutes. I'm surprised he's giving us even this much space.”

“He called me Nika. I think he might want the Romanovs back.”

“Ah!” Michael grinned. She was glad to see him in good spirits at least. His fingers felt comforting against her skin. “Royalty has its perks.”

“Maybe he has some noble bloodline in his family and a lost fortune he wants to recover.” She leaned forward. “Irina says I'm turning conservative members of the Duma against the Society. She says you're in jail as some sort of retaliation, that someone is trying to get to me through you.” Without thinking, Veronica turned her hand sideways to slide it between the narrow bars, gently touching Michael's bruised cheek. He flinched and she lowered her hand. “What happened? What did they do?”

Michael glanced at the guard and lowered his voice until it sounded gravelly. “I lost my temper for a minute and didn't think before I said something stupid. Trust me. It won't happen again.”

She was afraid to touch his face again so she squeezed his fingers. “I'm getting you out of here. I have a call in to the American consulate. They'll help. And I'll talk to this guard. There must be something I can do.”

“I don't want you to do anything, Veronica. Look, the guard notified the consulate for me already. Let's wait and see what happens.”

“What are they saying you did?”

He scratched his head.

“You didn't do anything … did you?”

He shrugged.

“What did you do?”

“They found something on me.”

“What? Drugs?”

“Veronica, come on. No. It was a pamphlet for an LGBT advocacy group. They found several in my coat pocket. I was arrested under the gay propaganda law.”

Her chest felt like ice. “Oh my God.”

“Not that I'm offended or anything, but, Veronica, the pamphlets weren't mine. Someone planted them in my coat. And when I tried to explain, no one listened.”

“You were set up.” She rocked back and forth now, sliding her hand out and holding on to the bars to steady herself. A hooting sound came from one of the other cells, the boy with the spider tattoo. She couldn't let Michael stay in here one more second.

“And then they asked for my visa and said it was the wrong kind. I guess because of the pamphlets they think I'm here for political reasons and the tourist visa isn't valid.”

“That's crazy. I'm going to sort it out.”

“Let the people in the consulate do their job,” Michael said. “I don't know who set me up, but the Americans aren't going to let anything happen to me.”

“My apologies, Tsarina Nika,” the guard called from the end of the hall. “But there will be more men coming. I must ask you to leave now.”

“One more minute.”

“Please, Veronica. Do what he says. I don't want you to end up in a women's ward somewhere. Help Reb. Don't let this intimidate you. I'll be fine.”

Veronica took his hand again and grasped his fingers tighter. “I miss you. I wanted to say it before … I miss you.” She touched his face gently, steering clear of the bruise. “I love you.”

He smiled sadly. “I love you too. I've always loved you. But I think you know that.”

“Just a little while longer,” she told him. “I'm getting you out of here.”

*   *   *

By eight that evening, Veronica still hadn't heard back from the consulate and she didn't want to return to her hotel. It was too cold to wander the streets aimlessly, and besides, it didn't feel safe. Dmitry had asked her not to come to Reb's flat. He thought it might make matters worse for everyone, at least until they learned more about Michael's arrest and the threats to Reb. And she still hadn't returned the call to her
abuela
. She couldn't bear to tell her Michael was in jail. Abuela would order her home immediately.

So she ended up back at the office of the Monarchist Society, staring out the window at the twinkling streetlights lining the courtyard. The white curve of a half-moon flickered into view between the bare limbs of the trees outside, casting shadows on the aristocratic portraits and mementos lining the walls. She stared blankly at the itinerary Dmitry had prepared for her and all of Irina's notes neatly placed underneath a blotter on the desk.

Michael was paying for her ambition. The thought made her stomach turn. The more time she spent by herself, turning over worst-case scenarios in her mind, the more she was convinced coming to Russia had been a huge mistake. She'd had a secure job; she was rebuilding her relationship with her grandmother. She could have gone to Los Angeles to see Michael. When she reviewed the way her life was taking shape, she wasn't sure her head had done her many favors. She should have listened to her heart.

Her phone pinged and a text message from Dmitry popped up on the screen.

I'M STILL AT REB'S APARTMENT. TURN ON THE TV.

Veronica didn't have access to a television, but she stayed on her phone, searching for the latest news to come out of Russia, anything connected to Reb.

She soon found the footage. She recognized the front steps and the same crowd of protesters she had seen in Palace Square earlier in the day. Rainbow flags unfurled and she spotted the picture of the Russian president with makeup. A few black-clad policemen lingered toward the back of the crowd. Reb descended the staircase with Dmitry two steps behind him and the crowd cheered. He waved and looked as though he were about to speak.

Before he got the chance, the camera jostled, suddenly focusing in on something happening toward the back of the crowd. Two protesters—a boy and a girl no older than eighteen—had gotten into a scuffle with a policeman. Except this didn't look like an ordinary policeman, at least not the ones Veronica had seen earlier. The man who confronted the boy and girl wore a fur hat and a gray-green tunic coat with red military epaulettes. Veronica realized he was one of the so-called neo-Cossacks who had started engaging in military and civilian patrols. The camera focused on something that was in his hand, a gleaming piece of metal with long, snaking, rawhide tendrils attached to it.

A knout.

The Cossack pushed the protesters. When the boy made a move, he lashed the whip at them until they were huddled on the ground, feebly struggling to protect their faces from the blows. The Cossack turned toward the camera, looking very young. Too young. He raised his hand, raised the knout. The camera phone fell to the ground and the last few seconds were just shaky footage of shoes.

All of this had happened far enough away from the crowd that only a few people toward the back caught what was happening and recorded videos with their phones.

Veronica stopped the video. She couldn't take it anymore. She had always been prone to anxiety, but nothing like this. A wave of panic sat heavily on her chest, paralyzing her.

As she struggled to catch her breath, her gaze shifted to the drawings of St. Petersburg in its early years. What a quaint little city it seemed back then, and yet she knew the history. How many thousands of men had died forging a city in the swamp? St. Petersburg was nothing more than artifice, a pretty façade covering a history of leaders willing to build legacies on the massive suffering of other human beings.

Veronica shivered, chilled to the bone. She felt a presence draw near, not to speak with her but to judge her somehow. Slowly, she lifted her hand to massage her forehead. The muted gold of the frayed sword knot caught her eye. It hung precariously from a hook near the portrait of Potemkin. At that same moment, a truck rumbled by outside. The vibration shook the tassel from its place and it hit the floor.

A light chill skipped across her shoulders.

Veronica stared at the portrait of Catherine the Great. Maybe what Dmitry said was true and ghosts still haunted the building, looking for the old
banya
.

“Okay, I don't know if I even believe in any of this stuff at all,” she whispered. “But if you're still around here somewhere, please. I could use your help now. I could use some advice.” She looked at Catherine again, right in her steely blue eyes. “What would you do?”

She waited, but nothing happened. And she couldn't just stay in this office like an ass feeling sorry for herself and talking to imaginary spirits.

She turned to the portrait of the auburn-haired Prince Grigory Potemkin, Dmitry's ancestor. Catherine had been a strong woman, confident and self-assured. But Potemkin? One minute he was moody and ready to take on the world, and the next he withdrew from it completely. Veronica realized that for all her admiration of Catherine, she identified far more with her prince. Her eyes glazed over, imagining how he might respond to what was happening in contemporary Russia. She blinked quickly, trying to focus, and then found herself looking at the sketch of the mosque. The frame hung at an awkward angle. Veronica walked over to the drawing and tried to right the frame. When her fingers moved underneath the wood, she felt something dry and crumpling, poking out of the backing. Dust spotted her fingers.

Veronica heard a murmur of a voice in the hallway. She pressed as gently as she could on the paper and it began to slip out from its hiding place behind the frame. It looked like a letter, yellowing and smelling of must, so brittle with age she was afraid it might tear apart in her hands. The crumpled Cyrillic handwriting in the first part of the letter was shaky and her heart thumped wildly as she tried to make it out.

Matushka,

I can't believe we are separated this one final time, especially when I feel the end is so near. I want to be near to hold your little hand and help you with the hundreds of small tasks that occupy your day. But this time, darling wife, even from afar, I must ask you to grant me one last favor to make our legacy to this great empire complete.

The voice in the hallway grew stronger, headed her way. Veronica looked all around the room, her gaze coming to rest once more on the itinerary Dmitry had prepared for her. Hands shaking, she placed the delicate paper between two of the plastic leaves for safekeeping. Then she went to the door to listen.

It was Irina, deep in conversation with someone on the other end of the phone. Veronica got as close to the door as she dared and strained to hear.

“Homosexual propaganda!” Irina was saying in Russian. “That makes him a clear and present danger to this country.”

There was some kind of fuss on the other end of the line. Veronica braved a quick look through the narrow space between the door and the wall. Pale moonlight streamed into the hallway through high windows. Irina paced, twirling her blond hair in one hand.

“We knew the Americans would harp, but you assured me you could take care of that.”

Veronica put a hand on her chest, certain Irina could hear her heart beating.

“Let him stay in there as long as we see fit. I need more time with her. Let her get more scared of what might happen to him.”

She knew it. She knew there was something off about that woman. Veronica wanted to shove into the hallway, grab Irina's phone, hurl it away, and then punch her smug face. But first she wanted more information.

“I don't know how long. How should I know?” Irina cried. “They're only allowed to be in the country another few weeks anyway. I'm sure the silly American girl will behave by then. She doesn't want to see her handsome boyfriend rot in jail. Have another guard mess up more of his face. We'll make sure she sees it. That should be enough to convince her.”

Veronica's hands balled into fists. She pushed on the door and stepped into the hall. When Irina saw her, she fumbled with her phone and almost dropped it.

“Tell me again,” she said. “How do you want this silly American girl to behave?”

Seventeen

POTEMKIN'S PALACE
APRIL 1791

Grisha stumbled out of the alcove, still reeling, touching his pocket to make sure the vial of laudanum was situated deep within and would not slip. Candles blazed, dripping wax, making the hallway so hot he didn't know how much longer he could bear it. He grasped one of the pillars the designers had fashioned as an exotic palm tree to celebrate his triumphs in the south. His time in St. Petersburg had passed. His time as a force in this world had passed. But then hadn't he known that from the beginning, from the moment he first stepped into Zubov's makeshift salon of fawning courtiers? The darkness unleashed venom in his mind. Zubov was the future. Grisha was useless. He was nothing. He should have retired years ago to the monastery.

Zubov touched his arm. “What say you, Prince?”

Grisha shook the boy's hand off. Having secured the vial, he moved his hand to a lower pocket where he kept a few spare rubies. Grisha rubbed the tiny jewels, trying to will the floor not to spin so quickly at his feet. He ran his toe along the design of a lily of the field on one of the thick floor runners he'd had Anton order last week. How he wished the boy was at his side now, rather than managing the vulgar French comedy. How satisfying the courtiers would have found this performance. Grigory Potemkin's final fight and bested by a dandy. He laughed softly.

“Have I said something amusing?” Zubov swung his long arms behind his back.

“Nothing at all, I can assure you. I can't recollect a time when you've said anything I found even remotely humorous.”