The Morning Star (28 page)

Dr. Badmaev smiled at us both kindly after he examined George. “I am afraid the air in St. Petersburg is too cold and damp for you, Your Imperial Highness. A drier, warmer climate would be much more suitable.”

“Such as the Crimea?” I asked.

“Perhaps even farther south,” the Tibetan said as he began to pack his instruments back into his black bag. “I would suggest
the Caucasus or even northern Africa. Algiers is nice this time of year.”

George took my hand in his. “Wherever you wish, Katiya,” he said quietly.

“Can you tell us exactly what is wrong with him, Doctor?” I asked. All along I’d had my own suspicions, but I prayed I wasn’t right.

“Oh, definitely. The wound the grand duke received from his duel with the crown prince of Montenegro continues to heal slowly. You yourself saw that his cold light seems to gather around his chest. But that should improve with time. The lung fever has me more concerned. I fear it may be consumption.”

Dr. Badmaev could not have given a more depressing diagnosis. I knew doctors in Germany and France were studying the mycobacteria that caused tuberculosis and were rushing to find a cure. Papa had asked Dr. Pavlov at the Institute in St. Petersburg to consider the disease a priority as well. But there was still so much modern medicine did not understand. Dr. Badmaev had given my husband a death sentence. I pulled George’s hand to my lips and kissed it.

“I suppose we should tell my parents,” he said gloomily.

“I’ll go and send for them,” I said, getting up in a daze.

Dr. Badmaev patted me on the shoulder as I walked past him. “Do keep me informed of your arrangements, Your Imperial Highness. We will find a way of continuing your lessons. There are Tibetan herbs your husband can take that will ease his symptoms, but we cannot completely cure the disease.”

The tsar and the empress refused to believe Dr. Badmaev’s diagnosis, but they were willing to send us south to the Caucasus for the dry air. “There is a Romanov villa in the mountains
where you can stay,” the empress said. “It’s very peaceful there. Perhaps you’ll be able to return in a few months.”

Each grand duke and duchess had an opinion on the best warm climate for George. The Mikhailovichi branch had grown up in Tbilisi, where Grand Duke Mikhail Nikolayevich had been viceroy for many years. Militza thought we should return to Cairo, of course. Miechen and Grand Duke Vladimir, who were fond of gambling, praised the merits of the French Riviera.

“There is a school of medicine in Nice,” George said, his chin on my shoulder and his arms around my waist as we looked at the globe in his father’s study.

“Dr. Bokova mentioned the university in Marseille as well,” I said, turning around in his arms. One of the very first Russian women to become a doctor as well as a dear friend, she had agreed with the Tibetan’s diagnosis and recommended that we travel to a city where we’d be close to the leading doctors and researchers. But I knew George needed someplace quiet.

Dr. Bokova also told me I should take care of my own health. “Tuberculosis is extremely contagious,” she had warned me. “If you remain with your young husband, you will eventually contract the disease as well.”

I said nothing to George of this conversation as we mulled over our choices. Together we would defeat the disease, or die.

October 1891, Marseille, France

“Honestly, Katiya, must you argue with your professors every week?” George asked me. “This is the third time this month.”

I sighed as I threw my books down onto my desk in our shared study. Our small but fashionable villa sat high on a rocky cliff outside of Marseille, looking down at the sapphire-blue waters of the Mediterranean. We were close enough to the city that the university was only a short carriage ride away and visitors could reach us easily. In the few short months since we’d moved to France, most of our family in Russia had come. My parents, George’s parents, George’s brother Nicholas, his aunt Miechen and uncle Vladimir. My step-aunt Zina and cousin Dariya. Even the expatriates of the family, my
Leuchtenberg uncles, had dropped in on us for dinner several times.

I still could not believe we were really here. I was officially a university student. My dreams of becoming a doctor were finally about to come true. My first day of attending lectures I’d sat in awe of the professor, too overwhelmed with emotion to even take notes. The sound of the renowned instructor’s voice faded to the background as I inhaled the scents of the dusty books and chalk and felt the smooth aged wooden desk beneath my fingertips. I was in a large semicircular room, surrounded by mostly young men, all solemnly scribbling notes as the gray-haired man in front of us droned on about scientific theory. Only one other female joined me in this class; she was an older woman who I later discovered was a midwife and was auditing the lectures.

I quickly caught up to my fellow students over the next few weeks, saying a silent prayer of thanks to my father and his enormous medical library at home. I had been more than adequately prepared for my studies at the university. But the practical knowledge I’d learned from Dr. Badmaev, as well as some of the more spiritual aspects of Eastern medicine, seemed to be at odds with what the European scientists were teaching.

George was right; it seemed as if I were constantly antagonizing my professors with something Badmaev had taught me: a technique or a medical preparation that worked just as well as, if not better than, traditional Western medicine. And then there were the stubborn old men who still did not approve of higher education for women. Most of the younger professors were supportive; some were even married to female
mathematicians and chemists. But members of the faculty who’d been there the longest shared the mind-set of my father-in-law: women belonged at home in the nursery and in the kitchen, not in a classroom.

George rubbed his forehead with a sigh, but he still managed a smile for me. He looked more tired this afternoon, I thought worriedly. “What was it this time?” he asked.

I made tea for both of us. The elegant silver samovar that sat in the corner of the sunshine-filled study had been a wedding present from my parents. This was our favorite room in the house. I would study my lecture notes from the university while George concentrated on his plans for an observatory. “My anatomy professor insists that I not be allowed to dissect the male cadavers,” I said. “He thinks it would be most improper!”

My husband’s eyes twinkled in amusement as he looked up from his star charts. “And did you tell him you were already well versed in dismemberment?”

I set a silver-handled glass of tea down on his desk and kissed him on the cheek before sinking into a chair nearby. “I do not think that would have helped my case.”

“You will have other opportunities,” George said, before succumbing to a fit of coughing.

Alarmed, I rushed to his side as he pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket. With relief, I noted there was no blood this time. We were doing everything we could for him. The open-air treatment, advocated by most European doctors, offered the most hope for restoring George’s strength. He still had the occasional fever, and frequently I woke in the night to find him sweating and restless, with a rapid, weak pulse. But as the weeks
went on, his appetite had been improving slowly, and the fresh sea air seemed to bring the color back to his cheeks.

He pushed back from his desk and got up, pulling away from me. “How do you stand this, Katiya? You are married to a corpse.”

“You mustn’t say that,” I said, following him to the open window. I leaned my cheek against his back as he stared out at the sea. His breathing was ragged. “We will keep you strong until we can find the right medicine.” Back in St. Petersburg, Dr. Badmaev had pored over his
Materia Medica
, and he’d mailed me packages of every healing herb or root that he thought might help.

George had been good-natured about it at first, agreeing to sample even the most foul-smelling of our infusions and tinctures. But he was growing despondent. Not even his study of the stars could pull him out of his gloom.

When Papa had first suggested he work on plans for an observatory, George’s spirits had seemed to lighten. He had always preferred astronomy and astrology to any of the other subjects the mages taught him during his time in Paris. George began corresponding with a charming French scientist, Camille Flammarion, who wrote both thought-provoking articles for the
Journal of Astronomy
and fantastical novels about life on other worlds. He was interested in spiritism and reincarnation, and while Dr. Flammarion had not become initiated as one of the mages in the Order of the Black Lily, he was familiar with many of its members.

Our long-term plans were to build a palace in the mountains of Georgia after I finished my degree. George thought it would be an excellent place for an observatory, and I could build a
small clinic where I would treat the villagers. We both had relatives there who were eager for us settle in the dry, mountainous country. I prayed the sea air of Marseille would keep George healthy long enough for me to finish school.

That night we were having dinner with Grand Duke and Grand Duchess Vladimir, who had come to the Riviera to gamble. Miechen looked regal, in a dark violet dress that matched her eyes. The Koldun looked younger and healthier than he had in months. He went straight to our small liquor cabinet and poured himself a tumbler of vodka, toasting our new home and new life.

Candelabras illuminated our dining table, perched atop a Persian rug laid out on the terrace. The table had come from Denmark and was set with the finest china from Russia. We dined among a lush jungle of potted ferns and palms. The breeze carried the scent of jasmine from a nearby garden.

We’d taken a very small staff with us to Marseille: only my Anya and George’s valet, a cook, and a footman. The cook, who was thankfully not one of the fae, had been trained in France, and every night we enjoyed the most delicious food, even if George found some of it too rich for his stomach. He would have preferred to exist on the fresh seafood and fruits and vegetables that we could find in the city marketplace. But our cook insisted upon preparing roasts of beef and poultry, lamb and pork chops, duck breasts and veal cutlets, following the protein-rich diet the leading French doctors advocated. All appetizing, but we missed the simple brown bread and sour cream blini of home.

The conversation at dinner that night made us both homesick. Princess Aline, the wife of Grand Duke Pavel, had died
during childbirth in September, leaving the grieving widower with a sickly premature son and a daughter who was not yet two. The whole imperial family was devastated. Pavel’s brother Sergei and his wife, Grand Duchess Ella, were taking care of the children while the widower mourned. Under the table, George took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back.

“It’s time for the two of you to think about having children soon, no?” Grand Duke Vladimir said, digging in to his lobster.

Miechen said nothing but looked from George to me with her shimmering gaze. I could feel my cheeks burning. George calmly said, “When Katiya is finished with school,” and gave my fingers another affectionate squeeze.

The Koldun shrugged, but Miechen smiled. “I admire your ambition, my dear. But is the university degree absolutely necessary? Of course, there’s no limit to what one can learn through tutors and books. The university climate can be dangerous these days. They say the classrooms are full of revolutionaries.”

“I keep out of the politics, Your Imperial Highness,” I said. Of course, I knew of the revolutionary ideas that were probably discussed in Miechen’s own salon in St. Petersburg. She attracted the most elite of the Russian academia to her palace to share ideas and discuss the latest advancements in science and the arts. She and the grand duke were great art patrons but were always eager to host the latest scientific celebrity at the Vladimir Palace as well.

“Uncle Vladimir, have you had any luck with information on the sword?” George was trying to change the subject. But I knew discussing the Morning Star would cause just as much awkwardness as discussing our breeding plans. The Koldun’s face turned red.

“No, and I don’t expect to discover anything useful, Georgi. You and Katiya should forget all this nonsense about giving away the sword. It’s safest right here with you.”

“Think about what you’d be giving up anyway,” Miechen added. “Right now the Grigori protect the tsar and his immediate family. You risk putting your father in danger again. And his heir.”

Not that the Koldun nor his wife had any true concern for Nicholas. Now that Konstantin Pavlovich, the common threat to all, was gone, the Dark and Light Courts had returned to their subtle and petty bickering. Militza still chafed under Maman’s gentle handling of the St. Petersburg blood drinkers. The wolf-folk had retreated to Moscow and everyone left the mages of the Inner Circle to do whatever it was they did to keep St. Petersburg safe. The members of the Order of St. Lazarus patrolled the palaces but waited for direct orders from me.

And the Grigori, I thought with a long sigh, still waited as well. Protecting both the Morning Star and the Talisman of Isis was a heavy burden. I kept the talisman around my neck at all times, refusing to take it off even to sleep. George had balked at this but understood. If there was a way I could destroy both talisman and sword, I would do it. I wanted to free all of the creatures under my control.