The Tsarina's Legacy (4 page)

The camera focused on Reb's painting depicting Falconet's statue of Peter the Great,
The Bronze Horseman
. The wild-eyed horse reared and Peter looked fearsome as a mythical giant, his massive hand outstretched and flat, long fingers splayed. Behind Peter loomed the golden dome of St. Isaac's Cathedral, shrouded by wispy gray clouds. In the foreground, cartoonish versions of the current Russian president and an Orthodox clergyman, both dressed in the robes of ancient Muscovy, held hands and laughed. Peter's horse stepped on a snake. The president and the cleric stepped on the bodies of two young men locked in an embrace.

The painting was meant to protest the law passed by the Russian Duma banning the distribution of so-called gay propaganda.

Closed captioning scrolled along the bottom of the screen:
Russian artist Reb Volkov sentenced to two years' hard labor at Siberian penal colony for hooliganism.

“Such a shame,” the ticket agent murmured in Russian.

Veronica clutched her coat tighter. “I don't understand. They're sending an artist with an international following to prison? I thought the court planned to dismiss the charges.”

“He is brave man,” the ticket agent said quietly. She glanced over her shoulder, as though she suspected someone might overhear their conversation. “And for what?” she said in a low voice. “We are supposed to have freedom of speech. Look at Reb. He is never to survive prison.”

On-screen, Reb reached his thin, pale hand to his ear and tugged the lobe. She was right. Reb Volkov wouldn't last a week in a
gulag
.

“What to do though?” the ticket agent said. “It is fate. It used to be we all keep thoughts to ourselves and government leave us alone. This is how my parents live. This is how my grandparents live. Maybe it is easier.”

Veronica touched the cool bit of silver on her neck: a tiny orthodox cross, the bottom bar slanted down, tarnished from age. It had been a gift from the Dowager Empress Marie to Veronica's Romanov grandmother, before the dowager had sent her away from her family forever when she was still a mere baby. “Someone needs to set things right. Someone needs to help Reb.”

“No one help yet.”

Veronica caressed the cross on the necklace. One of the tiny bars poked the inside of her thumb. Behind her, she heard the girl who had dropped the cookies whimpering while her mother comforted her by humming the theme to
Raiders of the Lost Ark
.

I need a purpose. That will be my purpose.
Veronica wanted to say this out loud but still felt unsure of herself. “If enough people oppose the sentence, the court may reverse its decision.”

“I hope you are right, but I am not optimist.” She handed Veronica her boarding pass and started to smile. A puffy middle-aged couple in matching USC sweatshirts and carrying dark red Russian passports with the Romanov double-headed eagle stamped on the front sidled up next to her. “Safe travels…”

The ticket agent's smile suddenly locked. She glanced at the orthodox cross hanging from the thin chain at the base of Veronica's throat and then regarded Veronica's face more carefully. “Wait.” She reached under the counter and withdrew a flimsy, coffee-stained newspaper. She opened the paper and tapped a fuzzy picture. “This is you.”

Veronica released the cross, recognizing the picture, a headshot from her former employer. The student photographer had insisted on taking it outside in the bright sunlight and Veronica was squinting like an idiot. Somehow that ridiculous picture had made its way into a Russian newspaper? She gave a brief strangled laugh.

“One of flight attendants bring this paper from St. Petersburg yesterday. I see here. The necklace … your grandmother is secret daughter of Tsar Nicholas II. A fifth daughter. They take from Russia because family not want more girls. And then rest killed. It is you, yes?” She thrust the paper in Veronica's face.

Veronica stared at the article, quickly deciphering the Cyrillic alphabet. The article was short and to the point. After nearly one hundred years, the Romanov throne, or at least a ceremonial version of it, might finally be restored.

“You are one? We are to have monarchy as in England?”

She heard the guy behind her whisper: “All of the Romanovs were murdered.”

“No, is truth,” the ticket agent told him. “This woman is new tsarina.” She turned back to Veronica, nodding encouragingly. “It is you who can help Reb. Are you to come to Russia to meet president? The president will like you. He likes pretty ones. He will listen.”

“Hey!” she heard someone from the line behind her shout. “No cutting, asshole!”

“It's only for a minute and then I'll go back,” a man's voice replied.

Once more, Veronica froze. She knew that voice too well, remembered the deep, rolling pleasure she felt when it whispered in her ear.

“I'm here to escort this woman to Russia,” the man announced.

“You're here to do
what
?!”

Veronica abruptly turned to face him, trying to keep her features neutral and fight the unexpected wave of bitterness. Her ex … whatever he was, Michael Karstadt, smiled gamely as he jostled past the other passengers and made his way to the front of the line. His height allowed her to see him over the crowd. He looked handsome as ever, his face clever and sweet at once. But his wavy dark hair was dappled with more gray than she remembered, and he looked pinched around the eyes and fuller under the chin.

Even so, he looked good. But he always looked good. No surprise on that front. He wore a dark gray suit, like he thought he was Don Draper and air travel remained the purview of glamorous jet-setters. As she watched him a surge of electricity shot through her chest. Two voices in her head immediately went to war—one wanted to run to him and the other wanted to run away.

She had no idea why he was at the airport.

“What are you doing?” she asked as he approached.

“Oh, hey! Nice to see you, too.”

“You're going to Russia? The same day as me?”

“I'll explain in a minute, I promise. Can you keep it down?” he asked the ticket agent as he reached Veronica's side. He paused to catch his breath. “Nothing has been made public yet.”

“Not true. This already announced.” She tapped the wrinkled fold of the paper. “Who are you? Another American is to help the Romanov?”

“No,” Veronica said, a slight edge to her voice.

Michael scratched his head and flashed her a sheepish smile. “Actually, yes.” He faced the ticket agent. “Nothing was
supposed
to have been announced yet.”

“And you aren't
supposed
to be here,” Veronica said.

“You're about to make a claim for the Russian throne,” Michael said.

Veronica raised a finger. “An honorary title only. Not an actual claim.”

“Even so, I want to help you. Please let me.”

The little girl with the cookies looked up at them with wide eyes. “Is she Anastasia?”

“Not Anastasia, but close.” Michael lowered his voice to just the right register, dipped his head, and kissed Veronica's hand. “She is the tsarina.”

A few people in line started to clap. Veronica pulled her hand away quickly, but her fingertips tingled. Michael leaned toward her and she took in his warm, familiar scent. For a moment, she was back in a hotel room in New York City, buried under soft sheets, stretching her body, luxuriating in the warmth of his skin against hers, stroking his hair, and nuzzling his neck with her lips. And she felt as though she flew high above the earth, immune to the dreariness of everyday life.

Until she came crashing back down, of course.

“Give them a royal wave,” he said.

“What?” Veronica curled her fingers, palms damp.

“Do you want to do this thing or not?”

Veronica managed a quick twist of one hand.

The ticket agent stood with her back erect. “Anything else you require, just let us know.” She hesitated. “Have you met Prince Harry of England?”

She shook her head. The woman tore a sheet of paper from a notepad and scribbled on it. Michael leaned on the counter to take a look. “If you have a request for the tsarina, you may need to go through the Monarchist Society,” he told her. “Make it official and such.”

“What?” Veronica eyed him warily.

The ticket agent ignored Michael and handed the paper to Veronica. A few digits had been transcribed along with the woman's name, Lyudmilla, in both Cyrillic and English. “If you meet prince, will you give to him? He comes to St. Petersburg, I can show him around city. He won't regret.”

Michael gave Lyudmilla a solemn nod. “That will be her first order of business.”

*   *   *

Outside, jumbo jets taxied down the runway, metal husks gleaming in the intense California sunlight. Inside the palm-tree-lined international terminal, Veronica tried to nibble on a pretzel, but it tasted like cardboard. She gave up and fished around in her purse instead. Her hand ran over the thinly embossed golden American eagle on the cover of her passport and the dark ink on her pale Russian tourist visa.

“You still have everything,” Michael said, absently turning a page of the
Los Angeles Times
. “You checked five minutes ago.”

“It makes me feel better to check.”

“Make sure you don't lose Lyudmilla's number in case we run into Prince Harry.”

“Ha ha.” Veronica zipped her purse shut and fiddled with her phone. A last boarding call barked over the loudspeakers and she jumped in her seat.

“Try to relax, Tsarina,” Michael told her.

“This whole situation is strange enough, and now you appear out of nowhere. Why? Seriously, Michael, why?”

“Maybe I was in the mood. I haven't been to Russia in a few years.”

“The actual reason.”

He set the paper down and raised his hands in defeat. He tried to smile. “Your
abuela
asked me to keep an eye on you.”

Veronica's grandmother. She should have known. “But why didn't you let me know you were coming? You know I wouldn't have…” Her voice trailed off; she was unsure how to complete her thought.

“It all happened at the last minute. Your grandmother figured I could get a visa quickly since I know the ropes. She kept saying, ‘Veronica's going all by herself. What if something happens?'”

“You still could have asked me.”

“She was afraid that if I asked, you would say no.”

Veronica remembered Abuela's angst when she had told her she was going to Russia, the tissue turning over in her hands. “I told her if something happened she could hire Liam Neeson to find me.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but she hired me instead. I was ready to get out of town for a little while anyway.” He turned the page of the paper but kept his gaze trained on Veronica. “Your grandmother loves you more than she loves anyone else in the world. She's worried. And I think she's right to be. You should have someone with you, someone who knows you.”

Veronica took another tasteless bite of the pretzel. Serving as a bodyguard remained deeply embedded in Michael's genes. He was the grandson of servants sworn to protect Nicholas and Alexandra's secret fifth daughter. His grandmother had helped smuggle Veronica's Romanov grandmother out of Russia as a baby before the Revolution.

“You're obviously stressed,” he said. “Talk to me.”

They had parted on friendly terms, and honestly, she missed Michael—more than she cared to admit. But he had lied. He'd told her
he
was the heir to throne. Even though he knew Veronica was the descendant of Nicholas and Alexandra, he'd kept the information from her. He thought he'd been doing the right thing and protecting her, but Veronica's resentment still simmered. She wanted to trust him, but she didn't want to get hurt yet again. She didn't think she could take it.

Over the past year, they'd exchanged friendly texts, but she'd kept her distance. She'd even made a halfhearted profile for an online dating site, although she never clicked with anyone else.

Truth be told, deep in the blur of her other emotions, Veronica felt safe with Michael. She wanted to talk to him. It was a relief to have someone around who knew her well. “Do you think the Monarchist Society actually believes my story?”

Michael folded the newspaper and set it down on the table. His hand hovered over hers briefly before falling in his lap. “Don't call it a story. It's your history. The Society invited you to St. Petersburg. They know you're legit.”

“I haven't been to Russia in nearly twenty years. I don't even teach Russian history anymore.” Since she'd lost her bid for tenure, Veronica's academic days seemed a lifetime away.

“Let me ask you this. What were you doing two nights ago?”

Veronica crumbled the pretzel into pieces in her napkin. Two nights ago, she'd been safely ensconced in her childhood home in Bakersfield, squished in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Traffic from Highway 99 hummed in the distance and trains whistled in the quiet night, as though to emphasize Bakersfield was a stop you made on your way somewhere else. Veronica was a quiet person by nature. She needed an exciting environment so she didn't disappear. “Maybe I went out.”

“You brought home takeout from Chili's.” She shook her head. “Applebee's?”

“Olive Garden.”

“My point is you deserve better. You were meant to be a woman of the world. You have a PhD in Russian history and last time we spoke you were in the admin temp pool at the university in Bakersfield.”

“Not anymore.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.” He tilted his head, appraising her. “Or maybe I'm not sorry.”

“It was data entry. Not exactly my dream job.” Veronica had spent her days shuffling nonsense around endless spreadsheets. She would stare out the skylight above her cubicle, at patches of blue sky and gauzy clouds, wanting to chew her own foot off to escape. She could never shake the feeling that some phantom version of herself was floating around in the world, enjoying the life she had been meant to lead.