And there it is. He has set the bait, a trap meant to lure me into treachery against my husband, giving him all he needs to have me arrested and beheaded.
“If you have come here to try to persuade me to rise against my husband, your efforts are wasted. I will not challenge him. His is the rightful and sovereign ruler of Russia.”
He holds up his hand. “Of course. I would not ask you to speak or act against His Highness. I only wish to point out one thing.”
“And what is that?”
“His Highness is emperor in title only. He has yet to be properly crowned and anointed. Baron von Goltz has been begging Peter daily to perform the necessary ordinances, but Peter refuses. He claims there is no need for archaic ceremonies, and that he is the true and undisputed ruler.”
I sit back, surprised by the news. I had assumed Peter was simply waiting until he was rid of me so he could be crowned beside his wife of choice.
When I say nothing, George continues. “You must see how dangerously vulnerable this makes him appear to foreign powers. A king who refuses to assume the rightful mantle? It invites talk of unsuitability.”
I nod.
“And should you ever find yourself in need of an ally, please know you can count on me.”
I stare at him, carefully weighing his words. What do I know about my dear uncle? I know he is shrewd and has little tolerance for people he deems below him. I know he will take what he wants, if given the chance, but that his word is sacred to him as it once was to my father. They come from a breed of men who value honestly above all else. Still, I cannot bring myself to trust him.
“Your council, and your offer, are appreciated,” I say as I stand. Taking his cue to exit, he bows deeply and leaves my chamber. Turning to my maid, I hand her my now-empty teacup. “Please have the valet summon Lord Salkov. I would speak with him urgently.”
She curtsies and hurries off to do my bidding. Before she can reach the door, it flies open, nearly knocking her to the ground. Grigori stands in the archway, his face stern.
“Your Highness, your son has been taken.”
***
An hour later, I’m pacing in the throne room. We normally only use this area for greeting visitors and holding open court, but now there is an ominous tone to its empty stillness. Grigori stands at the door, speaking in hushed tones with the house guards. Peter’s golden throne, sitting in front of the massive imperial crest on red tapestry, is empty. Even news that our son has been taken from his nurses during a day trip to the village isn’t enough to pry him from his childish games. I turn my focus once more to the wooden floor beneath my feet as I walk the black inlaid lines in pattern. Finally, a door to the rear left of the throne opens and Peter saunters in, George at one side and Mikhail at the other.
One of the house guards rushes forward, dropping quickly to one knee as Peter flops into his throne.
“Your Highness, my men are searching the village house by house. Guards have been sent to every road in and out, and we are questioning witnesses as we speak.”
Peter waves his hand. “The boy probably simply wandered off. I’m sure we will find him soon enough.”
I’m so shocked by his careless tone that it takes my breath for a moment. I close the distance between us in three long, rage-filled strides. “How can you possibly say that? He is surrounded by nurses and guards at all times! There is no way he could have simply wandered off. He was obviously taken, and considering that he is your only heir, I’d think you’d give this threat the swift and severe retribution it warrants.” I’m practically shouting, but I can’t seem to stop myself. His gaze swings to me.
“Who would have taken him? No one would dare. My people love me.”
“And what of the enemies you’ve made of Austria and France? Perhaps it was their agents who have stolen our son,” I say, my hysteria growing. “If he dies, your entire reign is in jeopardy. Do you not realize that? Without a legitimate heir to succeed you, you become an easy target for anyone who would seek to unsettle Russia.”
I level a glare at George, who upon seeing my unspoken question, shakes his head. Fredrick had nothing to do with this, he tells me without words.
Mikhail speaks. “She is right, Your Highness. We must treat the matter as a political threat until we have proof otherwise.”
Peter mumbles something. George and Mikhail gather close to him, blocking my view. Spinning on my heel, I stride to Grigori. “Is there any news?” I beg.
He bows, his fist on his heart. “I believe we may have a witness. I would like to send my own men to question the man.”
“Of course. Go. Go yourself if you think you can bring my son back to me.”
He bows again. “Yes, Your Highness. I will return with your son or not at all.”
Once he’s gone, I turn back to Peter. He’s sitting on the throne, leaning haphazardly over one side, laughing at something he’s just said. Inside me, rage builds like an ember being fanned to flame. There have been many abuses I’ve tolerated, many hurts I’ve tried to brush off. But this is something I will never forgive and never forget. In my silent rage, I find a thread of strength and I cling to it the way the sky clings to the last dying rays of sunlight.
It’s then that I realize something.
Pain changes you. You can choose to release it and let it leave its scars, or you can wind it up inside yourself and let it become your weapon.
And in that moment, I make my choice.
I pace the floor until nightfall, letting the rage bubble in my mind. Peter is long gone and I am alone, save for Dash, who sits in a single chair by the window, watching the stars appear in the sky. When Sergei strides in, I rush to him without hesitation and he takes me into his arms.
“Is there any news?” I ask, clutching his emerald-green jacket like a small child.
He kisses my forehead, sending reassuring warmth through my tense body. “No, but the house guard is leaving no stone unturned.”
I sigh, my shoulders falling forward as I step back and turn away from him, resuming my pacing. Before I can step away, he takes me by the arm, gently turning me back to him. When he speaks, his gaze is stern, his voice low. “I am as concerned as you. I’ve been searching myself all day. I’m only back for supplies and to see how you are doing.”
I nod. “I’m as well as you can expect. Peter seems to think it’s all some jest or that he simply wandered off. It’s as if he doesn’t care at all that his heir is missing.”
“Shall I stay?” he asks, taking my hand. “I can fetch some wine and biscuits and we can sit here, together.”
I shake my head. “No, as much as I would relish your company, I think I’d feel better knowing you were searching as well.”
“Of course,” he consoles. “Please, let Dash see you to your chambers so you can try to rest. I will send word as soon as I find him. And don’t lose hope. I’m confident we will return him to your arms.”
I reluctantly agree, earning me a chaste kiss before he turns to leave. Once he’s gone, Dash is at my side.
“Come, Your Majesty. Let’s get you to bed.” She holds her hand out and I accept the gesture, letting her lead me to my chamber as if in a daze.
After the gown, jewels, and crown are stripped away, I stand, cold beneath my nightdress, and stare at my bed. “Dash, will you stay with me?” I ask, not wanting to face the silence of the night.
“Of course,” she meekly says. “I’ll go change and be right back.”
I crawl into bed, certain my eyes will never close, and wait for her to change and return. She slides into bed beside me, and we snuggle in. The low, rhythmic sound of her breath lulls me into a restless slumber.
I’m awake before dawn breaks, which means I’ve slept four hours at most, but as soon as my eyes open, my mind spins. What if something terrible has happened to Paul? How afraid he must be, so far from home and the people he knows. I wonder if he cries for me, or for the nurses he knows far better. I’ve been negligent with him, no
t visiting as often as I should, certainly seeing him less than Rina and I had seen her son. In that moment, I close my eyes, praying for his safety, for the chance to set it right, for the opportunity to hold him once more. Dash calls for an early breakfast, and we are dressed and back in the throne room before most of the palace even wakes.
The Archbishop of Novgorod sweeps into the room, his robes fluttering in the breeze as he walks. We pray together for some time before a commotion jars me from my reverence.
There’s a bustle outside in the corridor, voices raised as trumpets sound.
Finally, the doors blow open and Grigori rushes in, my little boy clinging to him, unconscious. I rush to them, holding out my arms. Is Paul hurt? Dead? My heart pounds furiously. Then I see the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his small chest. Asleep. Probably exhausted from the ordeal.
Grigori releases Paul into my arms, and the small child stretches from his slumber. I stare down at his face, more a boy now and less a babe, and for one horrifying, bone-chilling moment, I see Peter’s face reflected back at me. I collapse to the ground, still cradling him against my bosom. His head rolls onto my shoulder and he blinks, his glacier-blue eyes staring up at me.
The tears come with no warning, with no fanfare. Hot and salty, they spill down my cheeks and onto my lips. I’d been so sure he wasn’t Peter’s son that I had convinced myself. Perhaps that’s why I’d stayed away. I told myself I had simply been too busy to visit him, but perhaps deep down, part of me knew the truth all along. I denied it to myself, but now I see it with stunning clarity. And some small, broken part of me that I cannot forgive myself for is disgusted by it. I cry because I wish I didn’t feel this way, because I want to be a better mother than my own was to me, and because I still can’t forgive the circumstances in which he was conceived.
This, my child, is yet another part of my life poisoned by Peter and his cruelty.
By the time Peter strides in, Grigori has already explained what he discovered in the town by the river where they finally found my son—not that I absorb any of the news. Only now am I beginning to calm enough to take full stock of his words. I listen numbly, cradling my child in both relief and grief, as he retells the saga to Peter.
“The men who stole him are in the courtyard, tied to the block. They say they were acting on no one’s orders, though at least one of them is Dutch. We did find a ledger that leads us to believe the men are smugglers, probably looking to hold His Highness for ransom to the crown. We will interrogate them further,” Grigori offers with a bow.
“No,” Peter interjects. “I will question them myself.”
Looking up through my tears, I see a look of anticipation etched into his features. I remember all too well how Peter likes to interrogate people, and a shudder drives its way through me. He glances at me, obviously pleased to exact some twisted sort of justice on those who dared try to take something of his. I should try to stop him, at least attempt to stifle his rage, but something stops me. A sliver of venomous rage splits me, creating a chasm between what I know is right—what I know to be just—and the unrelenting need to see the men who hurt my son drawn and quartered. Peter’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, he looks pensive. I let the rage fill my expression and he, recognizing it immediately, mercilessly smiles.
I release Paul to the plump nurse, who shuffles in as Peter takes his leave. Grigori offers his hand and I take it, pulling myself to my feet. “The people responsible were Dutch, are you certain?” I ask, wiping my face with my sleeve.
He nods. “At least one, Your Majesty.”
The last bit of anger boils away, replaced by suspicion. Would he truly be capable of something like this? Once I would have said no, but the man is so far from the boy I once knew, I sometimes feel as if I don’t know him at all.
Squaring my shoulders, I tilt my chin up. “I need to see Alexander, immediately.”
Alexander is in the library, which doesn’t surprise me. There was a time that seeing him here, in a place where we share so many memories, would be a balm to my heart. But when I enter, he looks at me blankly, with the eyes of a stranger. Perhaps I deserve the coolness between us. But I don’t have it in me to dwell on it today. Too many other grievances have piled onto the pyre in the past days.
“I summoned you, and you refused me,” I accuse as I sweep into the room in a swish of skirts.
“I’m quite busy. I do have a role here besides being your whipping boy.” He pauses, seeming to gather himself. “Your Majesty.”
“What do you know about a Danish plot against the crown?” I ask flatly and with no further preamble.
Alexander blinks, setting his book on the desk and rubbing his eyes before answering. “What?”
“My son was kidnapped in the village yesterday. At least one of the men was Danish. Peter is questioning them now. If you know something, I suggest you tell me now, before he slices it out of them himself.”
I watch as he flinches. Alexander has never had the stomach for violence. It used to be one of the things I loved about him. And if I’m being completely honest, it is one of the things I love still.
“No, of course not.” He looks genuinely affronted. “How could you think such a thing?”
I clasp my hands in front of me, fighting to keep them from shaking. “As envoy to Denmark, if Peter even suspects you have any involvement, he won’t hesitate to have you executed.”
He stares at me, openmouthed. “And you? Do you really think me capable of harming a child, your child?”
Once, I wouldn’t have hesitated, but there is too much between us now. “I know I hurt you. I know you must hate me.”
Alexander stands, his eyes level with mine. “I would not take out my pain on an innocent child. And I don’t hate you. It would be easier if I did.”
“Yet this is your man, if there is anything left of him when Peter finishes his interrogation. I want you to speak to him. Find out why—who is targeting my family.”
His expression is cold as he responds. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
And with that, he turns and leaves me alone in the room, the smell of stale books thick in the air.
***
The following week, Peter announces a masked ball. The palace is buzzing with excitement for the first time in ages. For those who had served under Elizabeth, they have grown accustomed to such lavish events happening nearly every night. Peter, by contrast, seems content to stay in his room and drink with his handful of comrades as some of the women from the village dance for their coins.
I doubt I will be able to attend until Dash brings me a special tea made of mint leaves and ginger. Though the taste is rancid, it soothes my sour stomach.
“My mother’s recipe,” she explains proudly. “It helped me through my pregnancies.”
By the time afternoon comes I’m feeling well enough to eat, feeling more like my old self than I have in some time.
Trunks filled with elaborate masks and costumes are brought in and my ladies claw through them like hawks, hunting for just the perfect ensemble. Blood-red ribbons and roses hang from every doorway and wrap every candelabrum. Servants scrub the parquet floors with buckets of soap and rose water, making the entire palace smell like spring. Lanterns are strewn through the gardens and terrace, and a German orchestra can be heard tuning their violins from everywhere in the palace. It’s as if someone breathed fresh life into the halls. People are chipper and merry as I pass down the hall, taking everything in. The cook and her staff are busy preparing fresh pheasant and lamb—two of Peter’s favorites—and the scent is like heaven on the air.
My seamstress creates a stunning gown of blue and green silk adorned with bright peacock feathers but in the end, it’s too gaudy for my taste and I give it to Dash instead, choosing a stark-white gown with a long, swan-head tiara for myself. A ring of white feathers wraps around my neck, tickling me whenever I move. My hair is powdered white and curled, setting tall upon my head with bits of feather poking out here and there
. Sergei offers to escort me to the ball, but I know Peter will be watching me very closely, so I politely refuse, choosing Dash and two of my other ladies as escorts instead. When I arrive at the top of the grand staircase and the herald announces me, all eyes turn toward me, and as heads bow, I begin my descent.
Again, Peter has failed to leave me a seat. However, when I approach the head table, Prince George stands, humbly offering me his chair, which earns him a menacing glare from Peter. Elizavetta fans herself with a scrap of red lace, and for the life of me, I can’t put together what her costume is. Her gown is red, dark at the bottom and growing lighter as it crawls up her waist and across her ample chest. Her elbow-length gloves are cut from similar cloth, and are far too tight, making her arms protrude from the top like two sausages. Her lips are painted deep burgundy and her hair is piled atop her head. If anything, it looks less orange than usual, and more the color of fire. Then I see it. Two tiny, red horns poking out from the mass of hair.
She’s a devil.
It’s almost funny enough to set me into a fit of laughter. Beside me, Dash must see the same thing because she chortles, covering the noise with a delicate cough.
Taking my seat, I carefully pick at my food. I’m trying to enjoy the music despite the fact that Peter is feeding Elizavetta off his fork and laughing rambunctiously when a bit of meat falls into her cleavage and he is forced to retrieve it by sticking his face into her bodice.
For his part, Peter makes no secret of his plans to divorce me, and all eyes turn in my direction sympathetically every time he alludes to it.
“See, my lovely Romanova, my delicate flower,” he says, running a finger down Elizavetta’s exposed shoulder. She chuckles, stands, and waves her hand across the assembly as if lording over them.
“My first order of business, as your new queen, will be… to drink more wine!” she spits, raising her cup and sloshing the contents. A small laugh runs through the room, though I’m entirely sure they are laughing at her rather than with her.
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