The Crown's Game Part 25

He sighed as they stepped into the maple grove. "It's just that my mother is very ill," Pasha said. "It has been one thing after another, and the doctors are at their wits' end. Their last hope is to send her to the South in hopes the warmer weather will do her good. I love her dearly, so I, too, hope it is the cure, but the truth is, I doubt it. Her problems began long before autumn arrived."

Pasha released Vika's arm and began to pace along the path. He thought of his mother's life; it had not been easy to live in the Winter Palace with his father. The tsar had had many well-known affairs. Other children, borne by other women. The tsarina could have left and taken Yuliana with her, but Pasha would have had to remain behind as official heir to the throne. As such, his mother had stayed and abided a mountain of insult and indignity for the love of her son.

"I wish there were some miracle that could heal her."

"Are you asking me to use magic on her?" Vika asked.

Pasha stopped his pacing. Hope caught in his throat. "Can you?"

Vika exhaled slowly and rubbed a spot just under the collar of her coat. She took several more breaths before she replied. "I can heal cuts and broken bones, but what ails your mother sounds much deeper. I think I'd do her more harm than good."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry. Magic is not always the answer. It's old and very complicated, and comes tied with many strings. Even this"-she tapped the knot of the maple tree, which began to pour amber liquid into a bucket below-"one of Ludmila's innocent ideas, has consequences greater than syrup."

"What do you mean?"

Vika pointed up at the branches of the maple. The green leaves that swayed in the wind began to blur, then vanish. They were replaced by dead limbs.

"What . . . how did you do that?"

"The leaves are a mirage. These trees have actually been drained completely of life."

"In order to create one thing, you had to sacrifice another."

"Yes. Sometimes, magic is deadly." She frowned.

Pasha eyed her. "Are you telling me you're dangerous?"

Vika's frown vanished, and she laughed, almost too wildly given what they'd just been talking about. "Quite so. But I'm no danger to you."

The moon shifted then, and its light slivered through the bare maple branches and landed in pale stripes on Vika's face. It highlighted her delicate cheekbones. It emphasized her otherness. Pasha couldn't resist stepping closer to her. He reached out to touch her face.

"Please don't," she whispered.

"I'm sorry, I just-"

She didn't move away as his fingers hovered next to her cheek, aching to brush against her skin. But she said, "I mean, you don't want this."

"What if I do?" He wanted to kiss her. And not just her lips, although he wanted that, badly. He also wanted to kiss her neck, to peel away her coat and touch his mouth to her pale shoulders. He wanted to feel the softness and warmth of her skin. Pasha leaned closer.

This time, Vika backed away. "Trust me, you don't. I'm too complicated. I am bound by too much not in my control."

Pasha sighed. He, too, was bound. By his father. By duty. By the people of an entire empire. He wondered what trappings hindered Vika.

"There's no such thing as simplicity," he said.

She took off her glove and ran a finger through the trickle of maple syrup, frowning at the crystallized lumps in it. "I'm beginning to fully comprehend that."

"I like you," he said. "More than like you."

She shook her head slightly, but more to herself than to him. "I don't want to like you."

"But you do?" Pasha went to run his hand through his hair, but caught himself before he gave his nerves away.

"Doesn't everyone?"

"I'm only asking about you."

Vika focused on a deformed crystal of syrup on her thumb. "I'm not in a position to fall in love. With you, or with anyone else."

If he could, Pasha would have sucked the sugar off her finger. But it wasn't appropriate, and she'd made it clear she wasn't interested, so he settled for removing his glove and wiping the sugar crystal off her fingertip, lingering for a second as their hands touched. Even that sent sparks through every one of Pasha's nerves.

"Will you tell me if that ever changes?" he said, his voice a touch hoa.r.s.e.

She frowned. "I doubt it will."

"But if it does?"

She looked up at Pasha, and it took everything in him not to bend down and steal a kiss. "Yes," she said. "If it changes, I will tell you."

He sighed again.

"You have a lot weighing on you," Vika said. "I'll leave you to enjoy the island and sort through your troubles. I hope for the best for your mother."

"You don't have to go-"

But she had already vanished. How? Now Pasha allowed his hand to run through his hair. It was the third time in an hour she had startled him.

He dashed to the other end of the island to the pier, and there she was, already halfway across the bay on her leaf. He watched her all the way until she made it to the opposite sh.o.r.e.

She was unlike any girl he had ever known. And likely would ever know. His nerves were still on edge from their encounter.

He started to head back toward the main promenade, perhaps to sit on the steppe bench or the Ovchinin Island one. Vika was right. Pasha did have a great deal to ponder. But as he walked, he turned to look at the water one last time. She was gone, but her presence was not.

Tied to the dock was a gift. His own enchanted leaf.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE.

In his study, the tsar pored over his maps of the Crimea, as well as his generals' most recent reports on the activities of the Ottomans. It was as Yuliana had warned. He should have made this trip south a while ago.

There was a gentle knock from the hall. Followed by a cough, weaker yet louder than the knock. The tsar hurried to open the door.

The tsarina smiled and coughed again into her handkerchief.

"Elizabeth, my dear," the tsar said, offering his arm and leading her to the armchair by his desk. "Why are you here? It's late. You ought to be in bed."

She wore a white dressing gown with lace at the collar and sleeves. Her hair was swept up in a loose bun. When younger, she'd been known as one of the most beautiful women in Europe. But even now, older and ill, she was arresting. "I just wanted to see you, love," she said.

The tsar kissed her on the top of her head. He had disregarded her for decades; they had married too young, when he was fifteen and she only fourteen, and the tsar had openly had many affairs. But age had worn him down-as had politics and too many wars-and in the end, it was Elizabeth he wanted. She had been regal and patient through everything, and when he came back to her, she forgave him his trespa.s.ses right away. The tsar was not so kind to himself.

"I am looking forward to the Sea of Azov with you," he said.

"As am I, love. You deserve the rest."

"There is no rest for the tsar. But at least I will be with you."

Elizabeth nodded. But then she coughed into her handkerchief again.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes . . ." She wheezed as she drew in a shallow breath and devolved into another fit of coughing so deep, blood sputtered from her throat.

"You need the doctors-"

"No." Elizabeth waved her handkerchief at him. "I'll be fine. I only need you and the sun in the South." She leaned her cheek on the tsar's arm. "Will you help me to my room, love?" Her voice frayed at the edges.

He softened. "Of course, dear." He pulled her up to her feet, but she stumbled and collapsed against him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

The tsar shook his head. Then he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and slipped the other behind her knees. She had lost so much weight, he lifted her as easily as if she weren't even there.

What a wicked twist of fate that Elizabeth might be ripped away from him when he had only now begun to appreciate her. He needed to get her to the South as soon as possible. It was the only hope of saving her.

As he carried her out of the study and into the hall, the captain of his Guard fell in line behind him. The tsar didn't even look at him as he gave his order: "Get me Nikolai Karimov and Vika Andreyeva. Immediately."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX.

The guard led Vika through the Winter Palace, past all the paintings and mirrors and wall upon wall of windows, all dark at this hour of night, until they reached a door flanked by more guards. They nodded at the soldier who escorted her, and he opened the doors and let her in.

Vika's stomach had been in knots since the moment the guard appeared at her flat, and she'd hardly breathed the entire carriage ride here. The streets of Saint Petersburg had pa.s.sed in a blur of nondescript night, and all she could think was that the Game was over. Either she or Nikolai was done. The tsar would declare a winner and a loser tonight.

But as she stepped into the room in the palace, some of the tension in her body eased. For this was no stern throne room. With its peach silk drapes and pale-yellow furniture and the scent of roses perfuming the air, it seemed completely opposite of a place from which the tsar would sentence one of the enchanters to die.

"You may sit until the others arrive," the guard said.

Vika didn't feel like sitting. Although the surroundings placated her a little, her nerves still jangled. But she sat on a daffodil-colored settee, because the guard wore a sword on his hip that she was quite certain he would use should she prove to be anything other than compliant.

Vika listened to the small clock in the nearby cabinet tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tock.

Three hundred and fifty-two excruciating ticks and tocks later, Nikolai arrived.

"Vika," he said as the guard who'd escorted him closed the door to the room. Nikolai's face was composed, elegant as ever, but the slight quaver in his voice betrayed him.

"Fancy seeing you here," Vika said, trying to lighten the sense of impending doom before it crushed them both. "You manage to dress impeccably, even in the middle of the night. Although I can't say I'm surprised."

His carefully controlled rigidity cracked, and he gave her his shy smile. "You look lovely, as well."

"I thought I might attempt to be presentable if I'm to die."

Nikolai's smile wilted. Vika bit the inside of her cheek. So much for witty banter saving this night.

"Do you know why we were summoned?" Nikolai asked. He didn't sit in any of the chairs, and the guard did not command him to.

Vika shook her head. "I haven't a clue."

An interior door burst open at that moment-Vika and Nikolai must have been in an antechamber of some sort-and the tsar strode out. Vika's stomach again leaped to her throat. Nikolai gripped the back of a chair and appeared equally ill. But somehow, they both managed to curtsy and bow to the tsar.

"Rise," he said. Then he waved his guard out of the room. When the soldier had shut the door firmly behind them, he said, "This is not about the Game, enchanters, so you can stop looking like cattle going to slaughter."

Oh, thank heavens. Vika exhaled. Although the image of cattle going to slaughter stuck with her. It might not be tonight, but it would be some night (or day) not too far away.

"The tsarina is unwell," the tsar continued, "and she and I need to go to the South, to the restorative weather of the Sea of Azov. But I fear she will not survive a weeks-long carriage ride. Therefore, I need your help."

Nikolai bowed his head. "Your Imperial Majesty, I am happy to be of service. I can enchant your coach to carry you there faster."

The tsar grunted. He turned to Vika. "And you? Can you do any better?"

Vika bristled. Was this part of the compet.i.tion, or was it not? The tsar had claimed it was not technically part of the Game. So why did it still seem as if she and Nikolai were being pitted against each other?