The Tsarina's Legacy (28 page)

Catherine rested her hand on his shoulder again. “Very well. But I am holding you to this.” She slanted her fan at Anton. “Once I've attended to this nonsense, I will check on you.”

The guard opened the door, hand extended, ready to escort Catherine to a waiting horse. Grisha wished he could have been the one to offer her a hand and help her out, a service he had offered many times in the past. But then, Catherine was never the sort of woman to need help anyway. She managed well on her own. It was the quality he loved most about her.

“You will see me at my palace and at the ball in your honor,” he said weakly. “To celebrate your triumphs against the Turks, the English, and the Prussians.”

Catherine turned around and cupped Grisha's face in her gentle hands. “I suppose there's no point in trying to convince you otherwise. Very well, Prince. Perhaps this ball will be just the thing to bring you back to this world.” She kissed him lightly and smoothed his hair back away from his face. “I love you, husband. With all my soul.”

Fourteen

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

 

Dr. Herrera will speak on at least one issue confronting the country: the arrest and conviction of Nikolai “Reb” Volkov on charges of hooliganism.

 

ST. PETERSBURG
PRESENT DAY

Irina insisted on a final fitting before the photo shoot for Ekaterina Restaurant. Again Veronica tried to summon Catherine's power, to think of how she might have behaved in Russia today, to draw strength from it. But the gown no longer looked authentic, only tacky and cheaply made. Perhaps it was the poor light, the grayness outside as another storm gathered force and inside as one of the chandeliers malfunctioned and flickered out. The creepy cherubs hovering on the mirror's gilded frame sneered.
Who do you think you are?

Veronica put her head in her hands and rubbed her temples. Elena had a few pins stuck in her mouth as she adjusted the hem of the gown. She removed the pins and gazed up at Veronica, pursing her pink lips. “You are not happy. Skirt is still too long?”

“It's not that.” Veronica scrutinized her reflection. It made no sense to see her own face hovering above that gown. In some ways, it seemed even more surreal than the Photoshopped version Irina had shown her on the plane. A part of her felt ridiculous, like suddenly she'd been enlisted to play Glinda the Good Witch in
The Wizard of Oz
but didn't know any of her lines. “It just doesn't feel the same today.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I don't think so. It's not the gown. It's me.”

She watched Elena's reflection as she stood upright and tried to fluff Veronica's straight hair. “It is most important you are comfortable, Tsarina Nika. You must take good care of yourself so you can help others.”

Elena patted her shoulder, a bare spot underneath the cape. This is what it would have been like to have a daughter. She would have loved having a daughter. She smiled at Elena in the mirror, liking the feeling, the twinge of sadness underneath soon forgotten as her thoughts turned to Laurent. She had received only one text from Michael since she'd seen him yesterday at the hotel:

IRINA DOESN'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT LAURENT, SO I CALLED YOUR ABUELA. LAURENT SENT HER AN E-MAIL SAYING HE IS COMING TO ST. PETERSBURG. I CONFIRMED WITH MY MOTHER. LAURENT WANTS TO MEET WITH YOU. HE'S WORRIED ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE DOING. HE'S WORRIED ABOUT THE IMPLICATIONS. WILL YOU TALK TO HIM?

The thought of the message still made her angry. First, her long-lost father, suddenly appearing out of nowhere to inject himself in her life. That took some nerve. And then Michael's tone. All business. She didn't know what exactly she had expected from him, but the stiff formality of the message made her want to throw her phone across the room.

After another ten minutes had passed—and she hadn't responded—she received another text from Michael:

I'M SORRY I GOT UPSET EARLIER. ONLY PLEASE REMEMBER I'M WORRIED ABOUT YOU. I PROMISED YOUR GRANDMOTHER I WOULD KEEP YOU SAFE. THAT'S WHY I'M HERE.

“Not too much makes sense to me right now,” she told Elena.

Irina clamored into the office on heels. Sasha trailed after her, smiling and affable as ever. Another man followed Irina as well, short and dark haired in a pressed shirt and slacks, head shyly bent, carrying a long garment bag.

“Now that you are set for the photo shoot, we need to think about the press conference. As I suspected”—Irina waved her hand contemptuously at Veronica's open suitcase and the clothes hanging from a rack—“this looks like the wardrobe of a second-rate office manager.”

“Gee, thanks,” Veronica said.

“Not to worry. This only makes the fairy tale all the better. We've found something of which even Catherine herself would approve, were she living today of course.”

The man handed Sasha the garment bag and retreated into a dark corner near the washroom. Sasha unzipped the bag, revealing an elegant lilac skirt and matching blazer trimmed in silver: exactly the sort of thing Irina would wear, but in Veronica's size. “What do you think?”

“You shouldn't have.”

Irina regarded her with cool judgment. “You don't like it? I prefer neutrals, but we thought the color suitable. Purple is the color of royalty, after all.” She took the blazer and held it next to Veronica. “Are you afraid you've gained weight and it won't fit? Elena can easily make a few tucks here and there.”

Elena huffed at that and Veronica gritted her teeth. “I meant you shouldn't have bought this for me because I can't pay for it.”

“Oh, is that all?” Irina shrugged.

Veronica glanced at Elena. “What do you think?”

Elena ran her hand over the silky fabric approvingly. “I can see Yulia Tymoshenko wearing something like this.”

“I don't know that you need to be so generous.” Veronica tried to summon a diplomatic way to tell Irina she didn't want to be obligated to either the Society in general or Irina in particular. “I'm sure something I brought will be appropriate for the press conference.”

“It's nothing,” Sasha offered. “You're going to help us bring in so much money.”

Veronica wheeled around to face Sasha, narrowing her eyes. “Really? That's the main reason I'm here then?”

Sasha was still smiling but hunched his shoulders. She'd rattled him, at least a little. He even looked slightly abashed. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“What did you mean?”

“He doesn't mean anything,” Irina said, tossing her hair back and glaring at Sasha.

“Do you mean I'll have more ‘branding' opportunities?” Veronica realized then how much she hated the word “branding.” It made her feel like a prize cow. “More photo shoots?”

“He didn't mean you personally. He didn't even mean ‘us' in terms of the Society, but ‘us' in terms of Russia. Tourism. Celebrity. Promotions. The possibilities are endless.”

Sasha gave Irina an apologetic shrug and her gaze became tender once more.

“You should look your best regardless,” Irina told Veronica. “And we are in a position to help you. Let us do that.”

The man who had entered with Irina and Sasha emerged from the shadows, head still low, so Veronica couldn't see his face. He approached her, clicking his tongue between his teeth at something on the dress. At last he met her gaze and in a low voice said: “For what it is worth, I think this suits Your Majesty.”

Veronica stiffened. She would have recognized his blue eyes anywhere.

“May I have a few minutes,” she said slowly, taking care with her voice, so she wouldn't give away her guest's identity when he was so clearly trying to hide it, “to try on the outfit?”

“Fine. Good idea.” Irina took Sasha by the upper arm and practically dragged him out of the room, saying: “I told you not to mention money. It upsets her.” She didn't notice that the man with the garment bag hadn't followed them out.

After Sasha shut the door behind them, Elena looked up, surprised, and asked, “Reb Volkov? I thought you were under house arrest.”

Veronica waved her arms to indicate Elena should keep her voice down.

“How come they did not see you?” Elena added, gesturing in Irina and Sasha's direction.

“The noble is concerned only with herself and the handsome man lives in his own world.” He turned to Veronica. “We need to talk.”

“I'm supposed to take pictures.”

Reb eyed the gown with obvious distaste. “This is why you came to Russia? To become a trinket? A tool for the noble pigs and their capitalist masters?”

“She looks lovely!” Elena cried.

“Why don't you wear the dress then?”

“I am not the tsarina.”

“The selfish nobles only want a pretty face to help their cause. Yours will do as well as any other. They don't care about this one's connections to the Romanov oppressors.”

“This is not true,” Elena said. “They care about Nika's family.”

“Do they?”

Veronica was thinking about everything that had happened since she arrived in St. Petersburg. Had Irina even once asked her to take a DNA test? To talk further about her family? To have the letter from Empress Alexandra speaking of her secret daughter authenticated? It seemed like all she cared about was having someone who fit the gown well enough, who seemed like enough of a Romanov. Veronica looked in the mirror again. Maybe Catherine would finally make her presence known.

Veronica felt nothing, only knew she was over Irina and her self-aggrandizing fluff.

“To hell with this.” Veronica unhooked the clasp and slipped the cape off her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Elena cried. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Tell Irina I'm not doing the photo shoot,” Veronica said. “But I will be here for the press conference. I'd tell her myself, but I want to make sure Reb gets back to his flat safely and I don't trust Irina.”

Reb tapped his ankle. “I'll make sure this won't betray me. I've stayed within two kilometers of my flat. We'll remain nearby. But you? Little Miss Romanov Heiress? Dmitry and I want a word.”

*   *   *

Reb wore a jacket too light for the weather. The cold rain had dissolved into a wet and heavy mist with traces of snowflakes. Frustration chilled his voice. “Imperialist scum.”

Veronica scrutinized the monument before them, set on rounded steps like the curved seating in an amphitheater, swamped in a slushy mix of mud and ice. Atop the pedestal, Catherine the Great stared straight ahead, not deigning to look down at her loyal subjects. Catherine was encircled by her most prominent advisers. The tranquil Princess Dashkova read a book, representing her position as the head of the Russian Academy. Among the men, Veronica recognized Prince Potemkin, his boot resting atop a limp turban. Her gaze lingered on his proud expression, and yet somehow she thought if the statue could move, he would lift his foot.

Reb gestured toward the sad little turban. “A conqueror. Disgusting.”

“This is supposed to help?” Veronica asked, switching to English as she turned to face Dmitry. “This is your big pep talk?”

“Pep talk?” Dmitry said.

“You brought me here to see Catherine, to inspire me, and then I have to listen to this.”

Dmitry cast a warning glance in Reb's direction.

“Fine.” Scowling, Reb reached into a leather bag he'd brought with him and withdrew a thick notepad and a stubby charcoal pencil. Catherine and Potemkin may have been imperialists, but that didn't stop him from sketching the lines of the statue in broad strokes.

“I'm going to help. I told both of you already.”

“We only want to remind you we are here and to see if there is anything else we could do to support you. Even Catherine had advisers.”

“Advisers! Dima is so modest.” Reb looked up from his sketch. “He orchestrated everything. Otherwise you would remain the tool of that silly noblewoman.”

“Irina's focus has always been money,” Dmitry admitted. “It is starting to worry me. That is not what you want though. I know this. I told Reb you would abandon the photo shoot with only little nudge. And I was right.”

“Yes, yes.” Reb waved his hand in the air and continued his sketch.

“People in the West do not fully understand what happens in Russia,” Dmitry said. “I think you are right person to speak. You can draw attention we need.”

“I'll speak at the press conference,” Veronica said. “I'll speak out against the propaganda law and other civil rights violations. I'll support the vodka boycott.”

“Look.” Dmitry motioned behind them. Veronica turned around. Two long rows of benches faced one another in the square. They seemed innocuous enough. Veronica shook her head and shrugged. Dmitry motioned again and she looked closer. On the side of the bench nearest them, she read a tiny graffiti message in Cyrillic.

Burn the gays in ovens.

Veronica shivered. “I saw something similar by
The Bronze Horseman
.”

“That tag has been here two weeks,” Reb said. “The police will not remove it.”

“The problem is not only laws,” Dmitry said. “It is violence, lynchings, and everything between private companies and government.”

“Russian bureaucracy,” she said. “I understand.”

“Do you understand the extent of it? If a bank makes a loan to gay couple … closed. If a university accepts gay faculty member … no funding. If landlord rents to gay person … suddenly building does not meet codes. This is how they go about it. They want us out of country.”

“Out of Holy Russia,” Reb added bitterly.

Veronica couldn't look at the graffiti any longer. Instead, she looked up at Catherine.

“What do you think she would have done?” Dmitry asked.