Anatoliy narrowed his eyes and stood. “Marauders?”
“People are frightened, and when the army runs through the city, they panic. The marauders use the fear to take advantage of the people in the streets. They shake them down for whatever they may have, clothing, firewood, food. There is barely any resistance since the people are just grateful to be alive.”
Polya wanted to be sick. A thought occurred to her—had the world always been this cruel? Was this the way people lived, even before the revolution?
“I think the princess should rest,” Misha said suddenly. Polya lifted her eyes and found him studying her. He frowned and pointed to a cot in the corner of the kitchen. “Sleep an hour, and then try your luck on the streets. To go out now is to take an unnecessary risk. And, sir, I don’t believe you would risk her.” He side-eyed Anatoliy, who hovered at her shoulder.
“Yes.” Misha’s mother leapt from her chair and went to the cot. She shook out the blankets before settling them over her arm. “Yes, please, Your Highness.”
Polya didn’t know what to do. Her father and Dara were at the armory, the place she associated with safety. There were the guards loyal to her father and uncles.
There is nowhere safe in Konstantin.
“We’ll stay,” Anatoliy answered. He reached for her, and she slid her hand onto the crook of his elbow. He helped her to stand, and Polya was horrified to find she needed it. Shuffling like an old woman, arms wrapped around Anatoliy, she made her way to the bed. Anatoliy helped her sit, even lifting her feet to place them on the bed. Misha’s mother started forward and carefully spread the blankets over her.
“There,” she said, as she nudged Anatoliy aside to tuck an afghan around her. Polya rolled to her stomach, unable to tolerate the pressure against her back.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyelids wanted to close, and rather than fight, she closed them. Anatoliy was here. As long as Anatoliy was here, she could rest.
34
Into the Tunnels
Anatoliy sat on the edge of the cot and watched Polya’s eyes close. They’d forced her to do too much today. First there was the train ride, and then the rush through the city. When they had a chance, and some privacy, he would examine her wounds. At the back of his mind, fear of infection and fever hovered.
Misha and his mother were content to sit. The older woman dragged a basket of laundry to her feet and began to mend. Misha lifted a tattered book into his hands and ignored Anatoliy.
Apparently they took their own advice and stayed inside after the Army marched through the streets.
Anatoliy kept his pistol in one hand but used the other to brush the short strands of blonde hair off Polya’s forehead. He rested the back of his hand against her skin. She was slightly warm, and her cheeks were flushed, but she slept easily. Her pink lips pursed, and her breath tickled his hand.
Her black tipped tail rested next to her palm and he stroke it gently. He stared at her, overwhelmed by her beauty. How in the universe had he gotten another chance with her?
The curse.
Anatoliy couldn’t discount the curse. He had her now, safe, but for how long? When would the demon, in whatever form he had taken, step into the limelight?
And what if he was already here? What if he was Misha? Or his mother?
Anatoliy gripped the pistol a little tighter as he studied the inhabitants of the shabby room. They didn’t glance up at him, unaware he was plotting the best way to kill them if they should attack.
Polya let out a sigh, and he turned his attention to her. He prayed he would recognize the demon when he saw him, and that whatever the curse may be, it would not take his tiger girl from him.
The room grew darker and Anatoliy glanced toward the window. Snow had begun to fall.
“We don’t light candles until it is fully dark, if then,” Misha told him before he followed Anatoliy gaze. “It’s a good time to leave. Light enough to be a bit safer and dark enough to hide your princess’s distinctive features.”
Anatoliy nodded and went to Polya. He touched her face, trailing his hand to her shoulder before whispering. “Polya.”
For the rest of his life, Anatoliy wanted to be the one to wake her. Her eyes opened slowly, dark lashes fluttering. “Did I sleep long?” she asked, her voice a little husky.
“Just the right amount,” he replied quietly. She shifted, wincing, and he eased his arm beneath the blankets. “Let me help you.”
She allowed it, smiling graciously when he brushed her hair back and tucked it behind her ear.
“Thank you,” she told their observers as he helped her stand. She drew her coat around her a little closer at the chill in the air. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t helped us.”
“It was an honor to have you in our home,” the woman said and bowed her head.
Polya shook her head. “I am the one honored you cared enough to shelter us. Please, stay safe.” She shifted, glancing at Anatoliy.
“Thank you,” he repeated and went toward the door. “If you could, please keep our presence a secret. I would appreciate it.” He held the wooden handle lightly, his other hand wrapped around his gun. Already his mind was skipping ahead, planning their route and the best way to cover Polya when they were exposed in the streets.
Her light footsteps trailed across the floor and stopped behind him.
“Are you ready?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.
Even in the dim light, he could make out her smile. “I’m safe with you,” she said quietly.
He nodded. She was. And he’d do anything to keep her that way.
They headed out into the night, hand in hand, though Anatoliy kept ahead of her apace. The night was quiet, and the houses dark.
This part of St. Svetleva was unknown to him, and it struck him that such a poor section of the city could be seated so close to the palaces. Had these been the homes of servants or their families? These residences were hidden in plain sight, and even he, who’d lived in the city, had never paid attention to the dichotomy of wealth and poverty. Here it was, manifested side by side.
Polya stumbled, and he stopped. “Are you all right?” he asked. She’d held tightly to his hand as he’d backtracked through the alleys toward the Novo-Mikhailovsky.
“It’s so quiet,” Polya whispered, ignoring his question.
He didn’t push her to answer, just squeezed her hand. As they continued forward, each of his senses was stretched taut. The quiet bothered him.
He had a sudden desire to be a bear again, to lift his nose and breathe in. At least then he could tell the old scents from the fresh. He would hear anyone trailing stealthily in their wake.
The hair on the back of his neck lifted, and he paused. They were about to embark on the most exposed part of their journey. The Svetleva River was in front of them, and they had to travel along it to reach the palace. Anatoliy didn’t like the idea of skirting the river. It was frozen now, leaving them vulnerable to those who might climb up the banks.
Darkness settled over the city. The street lamps were not lit, nor did the light spill from windows. They passed taverns, all of them shuttered. It was a measure of how dangerous the city had become when people couldn’t even be coaxed from their home to escape in their cups.
Novo-Mikhailovsky suddenly seemed to materialize out of the darkness. Evgeny and Pytor spoke about the place that housed the Imperial guards as if it was a secret, and it must be.
Where did the guards sleep? Where did they eat? If they were there, they were hidden deep in the bowels of the palace, because not a sign of them was apparent.
This wasn’t the direction they’d approached the palace earlier today. The front actually faced the river. The back, where Pytor and Dara had entered, was less ornate, so he’d heard, than the old entrance. He and Polya, however, weren’t going in from the river, or even one of the side entrances.
An older brick building, its function unclear to Anatoliy, stood nearly a
city block away from the palace. It was there they would enter. According to Pytor, the building was one way to get into. A stairway inside led down to a basement, and there was a tunnel leading to the palace.
Behind him, Polya’s teeth chattered for a second. He’d been watching the street, focused on making sure they weren’t tracked. Polya hadn’t complained, but they’d been standing here in the cold for a while as he assured himself no one had followed them. He didn’t want to take her out into the open until he was certain they could make it to the building. To do so, they had to cross an open boulevard, a place where two cobblestone streets fed into this one. There was nothing to hide behind, no door to duck through as they made the trek.
“The building on the left,” he said, voice pitched low so as not to carry. “The one with the broken windows. There’s a door around the side. That’s our destination.”
“I see it,” Polya whispered. Her hand trembled in his, from cold or anticipation, he wasn’t sure.
“Move fast,” he went on. “We shouldn’t garner any more attention than any other person unlucky enough to be out tonight.”
Polya didn’t reply, but he felt her warm breath on his neck. It came faster, as if she had already run.
“Go,” he whispered and took off. He started off at a jog across the square, holding her hand tightly in his. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered and someone yelled. Anatoliy paused to determine the direction of the sound. Another person yelled in response and then there came the unmistakable sounds of a fight. While he’d never been so grateful for someone else’s misfortune, the sounds spurred him to move faster. He took off at a sprint, Polya right on his heels. He sped around the corner of the building, and found the door just as Pytor said he would. The knob turned easily in his hands and he opened it, sliding inside with gun drawn before pulling Polya in behind him.
Anatoliy squinted. It was dark, and it took him a while to make out the layout of the interior. It appeared this had been a post office. The marble floor was covered in paper, as if a mail carrier’s bag had exploded and he’d left all the letters where they’d fallen. Polya dropped his hand, spinning in a slow circle as she studied the inside.
“Come on,” he whispered, hurrying past the counters where people were handed their mail. A door stood between the postal workers and the people who came to mail their letters, and it was there he headed. Their footsteps echoed through the marble halls, but they’d come too far for Anatoliy to insist on stealth now.
Polya followed as they walked past unopened bags of mail and letter-laden desks to yet another door. This one led to a stairwell, and as they went down, the air changed. It grew warmer. At the base of the steps, a hazy light shone. It was just bright enough that Anatoliy could navigate the stairwell safely.
“Is this it?” Polya asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered, though he thought it was. It must be. Nowhere else in the city was as warm or as well-lit as the tunnel they found themselves in. Gas lamps hung on the wall, illuminating the way.
Almost there.
At the end of the tunnel was an enormous steel door, like a safe at a bank, and he paused. Before they’d even reached it, it opened and a figure stepped outside.
“Polya!” It was the prince’s voice.
“Papa,” Polya called.
Pytor’s footsteps hurried across the floor, echoing as he ran to them. Polya held onto Anatoliy, but he stepped aside to allow her father to embrace her. “I thought they’d caught you,” the prince whispered.
Anatoliy noticed how her father buried his face in her hair, and when he glanced toward Anatoliy, it seemed the man had aged in the short time they’d been separated.
“Dara is here,” he assured Anatoliy. “And there are more of us. More soldiers. More guards. All loyal.” He gestured toward the door and smiled. “Come inside.”
35
What Misha Does
Misha stood at the window as the soldier and the princess ran through the dark courtyard and out into the streets of St. Svetleva.
“What are you going to do?” Mother asked.
Misha slowly turned from the dirty window to his mother. They still hadn’t lit any candles, so he could barely make out her features. He knew what she’d look like if he could see her though. Her round face would be worried, pale eyebrows low over her dark eyes, mouth turned down.
“Are you going to tell them about the princess?” she continued. Any other mother may have sounded critical asking such a question, but not his mother. She was too kind, and too intelligent, to be a nag. Unlike his father, a man long forgotten, Mother could read and write, and she read the titles of the books he brought home from university. In the time before the king had arrested the students like Misha, she’d even read the term papers he had to give to his professors.
Mother knew what he was about, and she didn’t expose his half-truths or slight exaggerations about the People’s Army and the state of Konstantin.
“Do you think I should?” Misha asked. “Do you think I should tell the others about the princess?”
“To what end?” his mother asked, and Misha smiled. Mother should have been a philosophy professor with her ability to turn a question into a question.
Misha and his mother hadn’t exactly lied to the soldier and the princess when they talked about the People’s Army, but they had left out details. Or one detail.
The People’s Army was not the only revolutionary outfit in St. Svetleva. There were others, like Misha and his friends, who had languished in the prison after the terrorists from Misurka Square were executed. They were less bloody-minded, less vengeful. They wanted to embody the philosophies they’d read about, not decapitate royals.
At first, they’d joined the People’s Army. It was with them Misha had protested in front of the palace. And it was with them he was trampled by one of horses belonging to the Imperial Guard. As a result, he would limp the rest of his life, but at least he was alive.
Misha could see how lucky he was. Many of his friends were injured in that protest. Some of them even died. But those who survived didn’t call for the murder of the aristocracy.
They called for justice and a representative government—a Republic.
And so the Republican Army formed.
They were smaller, quieter, but they were gaining momentum. The tide of public opinion was rising in their favor with each bust up by the People’s Army. For every jaw they broke and every royal they murdered, they lost fifty people from their cause.
And the Republican Army grew.
He hadn’t told the soldier and the princess about the Republican Army, and neither had Mother.
There was a reason for that.
The aristocracy had the potential to be partners in the government the Republican Army wanted to form. It was not the Republican’s goal to wipe out every reminder of the family who had ruled Konstantin. They didn’t need martyrs—they needed leaders. In everything he and his friends had read, the best way for a country to survive a revolution was not to murder its figureheads, but to include them in the newly formed government.
Albeit with less power. Much less power.
“I think I will tell them,” Misha said, thoughtfully. “The princess is a symbol of everything Konstantin needs to remember. She is the best of the aristocracy and the best of Konstantin.”
“The People’s Army will want to use her as well.” Leave it to his mother to cut through his subterfuge to the heart of the matter.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But they will also execute her if she doesn’t do as they say. Or if she says what they want too well. They’re a group of megalomaniacs. Tiny Aleksandrs who preach equality, but who will horde the power as soon as they have it.”
“Konstantin needs to be reminded there is hope,” Mother said.
“It does.” He nodded and picked up the cap sitting on the worn kitchen table. “All of Konstantin could do with a story about hope, and sacrifice.”
His mother
stopped him before he could leave. Her work rough hands clasped his and he enfolded her in a hug. His injury caused him to hobble awkwardly, but he still towered over the little woman who’d always made him feel safe.
“Be careful, Misha,” his mother whispered and stepped back. She touched his cheek and though he could barely see her, he knew she smiled. “Be so, so careful.”
“I will, Mother,” he assured her, and placing his cap firmly on his head, set out into the capital. Already he was crafting the story he’d print tonight. It was a story of a fierce princess who’d survived a Hunt in which she was meant to perish. It would be a story about a brave bear who lost his life protecting her.
Misha remembered her words about the soldiers who’d died helping her get to St. Svetleva, and he’d seen the adoration in the face of the one who protected her still.
Like a sign from God, the princess had appeared just when Konstantin needed her story most.
36
The Imperial Guards and Declarations
Polya’s gaze roamed the mammoth hall and the faces of the guards who regarded her stoically. Her father held her elbow, as if he was presenting her at court.
These guards were not like her soldiers. Their uniforms were too clean, and their eyes too hard. There had been a bleakness in the eyes of the soldiers who’d traveled with Dara. They’d seen too much death, but they fought for their country and for an ideal. They fought with honor.
There was something different about these guards. They’d perfected the ability to know everything, and reflect nothing. These guards had seen too much evil.
After all, they’d protected Aleksandr.
The Imperial Guards had been created centuries ago. Their purpose was to serve the royal family by any means necessary. In history, they’d ridden their horses over the masses when they’d protested. Sometimes, they arrested the enemies of the kings and queens, exacting confessions that were, at best, coerced.
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