“I’m afraid so,” Emilia said kindly, stepping forward and running a finger across the beaded trim of a dress, like it was something very precious.
“I understand,” the dresser said, lowering her voice. “Nothing to be ashamed of. The trains are full of people hurrying here from Saint Petersburg. So many people coming disguised as workers—it’s shameful. You’ll be glad to know Moscow has managed to maintain its dignity—no need for hiding here,” she said, a sniff of pride at her city as she motioned for us to choose our dresses.
Just wait—it’s amazing how quickly things can change, I thought as I grabbed the nearest dress roughly, so much so that both Emilia and the dresser gave me a surprised look. I couldn’t help it—not only was I keenly aware that every second I spent here was another second I wasn’t finding the Babushka and the Constellation Egg, but the memory of Leo screaming was echoing around my mind.
“Apologies,” I said swiftly. “It’s been a long trip.”
“Clearly,” the dresser muttered as I hurried to change. It was a slightly more traditional dress than I usually wore—but all the options the dresser presented were, given that Moscow tended to be less Western than Saint Petersburg. The dress had long, wide sleeves and a straight form that didn’t hug the curves of the corset enough to make the undergarment seem worthwhile. The thick brocade pattern that ran down the side and across the bottom was pretty, standing out against blue velvet. Emilia wore a matching one, red where mine was blue.
“I’d forgotten I looked like this, after so long in the maid’s dress,” she said under her breath, turning back and forth in the mirror outside the bathroom door. Was she not bothered by hearing Leo’s cry earlier? By the fact that we were getting dressed up instead of rushing to save the country?
She wasn’t. At least, I didn’t think she was, and I couldn’t help but wonder if something was wrong with me for feeling the opposite.
“What did you say, Emilia?” the dresser asked. She was bouncing toward us and back again—bounce forward, tug the fabric here, smooth there, bounce back, observe, repeat. It was a bit like watching a terrier spring in to bite.
“Just that travel is clearly easier on Natalya,” Emilia answered, smiling. “Look at her! She looks brand new, and I’m covered in bruises.”
“What train did you take?” the dresser said, frowning.
“A slow one,” I answered. Emilia was right about the difference in our appearance. There were circles under her eyes, and earlier I’d seen bruises running along her spine, like a row of jewels under her skin.
I pinned my hair up tightly, turned my head to look at my profile. I looked like myself, and yet, not. Something was wrong, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was—perhaps I’d lost weight? I wasn’t sure, but as I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t help but feel like I was wearing a costume.
Shortly after the dresser left, a maid knocked to inform us dinner was ready; we walked downstairs together to where Misha had set up a meal in the parlor. The dining room table was moved in here, I suspected because of Leo’s presence in the kitchen, and had been adorned with a dark green tablecloth and candlesticks with eagles on them, eagles that looked so much like the Romanov’s double eagle crest that I had to smile. There was a bowl of pears at the end of the table, a basket of rolls, a soup tureen, a ham . . . the scent of food was overwhelming, nearly made me dizzy.
“Lady Kutepova. Emilia,” Misha said, bowing a bit to us and motioning toward the table. “I couldn’t remember, Emilia, if you preferred ham or chicken. Did I guess correctly?”
“To be honest, Uncle, I’m just happy to see a warm meal,” Emilia said, allowing the maid to slide her chair out for her. The maid came to me next—I felt my lip curl when I realized I’d been seated in front of a plate of biscuits with a dollop of caviar in the center. Emilia saw it as well, and looked as though she might be ill.
“Well, Lady Kutepova,” Misha said, flipping a white napkin open and setting it in his lap. While he was looking away, I took the opportunity to shove the caviar plate a bit farther away from me. Misha continued, “You’ll be happy to know I was able to reach your father by telephone, and tell him that you made it out of Saint Petersburg.”
“What a relief,” I said, smiling. “And the Romanovs? Is he en route to rescue them?”
“I believe so, but naturally, we couldn’t discuss his plans in detail over the line,” Misha said, looking a bit annoyed that I asked. I understood why at his next question. “You and the tsarevich—well, the tsar now, I suppose—are the two of you still . . . ?” There was no appropriate way for him to end the sentence; the tsarevich didn’t just court in the traditional sense, nor were we engaged.
“Intended?” I offered, and he nodded. “Yes, Misha. I miss him immensely. You can understand my hurry to hear if he’s out of the Reds’ hands.”
Misha was unable to avoid looking disappointed that I was still attached to another. “Well. I don’t think you need to worry. The White Army is quick, and besides, the Reds certainly aren’t bold enough to actually harm the royal family. All those girls! They wouldn’t dare.” Just as he finished, one of the maids swept in and began to pour wine for each of us, a dark red one that I could tell would be too dry for my taste. When I set down the glass and moved to take another buttered roll from the dish, my eyes accidentally fell on the door on the far side of the dining room, the one that led to the kitchen. Something in my stomach tightened.
“How is Mr. Uspensky, Misha?” I asked, pretending to sip my wine for appearance’s sake.
“Mr. Uspensky? How kind of you,” Misha said. “I can’t say I call him anything so respectful, after seeing how battered the two of you looked when you arrived. I barely recognized you, Emilia—”
“How is he, Uncle?” Emilia asked softly. Hearing the note of concern in her voice was a much-needed relief. So my worrying isn’t insane.
Misha shook his head, regarded us like we were crazy. “I was able to secure passage to Siberia for him on a train tomorrow evening. You won’t have to see him again.”
“Has he eaten?” I asked suddenly, looking down at the roll in my hand.
“Lady Kutepova,” Misha said firmly, “I assure you, I can do my job.” He paused, looked down. “My apologies. This happens a lot, you’ll be relieved to know—people sympathizing with their captors. I suppose it’s a survival mechanism. I promise, it will pass.”
“Of course,” I said shortly, then turned back to my food. I picked at the ham a bit more, the creamed corn, but found both had lost their appeal. I ladled myself a bowl of weak-looking borscht from the soup tureen instead, and sipped at it absently.
“In addition,” Misha said, leaning forward and lifting his eyebrows excitedly, “I was able to secure the two of you passage to Paris. Tomorrow afternoon!” He beamed, like he was showing us a particularly fine watch or a show pony.
“Tomorrow?” Emilia asked, grinning—it was a real grin, real happiness, unlike the one I was affecting. “How did you manage it so soon?”
“Well, for my dear niece and the tsar’s intended, I pulled every string I had,” he said warmly, looking pleased with himself.
“That’s very kind of you, Misha, but I have a bit of business in Moscow before I go.” I looked at Emilia, who sunk down in her chair. The circles under her eyes seemed suddenly more pronounced.
“Business?” Misha said, like that were a hilarious prospect.
“Indeed,” I said. “Perhaps I can go out tonight—”
“Lady Kutepova,” Misha said, like I was a very small girl. “Don’t be foolish. Your father would have me shot if I took you back into that city for anything other than your departure.”
I gave Misha a stiff look. “Colonel Ivanovich, while I appreciate your hospitality, I am not your wife, nor your daughter, nor your mistress. My business is no concern of yours.”
Misha darkened; his f
ace became hard lines, void of smiles or swagger. He took a long slug of wine, then spun the glass between his fingers. Emilia was staring at her hands. “Well. Perhaps your business is no concern of mine, but your safety is. So. You may tell me what your business is, and I’ll have someone attend to it, or you may do it another day, once the Whites have secured the country again.”
Emilia took a deep breath, unable to disguise the sorrow in her voice. “Or perhaps, Uncle, we can take a train the day after tomorrow instead? So Natalya can tend to her affairs?”
Misha released his fork, gave us an appalled look. “I don’t think you two understand—the revolution is about to hit Moscow. Tomorrow’s train is likely the last one out of the city. If you’re not on board, you’re not leaving the country.”
Emilia turned to me, eyes pleading and panicked. “Natalya—please. I know your business is important to you, but please. We can’t—I can’t . . .”
“Of course, of course,” I answered swiftly, putting a hand on her arm. “Of course.” I took a deep breath. “We’ll go to Paris and I’ll work something else out. We’ve been through enough.”
Emilia looked hurt, and I could tell she once again suspected I was lying—but that she wanted to believe the lie enough to keep quiet. It was clear: she would go with me, if I insisted. She would come along to find the Constellation Egg, knowing she was missing her last chance to leave the country.
Emilia Boldyreva was nothing if not loyal.
It was also clear that I couldn’t let her come with me.
It felt like night fell on Moscow faster than it did on Saint Petersburg, though I suspected it was merely because Misha’s street was too far from the main strip of town to warrant gaslights. The moon was bright overhead, the house asleep, so quiet, so still. The maids had gone home—they didn’t live in residence, as my family’s did back home—and Misha was asleep on the parlor couch, so he could keep a better ear open in case Leo tried to escape.
I was in a small bedroom with mauve walls and cherry furniture. After so long on the train, the bed seemed incredibly still, almost eerily so. I turned over, restless, and looked outside through the lace curtains—they did little to block the light, but combined with the moonlight created spiderweb-like shadows on the walls. The streets were bare, save the occasional vagrant wandering by.
I turned on my back, stared at the ceiling.
I wasn’t going to fall asleep. I was tired, but it was never going to happen, not with the way my mind was racing. I was planning, scheming how I would sneak away from Misha, go after the egg on my own. Forgo Paris. Abandon Emilia. And then what?
Hide the egg from the Reds. Forever, if I had to.
I rose, grimacing as the floorboard squeaked at my weight, and pulled the dress from earlier back on. I stared at my reflection in the vanity for a moment, then pulled my hair up off my neck, pinned it perfectly with a sigh. I went to the door, pressed my ear against it. The house was silent, save the perfect ticking of the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs. I turned the porcelain knob, opened the door gently.
I moved along the hallway, breath held tight in my chest. I eased my way down to the first floor, trying to roll my feet in time with the clock to disguise my steps. I leaned over the staircase railing to make sure Misha was as asleep as his snoring indicated, and had to stifle a snicker when I saw him. His mouth was open, shirt askew, revealing his pale and unimpressive chest. There was a gun in his lap, and his legs had tumbled off the side of the couch, like he’d been thrown there.
I crept the rest of the way down, past Misha and to the kitchen door. I carefully opened it, slipped through, and shut it behind me, pausing to listen—yes, he was still snoring. Satisfied, I spun around, expecting to see Leo in front of me.
There was no one there.
It felt like something heavy was on my chest as I walked forward. But no—there were old wooden cabinets, cutting tables, bags of potatoes, all lit with ample moonlight. The scent of our dinner lingered in the room, now a sickening smell. I walked the length of the kitchen, peered out the back door into the house’s garden, but it was too black to see far—
Something shifted behind me. I jumped, whirled around to see the source. Nothing.
There. The noise again. My eyes widened; I rushed to a door beside the behemoth of a stove, swung it open.
It was a pantry, well stocked with dry goods and jars and jars of canned food, globes of purple, beige, orange that caught the moonlight and bounced it back to me. And in the center, in a kitchen chair and darkened by my shadow, was Leo. His head was bowed down, his hair in his eyes, hands behind his back. He looked up at me, alarmed; I stepped back to see him better and grimaced when the light found his face.
His right eye was blackened, his left quickly becoming so. Half-dry blood clung to his lip, and I could see burn marks along his collarbone. He looked down, pulling his face into the shadows again.
“Miss Kutepova,” he said, words garbled from his swollen face. “You’re looking . . . clean.”
“She . . . Emilia told him not to kill you,” I whispered.
“He didn’t, you’ll notice,” Leo answered. “Though he made a valiant effort.”
“Be quiet,” I said, shaking my head at him. I bit my lip, unsure if I should risk turning on the lights above a carving table. Instead, I walked across to the fireplace, then lit one of the oil lanterns sitting by the hearth. I walked back, set it at Leo’s feet. He watched me cautiously, like he was afraid I might break the thing over his head at any moment. I wished I hadn’t brought the light over, for a moment—perhaps I didn’t want to see his injuries so clearly.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he said lowly, watching me.
“Don’t lie,” I said.
“I’m not,” he answered. “It did, but it doesn’t hurt now. Really.”
I grabbed a rag from the counter, chanced to run a little water over it, then returned, pulling a rickety stool behind me. I looked back to the kitchen door for a moment, certain it was going to fling open, that Misha would see me.
“He’s been asleep for hours,” Leo said. “He’s not coming. Besides, what could he do? Nag you?”
“He’ll make me leave,” I answered, annoyed. Confident Misha wasn’t coming, I leaned forward, moved to run the cloth along Leo’s lip.
Leo jerked away, found my eyes. “He can’t make you do anything,” he said. “You rode here in a freezing boxcar. With a dirty Red, no less.”
“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten,” I answered, reaching for him again, but he still craned his face away from my hand.
“What are you doing?”
“You’ve got blood all—”
“No, really, Miss Kutepova. What are you doing? Why are you down here in a pantry with me instead of upstairs in what is almost certainly a disgustingly comfortable bed?” His eyes were steady, words even and careful.
I lowered my hand, my eyes. I opened my mouth, tried to find words that slipped from my grasp over and over. Finally, I sighed, looked up at him. The lantern made his eyes glow gray-black. “I’m going after the Constellation Egg tomorrow. On my own.”
Leo grinned, though the act caused his split lip to bleed. “How?”
“On the way to the train station. I’ll sneak away from Misha.”
“The way he watches you? You’ll need a distraction,” Leo said thoughtfully. “Emilia could help.”
“She could,” I said, avoiding his eyes. “But . . . she’ll miss the train to Paris if she does.”
Leo was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “What about in the marketplace then? It’s packed—you stand a much better chance of getting away there.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Perhaps I can ask Misha to buy me a necklace or something—he’d probably pay for anything I wanted—and then slip around toward the produce stands, where it’s more crowded.”
&n
bsp; “That dress might draw attention. The Reds are spreading here—it’ll be hard for you to make it through the city. Be careful.”
“Right,” I said, looking down at the shiny fabric. The nervousness, the racing thoughts slowed to a steady crawl. I lifted my hand again, and this time Leo didn’t jerk away when the cloth touched his face. The blood wiped off easily—the cut was smaller than I expected, which gave me some comfort.
“Well, I, on the other hand, am headed for a Siberian labor camp tomorrow,” Leo said as I wiped his hair back, squinted—there was another cut, one that might need stitches, but Misha would certainly notice someone had stitched up his prisoner during the night. “You’re practically the tsarina now . . . I don’t suppose you’d amend my sentence?”
“I can’t . . .” I stumbled, shaking my head. “I’m not the tsarina.”
“So you’re just someone the tsar loves?” Leo asked. His voice was soft, delicate, like he was afraid the words would break me. I opened my mouth, tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. I dropped the cloth, lowered my head to my hands, closed my eyes.
“I’m afraid.”
“You don’t have anything to be afraid of,” Leo said quietly. “Wait—elk stampedes. Perhaps you should be afraid of elk stampedes, when they rush to see you.” I looked up, saw he was smiling. I returned the expression without a second thought.
“The Constellation Egg works for me,” I said, voice hushed. Saying it aloud was an unexpected release; I tilted my head back and exhaled, saw Leo looking very smug about having figured it out.
“So what will you do?” Leo asked gently. He leaned forward, as close to me as his restraints would allow.
“I have to do something,” I answered. “I can’t just . . . run away. Risk that sort of power falling to the Reds.”
“But after that, Natalya? What will you do after that?”
I inhaled, tried not to notice the fact that I could feel Leo’s breath on my collarbones. “Fix Russia,” I finally said.
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