Queen of Always Read online

  As her words roll through my mind, I cannot help but wonder if I have the courage for such a thing. Because to choose will mean losing one, refusing to choose might well drive them both from me. It’s a terrible risk to take.

  I feel her move to take my hand, and then hesitate. Being empress means no others are supposed to touch me without permission. I bridge the gap between us, gently patting her hand. Her expression is fierce, like a mother cat protecting her cub, and I can’t help but smile at her gentle ferocity. “Don’t fret on my account, Dash. I’m queen, after all. Ruler of Russia, if not of my own heart. And I will not falter, in this or anything else.”

  She smiles, relaxing back into the pale blue gown that threatens, by sheer size, to overtake her small frame.

  ***

  The days pass quickly, three gone before I can find a moment to take a single breath, or so it seems. I push through each new task like someone sleepwalking, always fully engaged in the minute details, using them as a distraction, keeping my mind far from other thoughts. The funeral is prepared, Peter’s new laws are to be presented to the senate the following day, and as Dash predicted, the ladies of court have taken to mimicking my fashions with each new day. I have my first chance to see my son, and what a handsome little boy he’s becoming. His hair is lighter than I expect, the patchy, dark hair he was born with having mostly rubbed off, replaced with soft, corn-silk strands, his eyes still blue as sapphires. He’s fast despite his short legs, and he growls in frustration, throwing his wooden horse when one of the maids tries to clean up a pile of abandoned blocks in the corner. The nurses let me play with him only a short time before insisting he go back to the warmth of the nursery, for fear that he will fall ill. Still, it is enough. And I know there will be nothing keeping me from him now.

  When I wake on the fourth day, I have a pounding in my head that rivals anything I’ve ever felt before. I manage to convince Jean to arrange my hair in a low, elegant, braided bun, citing the need to add a veil, which he elaborately cuts from a piece of black lace and tucks into my hair with expert fingers. He winds a delicate cord around the bun and lets it trail down the back of my neck before carefully settling my crown on top of my head.

  “I will be making my way to the cathedral in a carriage with Peter,” I inform my guard as I slip on my black satin elbow gloves. “He will return straightaway, stopping in the palace square to make a formal announcement of mourning, and then coming right back here. I will remain at the viewing to greet the mourners. Please see to it that a small contingent of guards remains behind. Peter will want his Holstein troops with him, no doubt.” Grigori bows deeply and turns to make the arrangements while Dashka sits across from me, waiting to help me with my official sash and ribbons.

  I try to remain stoic. It is a day of national mourning, after all, but there is an excitement inside myself that I cannot seem to stomp down. The new household is finally in order, and while Peter has been keeping himself at a distance since our first night back, he seems genuinely content for the first time that I can recall. Tomorrow, our new legislation will be signed. I took it upon myself to speak to the lords about the changes, and they all seem genuinely pleased. As if that weren’t enough, I received a note from Peter that he has asked someone to join us at court that he thinks will please me. I cannot help but hope he has invited my dear brother, and with his desire to end the war between our nations, it would be a clever move, politically. I feel the flush in my cheeks just imagining it. I haven’t seen him in so very long.

  “You’re smiling again,” Dash whispers.

  I pull my face slack once more.

  Peter greets me at the top of the formal staircase. As I approach, I see him as I once had, as a young, vibrant man surrounded by his gentlemen of the chamber, Alexander and Mikhail, and his guards. Our eyes meet for the briefest second before his attention turns away. Though he’s older now, his face partially scarred from the pox, his golden curls are just the same. My eyes slide past him to land on Alexander’s face. He looks down and then back up, as if bowing with his eyes. His dark suit complements his naturally olive complexion and his dark, ebony black hair. I lift my chin as the herald formally announces us, stepping forward to accept Peter’s now-outstretched arm.

  The funeral procession is slow, and around us the world is bleak, the day gray and rainy. During the last part of the journey, Peter steps out, taking his place walking behind the casket. Every so often, he pauses, lagging behind so long the entire procession has to wait, and then he merrily jogs forward, smiling like an impish child. When he enters the carriage again at the bridge, he’s winded. Though he doesn’t speak to me on the journey, he stares out the window, waving eagerly to anyone and everyone as we pass. Finally, he slumps back into his seat, visibly distressed.

  “What is it, Peter?” I ask, knowing well that despite appearances, neither of us is truly mourning this day.

  He frowns petulantly. “I thought they’d be glad to see me. To know that they are in far better hands now. They should be celebrating!” he adds, slamming his palm against the carriage wall.

  “People always grieve the passing of a monarch,” I say, quickly adding, “no matter how much they were disliked in life. She belonged to them, and they have lost her. It’s only natural to grieve such a loss, even when brighter prospects lay only on the horizon.”

  He shrugs but says no more. When we arrive at the cathedral, Peter steps out of the carriage and I follow. We should precede single file into the chapel, but Peter pauses, holding his arm out for me once again, drawing a cheer from the downtrodden assembly. This makes him grin. He waves to them, and I do the same. Once inside the doors, he releases my arm, taking the lead through another set of wooden doors, to the stone tomb where Elizabeth rests in a coffin of glass, just below the altar.

  Though her face is covered with sheer, black gauze, I can make out her features perfectly. Even in death, she is lovely. Perhaps even more so, now that she is unable to inflict further harm or pain on my person. Glancing up at Peter, I see that his face has gone beet red. He’s visibly shaking from head to toe as if at any moment he might burst out of his skin.

  I turn to the guards and priests who wait behind us. “Please, give His Highness a moment to grieve, privately, before we begin the funerary viewing,” I solemnly ask.

  They bow and turn away, moving back to the doors. The archbishop pulls them closed a fraction of an instant before Peter explodes, pounding his fists against the glass.

  “You callous, heartless, wicked bitch!” he screams. It echoes throughout the chamber and I pick up my skirts, rushing to his side.

  “Peter, please,” I say, grasping for his hands, but he pulls them away.

  “No. She didn’t deserve this.” He waves his hand around the room. The tall candelabras are lit, chained pots of burning incense hang from the dais, and flowers litter the floor. “She was never fit to be ruler. Everyone knows she stole the throne from Ivan.”

  He’s fully screaming and without thinking, I reach out and slap him, hard. The sound of it is like a clap of thunder. For a moment, he just stares at me.

  “Peter, you must get a hold of yourself,” I whisper sharply. “The lords and clergy are just behind that door. If they hear you speaking so, they may very well decide you are right and that the royal authority never laid with her, and thus, it doesn’t lie with you either.”

  He blinks, his hand rubbing his reddened cheek. For a moment, I can feel my heart pounding like a hammer in my chest. When he moves, I twitch, expecting him to strike me back. But he doesn’t.

  “What makes you think of Ivan on this day?” I ask, trying to be gentle.

  Looking back down at Elizabeth, he frowns. “She took him in the night; did you know that? She attacked him when he was only a helpless infant, and she threw him and his nurse in a dark cell for twenty-five years. If not for you, she probably would have done the same to me. She used to call me useless; did you know that? When I was young and my teachers would complai
n, she told them to beat me with the books if I refused to read them. How I hated her…”

  “You are the true Romanov emperor, and you must not let anyone else think otherwise,” I continue. He nods, looking back down at her waxen face. “And as far as Elizabeth, she will reap in death what she sowed in life; I am sure of that.”

  “I only wish I’d have done it myself,” he muses quietly, a half smile spreading across his face.

  I feel myself flinch at his words. “Better that you didn’t. Better that your hands are clean.”

  When he looks up at me, it’s like a knife slicing through me. I can feel him, peeling back my skin with only the power of his stare, exposing me for the hypocrite I so clearly am.

  When he speaks, there’s something wicked behind his words, a tone I cannot place, but it still manages to make me shiver. “Would you have killed her to save me? If she truly wanted to pass me over, would you have done it to keep me safe?”

  I swallow. His question is too close to a confession for my comfort. Still, I cannot bring myself to lie. “For you, to secure your reign, I would.”

  “Because you love me?” he asks. I know I should say yes and profess my love, although it would be a lie, but I have no dishonesty in my heart just now.

  “Because your fate and mine are bound. Perhaps they have been since the day we met as children. Whatever path we walk in this world, we must walk it together,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “You don’t seem terribly happy about that.”

  I shrug. “If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that happiness, true and lasting happiness, can only come from a place of trust.”

  “And you don’t trust me?”

  I raise one eyebrow, holding his gaze steady. “Should I?”

  He says nothing, just inclines his head in my direction and strides from the room, throwing open the doors to the surprise of those beyond.

  When he’s gone, the archbishop joins me at the coffin. “You seem troubled, Your Highness. May I suggest the solace of confession?” he offers.

  I shake my head, kneeling beside the coffin instead. “Thank you, but my soul is feeling far too confessed already,” I say softly.

  He nods and backs away. A line forms and the doors are thrown open to the waiting assembly, who form a quiet line and slowly proceed in. I remain on my knees as the mourners come and go, keeping my eyes closed in silent prayer. At some point, Grigori offers me a pillow for my knees, but I refuse it. The pain is good; it reminds me why I’m here, that this is my penance, my small atonement for the part I played in her death.

  As I pray, I try to think of her as a young girl, born a princess but denied her legacy. She made some difficult choices, but she always remained strong and regal despite them. Perhaps that is what it means to be a ruler. Mayhap you have to sell off little pieces of your soul for the greater good. It’s no wonder that she took so many lovers. I know all too well the hole those kinds of choices can make in your heart. Perchance she tried to fill it, however she was able. The longer I kneel, the more my heart opens for her, and the more I understand, until I feel the first of the tears slip from my closed eyes.

  Finally, free of my hatred, I allow myself to grieve her passing.

  I stand vigil beside her coffin for three more days, silently nodding as each person comes in, bids farewell to one empress, and bows before a new one. A few offer me tokens or items to place in the coffin. I always oblige, thanking them sweetly and offering what I hope is a reassuring smile.

  Peter’s new laws are passed quickly and even in the final hours of mourning, there is a collective sigh of relief visible in the faces of both serfs and nobles alike. They feared what sort of leader Peter would be, but he has passed the first hurtle.

  That evening at dinner, I wear my best blue gown. Peter assures me I will want to look my best for our guest, and I am aflutter with excitement. Not only at the thought of seeing my dear brother again, but at the opportunity to meet with both Sergei and Alexander. Mourning has given me a great deal of time to reflect, and I have finally decided where my heart truly lies. Come what may, I will be better off for it, I think.

  Though Peter is already seated, the crowd rises when I am announced. They raise their glasses to me even as they bow. I nod to the room and take my seat beside Peter. Elizavetta is on his right, in the place normally reserved for the chancellor, and I see that Bestuzhev has been relegated to a table near the rear of the room beside the French and Austrian ambassadors; all three of them have their heads down, engaged in nervous chatter. I can’t help but notice Peter is once again wearing the green uniform of the Prussian Army.

  I open my mouth to question it but before I can, Peter stands, drawing the room into silence.

  “My lords and ladies, it is my greatest pleasure to announce I have signed a treaty with King Fredrick. Our soldiers are being evacuated from Berlin as we speak. Thanks to my new Commandant of the Russian Army, Prince George Lewis.”

  Peter claps and others slowly, halfheartedly, join in. As for me, I’m too stunned to move. From the rear of the room, the doors open and George strides in, in a uniform matching Peter’s.

  The breath rushes from my lungs as if I’ve been kicked by a horse. My momentary disbelief is replaced by a flush of fear. I fight the urge to look at his face, keeping my eyes locked on the floor at his feet, as if seeing him will somehow solidify his presence.

  My uncle. The man who had thought so carelessly to try to seduce me at only fourteen, the man I would have ended up married to had my marriage to Peter not succeeded. I swallow the bit of spiced lamb in my throat, but it refuses to go down, choking me. I take a drink of wine, and then another, before finally clearing it.

  Peter stands from the table and greets him warmly, with a hug, as if they were brothers rather than great-uncle and nephew. George bows deeply and Peter laughs, draping an arm across his shoulders and leading him to the table. He quickly dismisses Mikhail with a wave and sets George in his place.

  They begin talking in hushed tones. I can’t quite make it out, but I have a deep, gnawing feeling that warns me off. Across the room, Count Mercy shoots me a concerned glance. He’s very pretty for a man, slender features and a long, sloping nose. His hair is powdered and curled at the neck, his jacket adorned with the finest French lace at the neck and cuffs. His skin is so pale and without blemish that it matches the shade of white perfectly. Add to that his soot-black lashes that hide a pair of round, gray eyes, and he is a striking, though not imposing, figure of a man.

  My eyes slide from him to Baron de Breteuil. In stark contrast, he’s a tall, muscular man with a wide jaw and more rounded features. His hair is curled, though not powdered, and is dusty brown like old leather. He’s staring at Peter as if he wished nothing more than to beat him with a stick. It’s hard to blame him. By inviting George here, Peter is effectively throwing it in their faces that he intends to break the Austrian treaty and dissolve the alliance. It’s the most disrespectful thing he could have done, and the room is buzzing with gossip.

  Peter stands once more, making another announcement. “I have also made the following appointments; I have welcomed back to court, and back to my privy council, Count Lestocq, and the position of chancellor will now be taken by Lord Mikhail Andrei.”

  More weak applause as Mikhail, seated to the right of Elizavetta, stands and bows at the neck to the assembled guests. By now, George is standing at our table. I feel myself staring at him in stark disbelief, a queasy wave rolling in my stomach.

  “Your Majesties,” he says, bowing first to Peter, and then to me.

  “Uncle George,” I finally manage, not meeting his eyes as I scoop up my glass to take a long drink of wine. “How… lovely to see you again. And how unexpected.”

  Peter turns to me, beaming. I feel the warmth fade from my face, making me shiver.

  My mouth instantly parches, and I take another drink to combat the dryness. Peter motions to the empty seat to my left and George bows again, circling the t
able to sit at my side. I feel myself tense as the steward brings him a plate of food. He still carries the same odor as the day he tried to force himself upon me when I was just a girl, the stale aroma of brandy and cigars. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. My uncle and would-be husband. He’d practically forced the arrangement upon my father, at my mother’s insistence, when she believed my chances of courting Peter had failed. His hair is steel gray, his face thin, wrinkled, and pockmarked. Despite his rank of prince, he is a ruffian. It’s evidenced by the callous way he speaks, by his yellow fingernails, and his general lack of decorum. He is not a man of political prowess or keen knowledge. So why on earth has Peter chosen him to lead the Russian Army?

  Frederick. Of course. Frederick must know he has Peter’s favor, but that might not be enough, should the fickle brat king ever turn against Prussia. Fredrick would need someone loyal to him in high rank, positioned perfectly to seize control of Russian forces, should the need arise.

  As the feast goes on, I push my food around my plate but eat nothing; rather I listen to Peter and George as they speak around me as if I wasn’t even there. I stare at my plate, not looking up or attempting to join in the discussion. Let them forget me. God willing, I might become opaque and fade from the room entirely, leaving only my ears behind that I might know more of their plans.

  “And the new guard is in place?” Peter asks, drawing my interest.

  George speaks around a mouthful of roast duck, juice dripping from his mouth and into the wiry hair of his beard. “Yes, Your Majesty. The Holstein Cuirassier are here and ready to replace the palace guard.”

  “Good,” Peter says, stabbing another small potato. “I will announce the changing of the guard tomorrow. They will be the bodyguard of the Imperial household. And how much better I will sleep under their protection,” he offers with a wink.