The Tsarina's Legacy (14 page)

“Have you made plans for the coronation ceremony?”

“Are you planning to investigate the disappearance of the Romanov jewels?”

Veronica bobbed her head like an idiot, breathing deeply and drawing in the frosty moisture in the air. She noticed a woman in the back, holding her phone high but not shouting questions at Veronica. She wore a fitted fuchsia raincoat over her slender figure and a matching
hijab
framed her delicate features. When she looked at Veronica, her eyes came into intense focus behind the lenses of cat's-eye glasses with thick frames.

“Is it true you plan to host a dinner party with William and Kate at the Winter Palace?” another reporter asked.

“What?” Veronica threw him a puzzled look. Unfortunately, he chose that exact moment to take a photo and she cringed. She must have looked exactly how she felt right now, awkward and out of her league. She shook her head, blinking away the spots.

“Hey!” Michael told the guy. “Can you at least warn her first?”

“Dr. Herrera, my name is Anya and I write for the
Moscow Review
.” The woman in the fuchsia raincoat and head scarf spoke in clear Russian. “Is it true you are related to Nicholas II?”

Veronica almost said, “That is the story,” but then she glanced at Michael and remembered what he had told her back in Los Angeles. It wasn't a story. It was her history. “Yes.”

“Do you plan to make a claim for the Romanov throne?”

Veronica was trying to think of a more sophisticated way to answer “yes and no” when Dmitry stepped in front of her.

“Dr. Herrera appears to be a Romanov relation. That's all we are prepared to say at this time. And her title would be strictly ceremonial.”

The reporter, Anya, gave Dmitry a half-smile and a wink. She tapped a few notes on her phone. “A Potemkin at her side. I suppose this is a tradition.”

“Hello, Anya,” he said quietly.

Anya adjusted her glasses and her full, rosy lips parted in a smile. “I came all the way from Moscow. When do I get my interview?”

“Not now.” Dmitry motioned toward the street and began to descend the staircase once more. Veronica and Michael followed.

“Can you at least tell me whether or not she will help Reb?” Anya said. “I think he'll agree to meet with her at least.”

Veronica stopped. “I could meet with Reb Volkov?”

Anya nodded. “As long as you agree to give me your first one-on-one interview.”

Dmitry turned to face Anya. “That is supposed to go through me.”

Veronica tried to listen to what they were saying, but a wiry male reporter had sidled in close to her. Veronica prepared to smile and pose for another picture. But then she realized he wasn't looking at her. He raised his phone and tapped Michael's back.

“Mikhail Karstadt?” The reporter took a picture and then lowered his phone to smooth back a few strands of greasy blond hair from his waxy forehead. The reporter held his phone closer to Michael's face. “You are the imposter? The one who claimed to be the heir?”

Michael stopped short.

“Is this another scam?” the reporter asked. “Do you have a comment?”

“No. No comment. No.”

“It is not small thing to impersonate member of royal family. Why are you here with latest Romanov heiress?”

Michael turned to Veronica. “I'm sorry.”

So that was why the floor attendant back at the hotel recognized Michael. Michael had lied, but only because he thought it would protect her. Veronica hadn't realized this would come back to haunt him once they were in Russia. She had a sudden flashback to Michael's home in Los Angeles, how good it had felt to curl up with him on the couch, his chow panting at their feet. She couldn't bear to see him hurt because of her.

“Leave him alone,” she snapped at the reporter. “You don't know the whole story.”

“Would you like to tell it to me?”

Dmitry leaned in to pick up on the conversation. He put a hand on Veronica's arm and shook his head. “No, she would not.”

“You don't need to defend me,” Michael told her. “I'll be fine.”

He walked down the steps, hands stuffed in the pockets of his own new wool coat. He had forgotten to cut off one of the tags and it hung loose from his sleeve.

“I will never let anyone hurt you,” she said quietly, though she knew Michael could no longer hear her. “And I'll try not to either.”

Seven

ST. PETERSBURG
MARCH 1791

“You've lived in the capital for years now,” Grisha said, “and this is the first you've seen of this magnificent monument?”

Anton glanced behind at the horses standing patiently in front of Grisha's carriage while the driver took a quick sip from a cheap leather flask. Anton ran his hands up and down his arms. The tip of his nose was pink and he shivered in the frigid evening mist. Grisha made a mental note to ensure the boy had a heavier coat by morning.

“I have heard of the monument, Your Highness. But I've avoided it until now. It's too frightening.”

“Frightening?” Grisha chomped on an apple he'd found in the pocket of his greatcoat. The vast square around them remained strangely quiet, save for a woman with a bright red muslin scarf wrapped around her neck who passed them, trudging through the snow, pulling a whimpering hound dog in a sled behind her. Grisha smiled at the woman and raised his apple in greeting, but she passed without so much as a hello.

“I heard an old man say the horse comes to life at night and chases people.”

Grisha laughed and tossed the apple core into the snow. He wished he could show the boy more of the city. He wanted to tell Anton not to believe any nonsense about a ghostly horse, but then the pasha's face appeared in his mind, a mere apparition and yet very real. Such a fragile line existed between this world and the next. The imaginations of St. Petersburg's drunkards were notoriously grand, but for all Grisha knew, the tale of a phantom horse had merit. Considering the number of men who had died to forge the new capital from the marsh, he could well imagine their anger forcing bronze to life. A poet was sure to write of it one day.

“Even so, perhaps you might take a moment to savor the sight,” Grisha said. “One of your empress's greatest accomplishments. This is our new Russia. Grandeur and enlightenment. Fearless expansion and unparalleled beauty.”

Reluctantly, Anton threw his head back to take in the wild-eyed, rearing steed and then the grim countenance of Peter the Great. His long arm stretched forward, pointing to the marshland on the other side of the river, where his capital would first rise forth despite everyone's objections. They had told him it was all wrong: the northerly location, the rampant disease, the abysmal weather.

Grisha regarded Peter's head atop the statue, his familiar mustache and the garland of laurels meant to make him a true “caesar.” Peter had stayed firm in his choice. And so here they stood, a short distance from the shores of Europe but far from the central heart of their own country. Grisha agreed with the naysayers. He thought it a mistake to locate the capital away from the core of the Russian soul—Moscow. Nonetheless, he admired Peter's resolve. Peter was quite the bon vivant in his time, despite the stern military bearing. He'd been fond of good food, intrigue, clever inventions, lovely women, and perhaps even a lovely young man or two if palace whispers were to be believed.

He wondered if he might share the story of the horse coming to life with Catherine. Of course, if he caught her in a foul mood, the image might rub her the wrong way.
What are you really trying to say? Do my own people fear me?

“And why would the horse bother to chase anyone?” Grisha asked, chewing on his thumbnail.

“They say the souls of those who died making the city reanimate the beast.”

Grisha forced his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat. His thumbnail was inflamed and aching. He located a few random jewels, as well as a radish for later. He rolled a small ruby between his thumb and forefinger to keep his mind from its darker impulses. The words of the ghostly pasha rolled through his mind. White demon.
Giaour.
Revenge had reanimated his old foe as well. Only the construction of a Russian mosque would soothe the restless pasha's spirit.

“Any further word on Zubov since we were last at the palace?” Grisha asked. “Any rumors making their way round the kitchen? Other women in his life?”

Anton lowered his face and kicked at a pile of dirty snow. “None that are spoken of, Your Highness. But I did hear he has been seen with the Grand Duke Paul.”

“Any word on what they say?”

Anton shook his head. “I suppose that is for us to consider and guess.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Grisha caught the eye of his carriage driver, who quickly capped his flask and took the reins of the horses.

“May I ask a question, Your Highness?” Anton stepped closer. “What's different about Zubov? Why is he so vexing? You've gotten along well with the empress's previous favorites.”

Grisha thought back to the man who had captured Catherine's heart earlier in her reign: her great favorite, the handsome Grigory Orlov. He and his brothers had bothered Grisha, but of course he hadn't said anything. He still couldn't. The Orlovs had brought Catherine to her throne. The men who followed Grisha into Catherine's bed later in her life had all been young, sweet faced, even-tempered, and willing to learn, to treat Grisha as a father figure as the empress wished. They would never have objected to any project of his.

“Platon Alexandrovich is overly ambitious,” he told Anton.

“You are ambitious. So is the empress. You taught me ambition isn't a bad thing.”

“It's not his ambition, but the potential fruit of that ambition. He is vain, superficial.”

“The empress cannot see this in Zubov herself?”

“The empress is aging. As we age our vision clouds. We rely on the help of others to see the truth.” Without thinking, Grisha reached up to the space in his breast pocket, under his greatcoat, where he had placed a few of Catherine's old letters, bound together with a velvet ribbon.

“We should be on our way to your appointment, then. You said you would pull the ‘tooth' once and for all, remember?” Anton chuckled.

“Yes, yes.” The laughter that had come so easily a few minutes before now felt a lifetime away. He was sinking. A voice rang in his head:
“Still planning a march to Constantinople, crusader? Is that why you delay?”

Grisha spun around, expecting to see the pasha. But the voice died in the wind like a candle snuffed between two fingers. He rubbed his forehead and felt a trace of perspiration.

Anton touched Grisha's sleeve. “I'm sure Zubov would not mind if you waited to see him.”

“I am quite sure he would not mind at all,” Grisha said, suddenly cold and wanting back inside the waiting carriage. “That is why I must go now.”

*   *   *

“I'm surprised you showed your face here again after the stunt you pulled at Catherine's supper the other night,” Zubov told him. “I was certain she'd have you barred from the palace. Or at least sent back to your negotiations with the Turkish devils.”

“It seems I can still make it past the guards,” Grisha said. “Perhaps they are not so selective when it comes to admitting visitors to see you.”

Grisha nibbled on a bitter radish. It kept him from his thumbnail and besides, he liked the effect the spectacle might have on Zubov. Sure enough, he caught Zubov giving him a look of thinly veiled disgust. Grisha wondered if the boy's monkey would try to steal the radish, and then realized the creature wasn't in the room. He hoped Catherine had not turned into a simian caretaker. She had far more important things to do with her time.

“Besides, I only spoke the truth to the empress,” Grisha added.

Zubov adjusted the cravat at his neck. He smelled of too much cologne and hair powder. “Catherine never can stay angry with you for long. I wouldn't have bothered to take a meeting with you at all except if I refuse you will tattle.”

Grisha rolled his head to take stock of the room. Zubov may have agreed to see Grisha only to avoid Catherine's tears, but he had insisted on meeting in not his own study but a coldly elaborate receiving room: marble floors, mosaicked ceiling, and long mirrors around the walls reflecting their images in multiplicity. He supposed the boy thought this ostentatious display reinforced his power, that he could receive in such a majestic setting, as though he were a consort rather than a mere favorite. Likewise, Zubov wore a diamond-seamed coat with silver braiding and red boots that cut off at his ankles, showing off his fine silk leggings and the bulging muscles in his calves.

Grisha may have had a diamond or two sewn into his own coat. Nonetheless, he thought it all a tad desperate. “You dismissed my project without the empress's knowledge,” he said. “You acted as a ruler rather than a subject. If you feel confident in this role, why shouldn't it be known? I believe in transparency.”

Zubov took a seat and leaned back in the chair, tapping his fingers on his knee. “Transparency? I find that difficult to swallow.”

Grisha bit into the radish with aggression but smiled placidly. “How so?”

“After your little display at Catherine's supper, I did some asking around about you.”

“I am well-known enough. Had you no interest in politics before securing your apartments in the Winter Palace?”

“People say you're not known for your plain truths. Take Catherine's grand tour of your precious southern provinces, for example.”

Grisha knew what was to come. His free hand curled in and out of a fist.

“We have all heard the stories. You created happy villages out of cheap plywood, paying peasants to wave and smile when the empress rode past them with her entourage.” Zubov did a quick imitation that made him look like a marionette in a vulgar French comedy. “You took advantage of poor Catherine's bad eyes. And what of when she left? Crumbling stacks of nothing. But I did not realize there is actually a name for your creations: Potemkin villages.”