Revolution and Rising

by Ripley Proserpina

  “Well…” Polya snuck her hands between them to touch his chest. “If I’m lost, you’ll find me again. I know you’ll always find me.”

  “I will.” His words were fierce, and his blue eyes blazed. “I’ll always find you, no matter where you are.”

  “I know.” She sighed and rested her head on him. Beneath her ear, his heart was a steady thump.

  “Are you hungry?” The sudden change of subject left her reeling.

  “No.” Her stomach was still a jumbled mess. There had been too much excitement today, and she was more tired than hungry. “No.”

  Anatoliy ignored the tray of food on one of the mattresses and led her to a bunk, helping her to sit. “You’ll sleep.” It was a command.

  “I will,” she said. “Especially if you stay with me.”

  Anatoliy knelt next to the bunk and took her hand in his. “Tonight, your father reminded me of something…” He studied her fingers as if they were the most interesting things he’d ever seen.

  He piqued her curiosity. “What?” she asked.

  “He reminded me,” Anatoliy said, “of the way things should have been between you and me.”

  Polya frowned. “Everything that happened between us is perfect,” she countered. “You’re mine.”

  Anatoliy chuckled. “Fierce tiger girl. I’m yours. I’ll be yours forever. But what he reminded me about was this… I want to declare my love for you in front of the world.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but wasn’t sure what to say. Swallowing thickly, she then cleared her throat. “I don’t understand.”

  “Polya.” Anatoliy glanced up at her from beneath his dark lashes. His face was intense, and she couldn’t have looked away from his stare if an elephant walked through the door. “Polya. Will you marry me? Be my wife?”

  “Oh,” she breathed. Her lips curled into a smile and tears burned her eyes. “Oh.” She nodded, because she couldn’t think beyond, oh, this was what he meant. This is what he would declare.

  Anatoliy smiled as well, eyes crinkling. “Will you?”

  She nodded again. “Yes,” she answered, and threw herself into his arms. She forgot about her injuries, forgot about the revolution. In that instant, she was just a girl. A happy, happy girl who was beginning the rest of her life with the man she loved. “When?” she asked through her tears.

  “When?” Anatoliy laughed, pulling away. He swept her tears away with his thumbs and kissed her. “When?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Now? Do you think there is a chaplain here, or a priest? I want to marry you now.”

  The smile slowly disappeared from Anatoliy’s lips. “Yes,” he answered. Now it was his turn to be fierce. “I want to marry you now.”

  He tugged her to stand, pulling on her arm as he went toward the door, but stopped. “Wait. No. Wait here. Rest. I’ll be back.”

  “All right.” She laughed. It was the happiest sound she ever made. “I’ll be right here. Waiting for you to marry me.”

  “I’ll marry you,” he said again and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her, a kiss of claiming. “Stay here.” He kissed her once more, and again. And again.

  “Go.” She pushed him toward the door. “So you can come back.”

  “And marry you,” he said it as if he couldn’t believe it.

  “And marry me.”

  37

  What the Devil Saw in St. Svetleva

  Evgeny was becoming boring. His constant struggle against the devil’s hold was irritating. The man constantly scratched at him. It was like a mouse in the walls, scratch scratch. Or a rat. Scratch.

  It distracted him.

  The devil had locked Evgeny away in his mind, but the prince was relentless.

  Scratch. Scratch.

  Evgeny should have run out of hope by now, but still he fought. If the devil hadn’t had so many things he wanted to do in Konstantin, he would take the time to put Evgeny in his place. To remind him who was the true prince.

  But the devil was running out of time.

  Don’t ask him how he knew that the winged sycophants would be breathing down his neck soon, but he knew. Millennia of troubling-making had taught him to look for the signs that he’d pushed a little too far, for a little too long.

  And the signs were definitely there—starting with the prince.

  Scratch.

  Evgeny had wanted to go to the Imperial Palace. For a moment, the devil had been the puppet, and Evgeny had pulled the strings, urging his body toward the ruined gate with the tarnished eagle at its helm. It surprised the devil so much, he allowed the prince to guide him.

  And he was so glad he had, because there, pale and shivering, was not only the prince’s mother, but Lara! His old friend, and the mother of his favorite tiger girl.

  A reunion!

  The devil had the best idea then. He would reunite the princess and her family.

  Allowing the prince control of his body, he flew out of Imperial Palace, over the darkening streets toward the Novo-Mikhailovsky Palace.

  But something caught his attention. Someone caught his attention. He spun down toward the rotted building on the frozen shores and slid inside. There, warm and drunk, was a clutch of villagers from Vaskova led by a former footman by the name of Lukas Andreavich. Now, here was a soul where the devil could really have some fun.

  It was easy to slip into Lukas’s skin, and when he stretched, the devil had the sense that this was the body he was meant to inhabit. Father Stepan had been almost as easy, the slimy souled otec, the weasely little mystic.

  Perhaps he’d stay in this skin for a while, settle in. Listening to the drunks, the devil smiled. Oh yes, this was where he belonged.

  Through the night, they regaled each other with stories. Lukas had murdered Mer Popov and his family in Vaskova. Boring. The devil already knew that. But he hadn’t known the two elder princes, Nikolai and Mikhail, had managed to make it to the capital. He thought for sure they’d have been murdered.

  Of course, they’d been captured, he’d expected as much. The royal family’s faces had been in newspapers for years. It would be difficult for even a lesser brother to make it from one side of Konstantin to the other without being recognized.

  The devil sipped from a tankard of stale ale and found a seat, settling in for the night. “What are you plans for the princes?” he asked with Lukas’s voice.

  “Trial,” a man answered. “There has been too much vigilante justice. If the People’s Army wants to lead Konstantin, then we must show that we are better than our former rulers.”

  The devil nodded while stroking his chin. He placed his hand at his belt and nearly laughed aloud. He’d been searching for his jet rosary! He was not Father Stepan anymore.

  “Yes,” the devil agreed. “We should have one right now, and write about it in our newspapers. That way, when we execute them, the people of Konstantin see that all citizens will face justice. Royal blood, or not.”

  There were hearty agreements and a few grumbles of dissent. “The trial should be public. The citizens should hear their crimes enumerated, one by one.”

  “We could have it all published by tomorrow,” the devil said.

  “And who’s going to read it to the people?” someone asked, and the devil narrowed his eyes.

  “Why,” the devil asked, “are we sitting here and drinking when we could be elucidating our brothers and sisters? Let’s start now.” He let his booted feet slam against the floor. “What crimes has the royal family committed?” Let’s get fired up, shall we?

  “Murder!”

  “Torture!”

  “Theft!”

  He was not disappointed by the crimes, some of them very specific, that the people called out. Granted, most of the travesties were committed by Aleksandr, his father, and grandfather, but the devil didn’t argue. He let them yell until their simmering anger was back to a boiling rage.

  “Bring the princes here,” he commanded as he stood. The people watched him, faces fl
ushed and eyes wild. “Bring them here and we, the people of Konstantin, will judge them. And tomorrow, we will mete out justice. Not only to the princes, but to the dowager queen, who still lives in wealth at the Imperial Palace, and the Princess Lara, who is with her.”

  “Princess Lara is mother to the Tiger Princess,” someone called out. “Her daughter is the savior of the Hunt.”

  The devil did not like that word—savior. It was… irritating. Like Evgeny’s scratches or the rising tide of whispers in support of the princess.

  “Is she?” the devil countered. “Then where is she? Your savior? Kostin—” The devil pointed to one of Popov’s stewards. “You saw Princess Polya, what was she doing?”

  “Doing, Lukas?” The man wiped the sweat from his brow with a dirty handkerchief before stuffing it into an even dirtier coat pocket. “She was with the soldiers. I don’t know what she was doing. Besides scolding us,” he muttered.

  “Scolded! She scolded us!” the devil shouted. “For saving a village of people who would have starved in the cold if Mer Popov had been left in charge of the villages stores and grainery. She scolded us like naughty children. And she is your hero?”

  The whispers rose again, but now they were confused. They questioned what they’d read and the opinions they’d formed about the princess. Perfect.

  “Princess Lara’s wealth came from the sweat and the tears of the people of Konstantin. Selfishly, she horded that wealth, and while Konstantin starved, they had dinner parties. Her crimes are just as horrible as Prince Nikolai’s and Prince Mikhail’s.”

  “True, true,” someone said.

  Soon, filthy and starving, Prince Nikolai and Mikhail were dragged from their rooms in the basement of the rotted building into the room. They stood, shoulders back, blue eyes blazing with indignation as justice—ha—was passed. And, to their credit, they only paled a little while they learned their fate.

  This was good. The devil had accomplished a lot tonight. Tomorrow, he would return to Lukas, but tonight, he would stay with Evgeny, the dowager, and the princess.

  And tomorrow. Tomorrow would be fun.

  The devil left Lukas and flew back toward the Imperial Palace. He’d almost made it there, when he felt something, a tug. Polya.

  He followed the tug, down under the streets of St. Svetleva into the Novo-Mikhailovsky Palace. There, deep in the bowels of the old palace, was Anatoliy and Polya.

  And a priest. A true, cassock wearing, ordained priest.

  It came into focus slowly.

  The priest. Prince Pytor. Dara.

  Then he heard the vows—“What God hath joined…”

  “No!” His howl wasn’t heard by the happy couple, or even the priest, who was more aware than most of the unseen, but it echoed from earth to heaven and down to hell, where it shook the rocks and fires and frightened the already frightened souls he tended.

  The devil should have been paying more attention to the signs. They were pointing to this, a twist. A loophole in his curse.

  He would need to move fast now. It was time to leave Konstantin for good, but he had spent so long lining up the players, getting ready for the final show.

  Faster than a human blinked, he returned to the Imperial Palace. Time for Evgeny to go back in his room. With more of an effort than he wanted to admit, the devil shoved Evgeny back into his hole. The prince was louder this time, not scratching so much as wailing.

  One more day.

  The devil could deal with the scratching and caterwauling for one more day.

  38

  A New Life

  Polya woke the next morning in her husband’s arms.

  Her husband.

  She studied his face in the flickering gaslight. He was still asleep; dark lashes rested against his cheeks. Gently, she traced his eyebrows and down the bridge of his nose. She scooted forward in the bed and kissed his lips before pulling back to study him.

  A smile grew on his lips. “Good morning,” he said, voice husky with sleep.

  “Good morning,” she replied and then smiled as he opened his eyes. He looked the way she wanted him to always look—carefree, relaxed.

  They were married now. Papa had even found the priest. Polya thought he’d argue, perhaps deny her what she wanted, but he hadn’t. He’d kissed her head, shook Anatoliy’s hand, and stood at her side while the priest, Father Yuri, married them. Then he and Dara made other sleeping arrangements, and Polya spent the night in Anatoliy’s arms.

  “How do you feel?” Anatoliy asked, studying her.

  Polya’s face heated under his gaze, but she took stock of her body. She felt better than she had in days. Her back was healing, though still tight and sensitive. Each day that went by, she healed. If she could stop overexerting herself, she’d probably heal much faster.

  “I feel better,” she finally answered.

  Anatoliy stroked his hand down her arm and laced his fingers with hers. “I love you,” he said, drawing her fingers to his lips.

  Polya sighed happily, toes dancing beneath the sheets as she kissed his chin and neck. “I love you, too.”

  As she tilted her head to kiss him, a sharp rap sounded, and then, “Anatoliy!” It was Dara.

  He kissed her once, then left the bed to pull on his trousers and shirt. Polya shucked the blanket to her shoulders in the cold that filled the space where Anatoliy had been.

  “What is it?” her husband asked.

  “There is news from the Imperial Palace, we need you. Both of you.” Dara’s voice was quiet, but something about it filled Polya’s stomach with dread.

  “We’ll be right there,” Anatoliy answered and shut the door quietly.

  Polya had already slid out of bed and was struggling into her skirt when he turned around. He reached for her blouse where it sat on the other bunk and held it out to her, grimacing when he saw the tiny red blooms of blood where her injuries had wept through her bandages. “I’ll ask for clothing,” he whispered.

  “This is fine,” Polya replied. “Maybe there is a laundry here and I can wash our clothes.”

  “Do you know how?” he asked, and she paused.

  “No, actually. But I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

  Anatoliy didn’t reply and continued to button her shirt. She made a move to take over, but he brushed her fingers away. “Let me,” he whispered.

  So she did.

  Soon they were dressed and left the room. As they walked toward the larger meeting room, they snuck glances at each other. My husband! She couldn’t believe it, each time she caught him looking at her, her body flushed and she smiled. Her tail swished beneath her skirts until Anatoliy reached for her arm to wrap around his elbow. Then she reached for her tail, and held it in her hand.

  She held it between them, and when Anatoliy felt her fur against his hand, he stroked it with his fingers. “So soft,” he replied. “My magical tiger girl.”

  Polya paused. In all her life, she’d never felt the easy acceptance Anatoliy offered her. Even in her earliest memories, when Papa had still seen her as his girl and not his puppet, the servants and helpers around her treated her like a freak.

  Anatoliy embraced her differences. He loved them.

  “Polya?”

  She shook herself, smiling at him. “I’m fine,” she said. “Happy.”

  Anatoliy leaned down, keeping his eyes on her as he kissed her cheek. “Good. Consider it my life goal to keep you happy.”

  “As long as we’re together, I’m happy,” she replied.

  The smile slipped from his lips for a quick second before it came back. Whatever it was that had darkened his expression, he had swept it away.

  “Kapetan!” Papa called from down the hall. “Polya! Hurry!” Her father’s voice was tight, anxious.

  Polya and Anatoliy hurried down the hall and into the meeting room. It was teeming with activity. Groups of guards huddled together while General Semenov held court in front of the map. Tacked to one side were two newspapers, one below the o
ther.

  As she approached, she read the bold black headline on the first paper, “Princess Polya Returns to St. Svetleva Promising Hope.”

  The second newspaper froze the blood in her veins. “Trial of Royal Family.” Four images, probably from royal state paintings, were printed across the page.

  “What does it say?” Polya asked, though she knew. So when Dara told her, she was not surprised.

  “The royal family is found guilty of crimes against the people of Konstantin, and sentenced to death.”

  “My mother,” Polya whispered, horrified.

  “We’ll stop them.” Papa’s voice was strong. Certain.

  “How?” she asked. “How was there a trial? And when will they…”

  “We will stop them,” Papa answered.

  “Today.” Dara answered the question Papa refused.

  “Lobnoye Square,” General Semenov said. “Near St. Svetleva’s Cathedral. It is where Aleksandr executed those he declared traitor. They say it is symbolic. A true justice in the place of false.”

  “But my mother,” Polya argued. “She’s done nothing.”

  “And we’ll stop it, mače. The general has a plan, and with Dara, and Anatoliy leading them, we will succeed.”

  Polya glanced around the room at the guards. “There aren’t enough of us, Papa.”

  “Your Highness, I assure you, my guards are more than capable of stopping a few rabble rousers.” General Semenov clasped his hands behind his back.

  Dara and Anatoliy stared at each other. Polya watched them, imagining the communication that passed between them. Finally, Dara looked away, and Anatoliy faced Polya. “General Semnov is right, Polya. We will succeed.” But he couldn’t hold her gaze. He wasn’t sure.

  “General Semenov’s sources found this paper this morning as well, Polya,” Papa said. She didn’t want to look away from Anatoliy, but she forced herself to.

  “What does it say?” she asked, though she didn’t really care.

  “Did you happen to meet a student yesterday?” Papa asked. “This article is about a student, formerly incarcerated by Aleksandr, who met you yesterday. Or so he claims. He states he had a conversation with you about the soldiers you met along the way, and their sacrifice. He doesn’t go into much detail, but it does strike quite the tone.”