Queen of Always

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  “She’ll never forgive us for this, you know?” he asks, not looking at me.

  I laugh dryly. “For which, killing Peter or missing her coronation?”

  “Both,” he answers with a forced smile.

  “She is young and far too softhearted for her own good. And so it falls to lesser men to keep her safe—whatever the cost,” I finally say, stepping into the stirrups and throwing my leg across the saddle.

  “Then we will have to hope she is softhearted enough not to have us flogged,” he mutters as we ride off.

  The night stretches on before us. Only my own knowledge of these roads keeps us from going astray, that and the soft glow from the full moon overhead. When we finally reach Ropsha, the sun is once more climbing high in the sky. I’m sore from the ride, but determined to press onward. As quietly as possible, we dismount in the woods on the northern edge of the property and slink through the trees.

  To call it a modest country home would be a mistake. Ropsha estate sprawls for nearly thirty acres, lavish green gardens to the east, an apple orchard to the west, and between us and the front entrance, a massive marble fountain spews water twenty feet in the air. Beyond that is a stone staircase leading to the doors. Outside, two guards stand watch. I narrow my eyes, looking closely. They are speaking to each other, their shoulders hunched, their rifles propped against the building. They don’t expect attack. Why should they? Catherine has ordered Peter to be kept like a prince rather than a prisoner of war.

  Closing my eyes only for a moment, I let thoughts of her fill my mind. I think of the way she chews her bottom lip when she’s reading, about the sound she makes right before she falls asleep, about the vicious tongue lashing I’ll receive upon my return. I can’t help but smile at the images as they float through my head. How one woman can possess so many facets, I will never understand. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on her that she would capture me, body and soul, and she did. The first night she came to me—her wedding night—so determined to best Peter and Elizabeth, so full of fire and passion. She had me from that moment, if not before.

  When I open my eyes again, one of the guards is leaving. A changing of duty, perhaps. Good. One guard will be easier to deal with than two at any rate. Beside me, Alexander anxiously shifts. He doesn’t have the stomach for violence—that much is clear. I’ve often wondered if it is that high morality that drew Catherine to him, like a moth to flame. Perhaps she sees in him a quality that she lacks but seeks to emulate.

  Personally, I find him short-tempered and soft. Unable to do what must be done. Yet here he is, ready to do the unthinkable, just to keep her safe.

  Perhaps I have not given him enough credit.

  “Do we wait for nightfall?” he asks, glancing around the forest floor.

  I shake my head. “No. It must be done today. Catherine will be standing blameless before the whole of Russia when Peter dies, perfectly unaware and innocent of this deed.”

  “Then we ride in, feigning a message from court?”

  I lick my bottom lip. Truthfully, I’d rather not be seen at all. Catherine would want as little bloodshed as possible, and so we cannot risk being seen, having our involvement reported. “No, we will go in through the kitchens. Anyone who sees our faces…”

  I don’t say more and though he visibly pales at the implication, he nods firmly.

  We circle the house, leaving the horses tied in the woods at the rear of the estate, and make our way up through the gardens. Letting the tall juniper maze provide our cover, we slip into the kitchens unseen.

  In the rear of the house, we come upon the guard’s chamber and steal inside. The guard who recently left his post is inside, changing his shirt, when Alexander comes up behind him, wraps his arm around the man’s thick neck, and chokes him. The guard struggles only a few moments, unable to draw breath to call for assistance before falling unconscious to the floor.

  Without speaking, we slip into a spare set of uniform jackets and hats and creep back into the hallway, careful to keep our chins down.

  “Split up,” I order. “You take the east wing, I’ll take the west. We’ll—” I don’t get to finish my words because the door in front of us opens and a maid steps out, cursing loudly.

  “Perhaps next time you’ll eat something more than a bottle of whiskey then!” she shouts, slamming the door behind her.

  From behind the door, Peter’s voice carries. “How dare you speak to me in such a way! I am the king!”

  As she brushes past, the maid mutters, “The king of chaffing my arse.”

  I have to force down a snicker at her exasperation. Once the maid rounds the corner, I glance up at Alexander. Sweat has beaded up along his forehead and nose, his face pale but his expression determined.

  He nods once and I push the door open, drawing my sword with one hand as I shut the door with the other, latching the lock.

  Peter turns. For a moment, he looks confused, and then he sighs, throwing himself across the wide, silk-covered bed to grab a small, wooden sword hidden beneath the blankets.

  “Finally. I knew my wife would come to her senses. I’ll call for the valet to begin packing my things,” he says, standing slowly.

  Alexander looks to me, and then back to Peter, who freezes mid-step.

  “Where is Elizavetta? Have you brought her to me? Even Catherine would not be so cruel as to keep us apart. Surely, she doesn’t hate me so much,” he begs.

  I step forward to run him through before he can realize our true purpose and scream for help, but Alexander speaks too quickly. “Elizavetta is dead,” he says flatly.

  In the blink of an eye, I lunge, but Peter uses his wooden sword to block my own, his eyes widening with feral rage. Dropping his shoulder, he lunges at me, knocking me off balance. I fall into the wall. He lands another blow before Alexander grabs him from behind, shoving his sword into Peter’s back and through his chest. A trickle of blood falls from his open mouth as Peter looks down, examining the blade, which is slippery with his own blood.

  Releasing him, Alexander takes a step back, leaving the sword behind. Peter must realize what’s just happened because he looks up at me and smiles, then rushes forward.

  I hear Alexander scream a moment too late. The blade pierces flesh, cutting through my ribs as Peter wraps his arms around me, holding me in a deadly embrace.

  The last things I hear as we fall to the floor are Peter’s gasping words in my ear.

  “She has taken my heart from me. Now I return the favor.”

  Catherine

  I’ve still not recovered from what I’ve done to Elizavetta. Her face haunts my dreams, and I wake crying out, as if to stop myself. But I cannot. It is a weight I must carry, like so many others, on my tarnished soul. Nearly throwing myself from my bed, I fight to shake off the nightmare. Dawn is risen, and the smell of fresh coffee slips through the air. I dress myself quickly, taking an extra moment to affix my crown into my hair.

  Throwing the doors wide, I see Alexander is standing by the fireplace, his expression distant.

  I move to embrace him. “You missed the coronation. What could be so important…?”

  I don’t get to finish my thought. He turns, and the front of his suit is covered in blood. It’s my nightmare happening right before my eyes.

  My head snaps up and I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up his hands. “It’s not my blood. I’m all right.”

  “Thank heavens,” I say, rushing to him and throwing myself in his arms despite myself. “I was afraid some of Peter’s supporters had—”

  He cuts me off with a kiss. It’s slow and sad and when I pull away, I see fear in his eyes.

  “What is it?” I demand. “What’s happened?”

  He gently strokes the side of my cheek, staring hard at me, as if trying to memorize my face. “Peter is dead.”

  I feel myself step back in shock. “Dead? How?”

  His dark eyes flutter closed, and I feel my heart stutter in my chest. “You?” I whisper. />
  He nods. I step back again, turning away from him as my fury rises. My hands move to my hair, meaning to tug on it, but end up on my crown instead. I lift it gently and set it on my table. The feel of it in my hands helps me focus.

  “I told you that I wanted him left alive. This, this is… How could you defy me like this?”

  “He was a danger to you. We couldn’t allow him to—”

  Now it is my turn to cut him off. “We? Who went with you?” Then it dawns on me. “Sergei.” I whisper his name like a curse. Of course. The only thing that could possibly unite them would be their desire to protect me. “Where is he?” I demand, ready to share my rage between them.

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he holds out his hands to me. I watch as grief plays out across his features, and then my eyes fall back to the blood on his tunic. Looking down at myself, I see that the stain spread to me when I embraced him. I touch the crimson flakes gently with my fingertips, unable to quite believe what my mind is trying to tell me. Dry blood falls to the floor like crimson snow.

  Realization hits me quickly, taking my already shaky legs from under me. I fall to the floor, my gown cascading around me in heaps of fabric. The air rushes from my lungs, and I can’t seem to force myself to take a replenishing breath. I can’t even gasp, the crushing tightness wrapping around my chest. In a fit, I rip at my clothes. I can’t breathe; I have to get out of my corset or I will surely die. My mind reels, white stars exploding behind my eyes. The sound of tearing fabric and the frantic pounding of my own heart is all I can hear.

  I think I’m screaming.

  My throat is raw and while I can’t hear the sound, my throat fights to create it.

  Seeing my distress, Alexander falls to his knees and begins ripping away the fabric with his strong hands. Finally, when it’s hanging in shreds around my waist, he produces a short sword from his belt and cuts me free of the laces, discarding the corset with a careless toss. I slap at his hands, not wanting him to touch me, not wanting to look into his face. I want to scratch, claw, and fight my way free of this nightmare. But it’s too late. I fall forward, gasping for short, labored breaths, as the room around me fades to white.

  Is this what it feels like to die? I wonder.

  Then I feel his lips, forcing air from his lungs into mine. Part of me wants to wrap my arms around his neck, to let him hold me as I once had, but another, darker part pushes him away, ill at the thought of his kiss. There’s something between us now, a wall that will never be broken or torn down. I can feel it rising, brick by brick around my heart.

  With one feeble hand, I push him away and manage to draw in a breath on my own. I hear him cry out for help and the heavy boot steps of my guard rush in. I feel a warm hand taking mine, and the sensation of being lifted into the air and carried to my bed.

  As I blink rapidly, the fog begins to fade. Grigori, my guard, is beside my bed, sword drawn, standing between Alexander and me.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” Alexander mutters over and over, tears falling down his beautiful face.

  How I love him. How much I wish I didn’t.

  When I speak, my voice is hoarse, but unwavering. “Tell me what happened; tell me all of it this instant.”

  He raises his hands in surrender, his eyes falling to the floor. “We knew you would never truly be safe so long as Peter lived. So Sergei and I made a plan to go to the estate during your coronation and put an end to him.”

  “He was your friend once,” I whisper.

  His eyes dart up, searching my own. “He was a monster. He would have slaughtered you without hesitation. As long as he drew breath, you were in danger. We only wanted you to be safe, finally, and free.”

  I say nothing as he continues.

  “When we got there, we snuck into his chamber. He was demanding to know where Elizavetta was and…” He hesitates, his words failing. “He flew into a rage. He attacked Sergei. I stabbed him, but with his last breath he… he killed Sergei. He ran him through. I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

  Even as the last unbroken pieces of my heart shatter, my mind reels. Pain and anger builds inside me, crashing against my chest in bitter waves.

  “Convenient for you, isn’t it? For my husband and my lover, the only men you ever had to share me with, both gone in a single instant.” I pause, letting the anger freely course through me. “I wonder—did you even try to save Sergei? Or did you finally see an opportunity to have me all to yourself?”

  He sputters. “Of course I tried to save him. How could you even think such a thing?”

  I stare at him, a cold fury sliding across my skin. “Was it a blade that killed Sergei? I gave strict orders he wasn’t to have access to knives or swords of any kind. So where did he get the blade, and do not think to lie to me.”

  He freezes at my words, finally answering in a defeated tone. “It was my blade, the blade I stabbed Peter with. He used it to kill Sergei. But it was not my intent, whatever you think.”

  “You have betrayed me. I gave you an order, and you betrayed me. Your betrayal cost me the life of someone I loved as well as if you’d murdered him with your own hand!” Conflicting emotions rage inside me. He betrayed me, defied me. He put Peter’s blood on my hands, and Sergei’s too. The panic rises once more as I realize I will never see his face again. I will never stare into his warm, blue-green eyes, will never again find safety in his arms. Inside the newly formed wall, the battered pieces of my heart ache. I want to forgive Alexander, but I can’t. I can’t trust that he didn’t let Sergei die just to see me free of him. He killed Peter to keep me safe, would he kill Sergei to keep me for himself? I do not know, and that is the worst part. I want to trust him, but I cannot. The wound is too deep.

  “You broke my heart,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

  He moves to challenge Grigori, as if he wants nothing more than to fight his way to my side. But the damage is done. I sit up, steeling myself.

  “Lord Alexander Mananov, I am ordering you from Imperial Court. You will return to Denmark, effective immediately. Is that clear?”

  The shock on his face is plain. “You’re sending me away?” he asks, his voice broken.

  “I cannot trust you at my side any longer. Your feelings for me have overcome your better judgment. I am not a girl who needs saving, I am a queen—your queen—and you will do as you are told.” My tone is cold, unforgiving. It must be, or he will never go. It’s more than not trusting him to do what I say; it’s trusting myself not to be ruled by him. I would lose myself in him if I could. I know that well enough. He has been a font from which I took my strength. But that font is tainted, and I will have to learn to find strength inside myself now.

  He says nothing, just stares at me, first in disbelief, and then in resignation. It’s all I have not to call him back. Finally, he bows and turns away. As soon as he does, I close my eyes, struggling to hold a perfect image of him in my mind. A time when he was smiling, his dark eyes dancing with joy, and I was lying in his arms. I cling to it like a drowning man might cling to a raft.

  When he leaves, with Grigori close at his heels, I turn over in my bed, stripping off the last bits of my gown. The tingling numbness floods my body, making its way through my skin, deep into my very bones, which feel as hollow as the rest of me. Shaking and in silence, I watch the sun begin to set through my window until my maids come to prepare me for the evening’s feast.

  Dashka is first in the room. She curls into the bed with me, wrapping her arms around me and holding me until the shaking stops. Finally, she brushes my hair back and tucks it over my ear.

  “It’s time, Your Majesty,” she says softly. “We will go and reassure everyone that all is as it should be. You will be strong and radiant, and then later, if you need to, we will cry ourselves to sleep.”

  Drawing myself from my bed, I stand, squaring my shoulders, my chin high as I push the last of the grief aside, burying it deep beneath a layer of other things. My own pain is no longer r
elevant. All that matters now is Russia. It is all that I have left.

  “No, Dash. No more tears. No more grief. I am a queen now, the Empress of Russia. And I must set those childish emotions aside. It is time to do what I was born to do. It is time to rule.”

  I go about the motions, bathing and dressing, letting them curl and powder my hair, paint my face, and cover me in jewels and ribbons, all while discussing my schedule with my valet and dictating letters to be sent to my foreign allies. Inside, it’s as if I’ve been emptied out. All traces of the girl I was are gone, and all that remains is this. Finally, I hold my gaze in the mirror, looking for any traces of young Sophie of Prussia, but they are long gone now. Only the empress remains, staring back at me with cold, dark eyes. When they lift the crown onto my head once more, I say a silent prayer for the girl I’d been, for the woman I am, and for the queen I have become.

  God Save the Queen.

  To my dearest children,

  If you are reading this letter, then I have passed through this life into the waiting arms of my Lord God. I write you now, having never enjoyed the opportunity in life to express myself fully to you, because I know all too well the things that have been said about me, the rumors, innuendo, and the wild speculation, and I wish you to know the plain truth of my life.

  Life, for me, has been fraught with hardship and also blessed with great joy. To know one is to, inevitably, feel the other. I have no regrets, save one. I know I was not the mother you deserved. The weight of the crown and the demands of my station prevented me from taking the role I would have liked to in your lives. For that, I am deeply sorry. But you were loved nonetheless, and with every fiber of my being.

  My husband Peter was a man who was never fit to be king. His mind was addled and his soul darkened long before I met him, and that darkness only grew as the wariness of the world descended upon him. I never wished him ill, though. I would have stood by his side till the end of my days, if only he would have allowed it. Perhaps I never forgave him for not being the man I dreamed of, the man I needed him to be, when I came to Russia as a young, naive girl. I know certainly that he never forgave me for being the stronger, smarter, more courageous of us. Perhaps that might have made some difference between us, if we had only been able to forgive each other. But it was not to be. I want you to know I had no hand in his death. It was not by my order, and those involved were severely punished. In that matter, at least, my hands are clean.