The Tsarina's Legacy (7 page)

“Thank you,” Catherine said curtly to the guard. “If the prince's boy is here, it must be time for him to leave. We only need a few more minutes.”

As they left, she added, “You talk of this mosque as a legacy project. You have many good years before you, Prince. You might serve me best by negotiating the new terms of peace with the Turks. You are the only man with the talent to do so.”

The elderly greyhound, the Thomassin, shifted his weight, ears alert, and growled.

“Tom!” Catherine scolded. “What has gotten into you? The prince is an old friend. You recognized him only a few minutes ago.” She looked at Grisha. “Some of the philosophes believe animals are far more perceptive than we understand. Perhaps your words troubled him.”

Grisha knew better. They were no longer alone. Catherine's dog had detected an otherworldly presence, the faint change of temperature and electricity in the air. “It's nothing,” Grisha muttered. “He's old and grouchy. Aren't we all? I've taken too much of your time.”

“Take the book at least,” she said gently.

He nodded, snatched
Candide
from her desk, and backed away from the room, determined to bribe the guard outside so he might gain quicker access to the empress next time.

“I'm sorry if I've upset you,” he told her. “I only needed to voice my opinion.”

“Thank you, husband.” She returned to her desk and shuffled a few papers, still not looking up. “But in this case I'd best keep my own counsel. You look tired. Go home and rest.”

Her words were like daggers. If he was no longer of use to her, he was no longer of use to this world. “You need me here more than ever. Your legacy in this world is threatened. Your affair with this boy has addled your brain. You need the guidance of a real man.”

She rose slowly to her feet, the open sleeves of her gown drooping, her cheeks blazing red. Grisha's heart soared. Perhaps passion lingered between them yet.

“Peter the Great's blood may not run in my veins,” she said coldly. “But make no mistake. I am his heir. And you are my subject to do as I command.”

She was still the sovereign. She could have ordered him to Siberia had she so wished. For a frightful moment he thought she might. “My apologies,
matushka
,” he said quickly. “I suffer from ill digestion and a headache. It sets my nerves on edge.”

“See that you get a good night's sleep then.”

“Always as you say,
matushka
.” He bowed low once more.

“In the meantime, I have work to do.” She pointed to the door. “Get out.”

*   *   *

Anton scuttled to keep pace with Grisha as they headed down the drafty corridor outside Catherine's study. Grisha gnawed frantically on his thumbnail and nearly tripped on a yowling palace tomcat stalking a mouse.

They were being followed. He knew it. He had known as soon as Catherine's dog started growling, but he would not let Anton notice anything amiss. No need to frighten the boy. Grisha began to hum to himself, a little tune by Herr Mozart that pleased him. He stopped abruptly, reached into his greatcoat, and withdrew Catherine's copy of
Candide
. “A gift from the empress,” he said, pushing the book to Anton's chest.

The boy's countenance remained solemn, but his hand shook. “It is too much.”

“Nonsense,” Grisha said. “A monarch has a divine obligation to educate young minds.”

Anton opened the cover and squinted at Voltaire's scrawny signature. “My skills in the French language are too weak for this complicated work.”

Grisha glanced at the inscription scribbled in French but couldn't make out the words either. Voltaire had always been too bold by half with Catherine and had no doubt made some lewd comment veiled as wit. Such a reference might shock Anton, but then he was of the age now where he could use a shock or two to ready his path to manhood. “We'll find a French dictionary. Now run and make sure our horses are ready.”

Anton nodded and scurried ahead. Grisha waited until the clacking of the boy's shoes against the tile faded. A pair of bonneted laundresses carrying a basket of linen passed. Grisha smiled and bowed, looking up while he did so to wink. The girls giggled, dipped their heads, and shuffled past him.

“When will you speak to me, crusader?” The pasha spoke in the quiet, clever way he did whenever he visited Grisha.

“I will not speak to you here,” Grisha said in a low voice. He knew the pasha was merely a figment, conjured from addled memories and imagination, and yet he responded to the apparition as he would to any earthbound man. Grisha feared a random servant might hear and pass word of his lunacy to Catherine. “I require privacy.”

“The construction of a mosque in Old Russia was to be a part of your legacy.”

Grisha remembered the first time he was briefed on the once-great leader of the Ottomans: Ghazi Hassan-Pasha … the so-called Turkish “crocodile” of the sea. He looked much the same now as he did when his earthly life ended, only the sharp lines of his features seemed vague and softer around the edges. Silken robes were draped over his wiry, muscular shoulders and he wore blue pantaloons and a jacket with white sashes crossing his chest, in the mode of the Ottoman court. His high white turban stood proudly atop his head. The pasha's face was still fierce, even though Grisha's campaigns had destroyed him. A tamed lion had followed the man faithfully throughout his life. Grisha hoped the beast rested peacefully now.

“The mosque is the only way Allah will be satisfied when he reviews your crimes.” A footman headed toward Catherine's study with a fresh plate of scones on a silver tray. The pasha eyed them with distaste. “Recall what happened to the Roman Empire when shallow luxuries and games took over palaces.”

“A weakness for pastries hardly heralds the fall of an empire.”

“Your strong woman is softening.”

Grisha took care to make sure the footman had disappeared. “She is not my woman. Not anymore.”

“And yet she calls you husband,” the pasha said. “If the marriage is true, you are as powerful as the sovereign, or at least it should be so.”

“You have never understood our ways.”

“Do not forget I take as much interest in other religions as you. My own father was of the Orthodox faith. You people refer to your ancient Moscow as the third Rome and yet you run your empire from this swamp? With a woman at the head? And surely you understand my disinclination to support your way of life when you had me poisoned.”

“It was your own people. That is the way of your sultans. The barbarous behavior of your empire led to your demise.”

“I was poisoned because you would not listen to sense and our peace negotiations were abandoned. After all of the blood you shed.”

The shame bore down. “Your men should have seen sense and surrendered those battles.”

“Battles? The invasions, you mean. The occupations.”

“The Ottoman Empire never acquired a thirst for blood?”

The pasha touched his turban lightly. “Make your woman see sense. Show her the foolishness of that boy she's taken for a lover.”

“I have attempted to do so.”

“Only in the privacy of a chamber where she can dismiss you too easily. This boy she adores wants to block you? Unveil his presumption and weaknesses publicly.”

“It is more complex when trying to woo a woman of such power.”

“Because you might offend her? This God of yours is strange. He loved the world so much that he gave his only son? And yet he seems to require no sacrifice from you.”

“I do not fear sacrifice,” Grisha said, voice rising.

“You make excuses and delay. Have you grown weak in your old age, white demon?”

The pasha was his enemy, had always been his enemy even beyond the bounds of earthly life. He made a roar and lunged at the man, but the pasha dodged and Grisha ran into a thick Grecian pillar in the hallway. A heavy medallion on his chest fell with a clatter to the floor, followed by Grisha.

“Your Highness?”

Anton stared down at him, eyes wide. Grisha's expansive stomach was already sore. A bruise would blossom by morning.

“What happened? You were talking to someone. I heard you.”

“It was no one,” Grisha muttered, bending to retrieve the medallion and wincing.

“The empress wants you home abed. I need to follow her instructions.” His gaze returned to Grisha's form. “Did you fall?”

Grisha started to laugh. His back ached. He looked up at the friezes on the ceiling, doves sailing against a pure blue sky and apostles kneeling to Christ as he exited his tomb.

“A trifling misstep,” he told Anton. “I shall take care to make no more of those.”

Four

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

 

The Monarchist Society has interviewed Romanov heirs in the past, including Dr. Herrera's father, Laurent Marchand, but Dr. Herrera's name is the first to have been made public in over twenty years.

 

EN ROUTE TO RUSSIA
PRESENT DAY

They were rising above the desert, still in California airspace, when Michael started to grill Dmitry for details. “First of all, I thought no announcements would be made about Veronica's connection to the Romanov family until after she arrived in St. Petersburg. Why is she featured in a Russian newspaper?”

“This was mistake,” Dmitry said, speaking in English, which he claimed to prefer when in conversation with Americans.

“I suppose you all have decided Veronica should stay in the best hotel in St. Petersburg, where she'll be an easy target to find for anyone with a grudge against the Romanovs.”

“Actually, no.” Dmitry withdrew an electronic tablet from the seat pocket where he'd stowed it and then shifted in his seat so he could retrieve something. He moved so gracefully he didn't even touch her. “Irina Yusupova has arranged modest accommodation. She thought it best not to draw attention. Not at first.”

Veronica had taken the window seat with Dmitry in the middle and Michael on the aisle. Even though she and Michael weren't touching, she felt the weight of his presence. Behind her, the girl who had dropped the cookies earlier was kicking the back of Veronica's seat. “Don't do that to the lady,” she heard the father say weakly.

Longest flight ever.

“And transportation?” Michael said. “She needs to move safely from place to place. The Society wasn't supposed to publish pictures before her position was clearly established.”

“How do you know this?”

“My grandmother was one of Empress Alexandra's servants. My mother still has connections with the old monarchist groups.”

“Your mother. Right.” Dmitry's hand tightened in and out of a fist as he waited for his tablet to power up. “I travel with Dr. Herrera and when possible we hire car to avoid metro.”

“Have you screened the drivers?”

“I can assure you she is to be well protected.”

Finally, the kicking subsided. But two women in the back of the cabin began the loudest Russian conversation Veronica had ever heard, something about a cheating husband caught in the act and a night spent in jail. Right now she didn't need any more drama. Veronica reached for her phone and earbuds. She wanted to close her eyes and disappear into a new wave playlist. She had compiled a soothing soundtrack for the trip, musical comfort food from high school: the Cure, Depeche Mode, and Erasure. So much better than listening to Michael and Dmitry fuss at one another.

“Who do you think leaked the article about Veronica to the newspaper?” Michael asked.

“It could be anyone.”

“Anyone in the Monarchist Society? So you don't have control over your own people?”

Veronica was about to press play when she saw Dmitry open his fist, something in his palm twinkling in the high sunlight. “I assure you Dr. Herrera is to be perfectly safe.”

“What are you holding?” Veronica asked curiously.

Dmitry opened his hand wider, revealing a tiny red jewel.

“Is that a ruby?”

“It is embarrassing.” He smiled sheepishly. “This has been in family for good luck; I get nervous flying. I need it today.”

Veronica touched the cross on her necklace and returned his smile. Michael gave her a guarded glance. Did he think she was flirting?

Dmitry deposited the ruby back into his pocket and tapped a few notes on his tablet. He wore khaki trousers and a fresh white button-down shirt that looked strangely crisp for someone who had spent the past few days trotting around the globe. “I hope you will not mind a few difficult questions.”

She put the earbuds away.

“I am to serve as your advocate in process. So I need to be sure we are clear on facts. Society wants to present clear narrative to connect your grandmother to Nicholas and Alexandra.” He inclined forward to address Michael. “You understand this, of course?”

Michael scratched the back of his neck and reached for a copy of the in-flight magazine from his seat pocket. “Of course. Pretend I'm not even here.”

“You say Laurent Marchand is father,” Dmitry began.

“Laurent Marchand is her father,” Michael answered for her.

Veronica frowned at him, then drew in a breath of the artificial cabin air. “I believe that man is my father, yes.”

“Laurent is son of Charlotte Marchand, who claimed to be Grand Duchess Charlotte, secret fifth daughter of the tsar. But you never met Laurent?”

Veronica looked out the window at the red-orange mounds of the desert below them. Her mother had been in one of Laurent's classes, alone and vulnerable in Spain as a foreign exchange student. He never bothered to try to find Veronica. She thought she had formed a thick wall around her heart when it came to anything related to her father, but it still hurt. Wounds heal, but the memory of pain lingers.