Anatoliy studied Polya’s sleeping body. He traced the sheet down to her waist, and smiled at the small lump that was her tail before he wiped a hand across his mouth. He’d never seen her so motionless.
“I’m broken,” she’d said to him. But she wasn’t. Even though she’d been hurt, and mourned him, she’d stayed strong. She’d persevered and traveled with Dara and the men.
Faced now with her mortality, Anatoliy wondered if he could be as strong as she was. Would he be able to survive a life without her?
He didn’t think so.
“We need the maps,” he said to Pytor, who nodded quickly. “We’ll take a small group of soldiers and we’ll double-time it to the next town. We need a doctor, a hospital.”
“Yes,” Pytor answered. “A train station.”
A train station?
“We’ll move her to St. Svetleva, the sooner the better,” the prince went on.
How dare he? How dare he use her injury to hasten them to St. Svetleva? Did he care nothing about his daughter?
“My poor tiger girl,” Pytor whispered, touching Polya’s hair. “We’ll have to cut this off.”
Her hair had been burned, and was a stringy mess below her shoulders.
Anatoliy shook his head in wonderment. Her hair? He worried about her hair?
“A hospital,” Anatoliy reiterated. “And then if there is a train nearby, you and your brother can go. I will stay with her until she’s well.” He wasn’t asking permission. This was the way it would be, and no one, not even a prince, would stop him from doing what was right for Polya.
“She would be more comfortable at home—with her mother.”
“All of this is moot,” the medic interrupted, “if we don’t get her somewhere she can recover. The most important thing is she doesn’t get an infection. We need her to stay as healthy as possible.”
Knees locked, Anatoliy gently lifted the sheet to gauge the extent of her injuries. The medic had covered the wounds with bandages, and covered the burns in salve so nothing stuck to them.
They weren’t as bad as he feared. What he’d taken as skin, black and charred, had been her coat. The worst burn was between her shoulder blades, raised welts and white blisters.
“I must find Dara,” Anatoliy said. But he didn’t want to leave her. How could he choose?
“Go,” Pytor directed. “I’ll stay with her, keeping watch. You and Dara don’t need me to make a plan.”
It was true, but it felt wrong to leave her.
“I’ll get Dara, and we’ll return. I’m going to have the soldiers set up camp again. I don’t want to move into the village since it may become a target…” he thought aloud.
“Good idea,” Pytor agreed. “Now go. The faster you find our destination, the faster we can get there.”
With one last glance at Polya, Anatoliy left. Each step from the tent hurt. He wasn’t meant to be away from her. Go back!
But he couldn’t. She needed him to find a hospital, and he couldn’t do that by her side.
18
Not All Are Innocent
“Mama?” Polya held the jeweled egg in her hand, turning it in the sunlight. One way, the opals that were the tiger’s eyes turned orange, and the other, bright blue like hers.
Her mother’s fingers were soft against her temple and Polya closed her eyes, carefully holding the egg in both her hands.
“Yes?” Mama replied.
“Did you always love tigers? Is that why Papa gave you this? Is that why I’m a tiger?”
Her mother laughed, and it sounded as beautiful as the bells on Christmas morning. It rang and echoed, and was joyful and holy at once. “You’re my wish and my curse, Polya. All wishes come with strings attached. What was your wish?”
Polya closed the egg with a snap and placed her hands in her lap. “Anatoliy.”
“Ah. We are similar. I wished for your father,” Mama explained.
“And were cursed with me?” Polya asked sadly.
“In a way. That is why you must be so careful with your wishes. I wonder what will be your curse?” A shadow appeared in the corner of Polya’s eye, and she glanced toward it. Her mother’s form was blurry against the bright sunlight pouring from the windows.
“Are you sorry you wished for Papa?” Polya asked.
The form seemed to recede from her, pulled back to the light. “Are you sorry Anatoliy lives?”
“No,” she answered right away. She’d never be sorry Anatoliy was alive. He was the best, brightest spot in her life.
“Neither am I.”
Polya’s body rocked from side to side, and she groaned. Stop the coach, she wanted to say, but her lips wouldn’t form the words.
Her hands were heavy, and though she tried to lift her arm to bang on the ceiling, her limbs wouldn’t obey her. Wind blew across her body and she shivered. But when she opened her eyes, what she saw made no sense.
She wasn’t in a carriage.
A pistol was eye level. She watched, snowflakes landing on the black handle, only to melt a moment later.
Blinking, she stared in wonder at the snowflakes. They were perfect. Unique. And existed only a moment. Faster they fell, more and more of them, piling up until they covered the handle like a little hill. A strong breeze blew, wiping away the snowflakes, and suddenly she remembered what had happened.
“Anatoliy!” she cried out, and then cried out again at the licks of pain shooting along her back.
“I’m here.” Like always, his voice was a balm. “We’re going to a town. One with doctors and a hospital.”
She craned her neck to find him, twisting it from side to side, but all she saw were weapons and wool.
“I’m here,” he said again, and took her hand where it rested next to her face.
It stretched her neck uncomfortably to find him at this angle. She was horizontal, on her stomach, and he loomed above her. The gray sky was a backdrop for his form, and she blinked at him. Shadowed and broad-shouldered, he looked like an angel.
It struck her then, why she had to twist and crane to see him. “You weren’t hurt.”
“No,” he answered. His gaze flicked toward her back, and she twisted again, trying to see what it was he saw.
The pain from earlier returned, hotter and angrier than before. Her worry for Anatoliy distracted her, briefly. But the pain would not be ignored.
“What happened?” she asked. She pushed the words past her lips when what she really wanted to do was scream.
“You have some burns and some shrapnel wounds,” he answered, his voice as soft as the snowflakes melting on her cheeks.
“Bad?”
He shook his head but then shrugged. “Not too bad. You need a doctor, even though the medic patched you up.”
Eyelids heavy, she tried to nod. “Did he give me something?”
“Yes, some pain medicine.”
“Thank him for me,” she joked then hissed when the stretcher she was on shifted. “How much longer do we have?”
Anatoliy’s lips flattened into a white line, and he narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know, Polya. There are only a few of us, moving as swiftly as we can.”
Understanding shot through her. Carrying her through the woods slowed them down, not only because they had to bear her weight, but because they didn’t know what could be waiting for them ahead.
“I’ll be all right, Anatoliy. Take your time. Be careful.”
It was getting harder and harder to stay awake, so she stopped fighting, letting her eyes shut.
“I have you, Polya. Don’t worry.”
She smiled and fell into unconsciousness.
What followed was a hellish mishmash of waking nightmares and pain. The next time Polya jolted awake, it was to the sensation of red hot pokers being applied to her skin.
Her pain cornered her, left her no escape and she responded to it the way any wild creature would—spitting and hissing.
No longer could she converse with Anatoliy. It took everythi
ng she had not to scream out. If she opened her mouth for everything, she’d lose her mind.
Her thoughts were an uninterrupted stream of awareness about every part of her body. Even her tail burned.
“Almost there,” Anatoliy said. Somehow he knew she’d reached the end of her tether.
In some part of her brain, she’d thought she’d get used to the hurt.
She didn’t. Each throb was agony, as hot and new as the one before it. And it burned constantly, a beat in time with her heart. There was no escape. It wasn’t like the waves on a shore that surged forward and retreated. No. This was an avalanche, an ever-moving disaster that raced downhill with no sign of slowing.
It needed to end.
Polya wanted to beg him to give her more of the medicine that made her drift off, but the medic had run out. She’d heard Anatoliy asking for some earlier, and the medic had told him that even if he’d had it, he couldn’t give her anymore.
“Hold on, Polya.” Face turned to Anatoliy, she couldn’t see where Dara stood. He could be holding the stretcher for all she knew, but if she risked looking, she’d only make the pain angrier.
A shrill whistle sounded through the woods. It was the one Polya recognized from her time with Dara. The one that said, stop, wait.
They came to a halt, and her body shifted. A hiss left her before she could stop it, and then a yowl. Oh, God. This was too much. She couldn’t do this.
Someone had to help her. Put her to sleep, knock her out, something.
One more second of this and she’d go mad.
“What it is?” When she could finally make sense of his words, Anatoliy sounded as close to the edge as she felt. “Dammit, Dara!”
“The town is guarded. There is an entrance with armed villagers. We found other ways in, but I worry—”
“We have no choice!” Anatoliy cut him off.
“Then let us do it, Anatoliy! We have no uniforms. They won’t know who we are,” Dara answered.
“But they’ll know who she is, and we don’t know what they’ll do to her,” Anatoliy replied.
Her choices were pain and inevitable death, or possible death. “Do it,” she ground out through clenched teeth. She wasn’t healing out here. The wind blew across her body, and she shivered. Her body convulsed, and then seized, every muscle going taut as she tried to lock down her involuntary movement. “Anatoliy, please.”
He touched her, gloved hand pushing her hair out of her face, and she opened her eyes. He knelt next to her, blue eyes bright with hurt, as if he could feel everything she felt. “Polya.” Her name was a breath and a prayer.
“Please.” She prayed she didn’t cry out again. It was enough to feel this herself, let alone have to see her hurt reflected on Anatoliy’s face.
His eyelids closed, shuttering the blue, and Anatoliy sighed. He dropped his forehead to the wooden handle of the stretcher, slowly shaking his head from side to- side before meeting her eyes again. “We’ll try.”
“We have no choice, Anatoliy,” Dara said, causing him to grimace.
With one last gentle kiss on her forehead, he stood and called out directions. “We all go in.” He gripped a button on his coat and tore it, dropping it in the snow. Each button got the same treatment until his coat gaped.
His actions made no sense at first, but then she remembered. Every officer’s coat had the same buttons, imprinted the crest of King Aleksandr. Jerkily, he tore off his belt and folded the coat together before using the leather to tie it closed.
“Our weapons are army issue, if anyone asks we stole them. All of us are civilians and we rescued the princess, understand? Keep it simple. If anyone questions you further, I trust you to make plausible excuses.”
The men around them muttered their agreement. Polya heard them shift and tear at their clothes.
She shut her eyes, concentrating only on keeping her breath shallow and even. Anything not to jar her body again.
“Let’s go.” Anatoliy’s command was hard, and he sounded older and wearier than he ever had before. But he touched her hand, wrapped it in his, and squeezed before releasing her.
The wind came stronger, and faster, and the light seemed brighter. Polya shut her eyes tight, and then opened them, curiosity winning over self-preservation. The sky was gray, but no boughs blocked the sun.
“Halt!” someone yelled.
“It will be all right,” Anatoliy whispered.
She couldn’t nod to reassure him. No matter what happened to her, this was the right decision. It was the only decision.
“Who are you?” the person asked. Far away, someone ran toward them, booted feet shuffling through the snow. The sound became louder; more people ran toward them now.
“We came for a doctor. This woman was injured,” Anatoliy answered.
Polya shut her eyes, feigning unconsciousness, but she sensed someone standing next to her, examining her.
“No strangers are allowed in town. I’m sorry. There is another town toward the east. They have a hospital. Try there.”
“We came from the east,” Anatoliy countered. “She was injured in a village. It was destroyed overnight. Please.”
The man sighed and Polya got the sense he wanted to help. The townspeople were right to be wary of strangers. If the last town was any indication, civilians were rising up against civilians now, not only the aristocracy.
The stretcher bounced, the crowd of new people around it jostling it, and the sheet covering her shifted. A moment later, the man hissed. “The princess!”
The cold air bit at her skin, but Anatoliy covered her quickly. “No. A woman. A villager.”
The man was quiet, and then walked away. At once, the light became brighter, as if every other person surrounding her had left as well.
“Be ready,” Anatoliy said tonelessly.
Polya pictured them moving their hands toward their guns, ready to defend her. “Wait,” she cautioned. There had been something in the man’s voice. A kindness. “Just wait a moment.”
She never had to learn what Anatoliy would have done. “Bring her in!” the man called.
Anatoliy let out a sigh, and the stretcher started forward again. “Thank you,” he said. “Will she be safe?”
“Yes.” The answer was quick. “We would do anything for her. How badly is she hurt?”
Polya imagined the man walking with them now, trailing them as they went to the hospital. “Burned. Shrapnel. We’ve been walking nearly twenty-four hours.”
So long?
It had seemed a lifetime and a second.
“We’re guarding the town from other marauding villagers. We’ve already fought off two separate attacks from groups made up of civilians and soldiers. Now we must turn everyone away,” he informed Anatoliy. “We have learned the harsh lesson that not everyone begging for help is innocent.”
“Thank you for letting us in.”
The man grunted. “I’ll leave you here to deliver the princess. You have an hour before we return to escort you out of town. Only the princess may stay.”
To her surprise, Anatoliy didn’t argue. “Thank you,” he said again, and then they were inside.
Warm. Sheltered.
“Ser!” someone yelled, and then her stretcher was placed on a rolling bed. Eyes snapping open, she searched for Anatoliy.
She couldn’t see him. His body was blocked by a white-coated doctor and orderly situating her stretcher, readying to push her away from him.
“Anatoliy!” The words left her automatically. She needed help. Indeed, she’d begged for help, but she couldn’t be without him.
“Ser. We can’t allow you with us.”
“She’ll need protection.”
“We have guards, Ser. She is protected. Step away,” the person told him.
“Don’t,” she choked out.
“You’ll be safe,” Anatoliy said, but they were already pushing her away.
Her muscles locked, so she couldn’t turn her head or stretch. Perhaps t
his was a mistake. “Doctor, please.” She pleaded with whoever would listen, but no one responded.
At the crease of her elbow, she was stuck with something sharp. Her vision tunneled, narrowing breath by breath, until everything was a blur and all she could see was the white wall.
Then doctor’s coat.
And the white sheet.
Until she saw nothing.
19
Lara is Left in St. Svetleva
In St. Svetleva, Lara left her beautiful home and her beautiful eggs and all her beautiful clothes to hole up in the palace.
And she wasn’t alone.
The dowager queen was there, terrifying in her mourning after learning of Aleksandr’s death.
The dowager had told Lara of how she received the news, and how the generals enjoyed giving it. Lara, while not excusing their behavior, understood the generals’ anger. In their eyes, the dowager had done nothing to protect the country from Aleksandr.
But what was the old woman to do? At no time in her life had she had power over anything to do with Aleksandr.
His education, his military training, all of it had been decided by men who had no connection to her. They had no stake in Aleksandr except that he rule Konstantin in the way it had always been ruled.
Instead of molding the perfect king, they’d made a monster who had destroyed the country he was supposed to lead. Now Konstantin was a country utterly changed.
After the snow, and the Hunt, and the signs and banners calling on the civilians to rise up, the tone of St. Svetleva had changed.
It was no longer the capital of a country standing together against a mad king. No. It was a country of desperation, where every Konstantinean had to take what he needed to survive.
How quickly early feelings of solidarity had been dispelled in those days following the Hunt and the king’s death. When Lara had ridden in her sleigh between church and her home, she was often rushed by groups of citizens. They forced the driver to stop, demanding Lara hand over her rings or her coat.
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