Prisoner of the Iron Tower (42 page)

“Countess, would you be so good as to take the princess’s costume to her rooms?” Astasia said with her sweetest smile. “You know the Emperor has allowed only the closest family members to visit Karila until she is fully recovered.”

“What—now?” Pale blue eyes looked at her coolly.

“What better time?” Astasia replied, equally cool.

“I’ve packed it up for you, countess.” Nadezhda retied the ribbons in a bow and passed the blue and white striped box to the countess with another little bob of a curtsy.

The countess withdrew without another word. The stiffness of her back and the haughty tilt of her chin told Astasia that she was offended at being asked to run an errand.

As the door closed behind her, Astasia let out a pent-up sigh.

“Quick, Nadezhda, run and fetch Demoiselle de Joyeuse. I’ll bolt the door. That way when Countess High-and-Mighty returns, I’ll be warned in time.”

While Nadezhda was away, Astasia examined some of the costumes her maid had laid out. They were all created from the most delicious fabrics: gauzes, silks, muslins, and brocades, dyed in subtle shades.

She could not resist holding up one and then another against herself and looking in the mirror: first, a water-nymph’s robes in floating silver gauze and net over blue watered silk; next, a sylph in the palest shades of white, grey, and tender pink. Or this exotic temple-dancer’s costume from the deserts of Djihan-Djihar, dyed the colors of the setting sun: orange, crimson, and violet deepening into indigo, all spangled with gold. Oh yes, this was the one. She just had to try it on . . .

There came a scratch at the door and she hurried to unbolt it, holding it open to let Nadezhda and Celestine in, then hastily securing it again.

They stared at her.

“Does it suit me?” she asked, spinning around on bare feet, so that the tiny little bells sewn into the fabric tinkled.

“Pantaloons?” Nadezhda said. “On a lady? On the Empress? Isn’t that rather immodest, highness? What would your mother say?”

“You look wonderful!” cried Celestine. “And look—there’s a headdress, and the mask has a veil. No one would ever guess . . .”

Immodest.
Astasia’s excitement was abruptly tempered. If Celestine and she were to succeed in their little plan, it would be important not to draw too much attention to herself.

“There was a shepherdess’s costume,” she said with a sigh. “Pretty in an insipid way: panniers, puffed sleeves. It came with one of those Francian powdered wigs with a single long curl trailing over one shoulder.”

Nadezhda helped her out of the temple-dancer’s costume and she gazed at it regretfully as Nadezhda laid it back on the bed. “The colors were so gorgeous. . . .”

Nadezhda began to lace her into the shepherdess’s costume.

“Ow! Must you pull quite so tight?”

“Someone’s been eating too many sugared almonds,” Nadezhda said severely. “I’m going to have to leave the last hooks undone.”

“You must have given the costumiers the wrong measurements.” Astasia looked down at herself, trying to see the extra inches Nadezhda had so rudely drawn her attention to. Had she been eating too many sweets? If anything, she had lost her appetite. Certain foods made her feel quite queasy.

“And you’ve filled out since we left Mirom,” added Nadezhda.

Astasia looked at her reflection in the mirror. The tight-laced bodice and daringly low-cut neck of the pale blue shepherdess’s gown had forced her little breasts upward, making them look plumper than before, the veins blue against the creamy pallor of her skin. The constrictions of the bodice certainly made them feel more tender and swollen. Then there were the calculations she had made with her calendar. Surely she couldn’t be with child so soon?

“It’s just the cut of this dress,” she said defensively. “And why is the bodice less immodest than my lovely Djihari pantaloons?”

“Now the wig.” Nadezhda sat her down and, deftly sweeping her mistress’s long dark hair into a chignon, eased the soft white curls into place.

“I look like a sheep,” Astasia complained, looking at herself critically in the mirror. “Baaa . . .”

“You look charming,” said Celestine. “All you need now is a crook with a pale blue bow and some blue-ribboned shoes.”

“And a mask.” Astasia took the gilded mask from Nadezhda and put it on. “Stand next to me, Celestine.”

The singer obeyed.

“We are a good match in stature. I think this costume will suit our needs very well.”

Celestine nodded. “Then Jagu will come as a shepherd. What a pastoral trio we will make.”

“Nadezhda,” Astasia said. “You remember what we agreed?”

“You leave it to me, highness.” Nadezhda bobbed another little curtsy. “I’ll go whisper your requests to the costumier now. We could do with a more generous size for you anyway.” And before Astasia could protest, she unbolted the door and darted off, still laughing mischievously.

Astasia made sure the door was firmly bolted. Then she handed a gilded mask identical to her own to the singer.

“Can Nadezhda be trusted?”

“Oh yes,” Astasia said earnestly, “she’s utterly loyal to me. She’s more like a sister than a maidservant.”

Celestine put on the mask and Astasia tied the golden ribbons firmly behind her ears to stop it slipping. Then they checked their reflections in the mirror, masked faces close together.

“Perfect,” said Astasia. “Who would guess? We look like identical twins.”

“Did you know, highness,” said Celestine, taking off the gilded mask, “that Kaspar Linnaius, whom we saw earlier, is no ordinary scientist?”

“I had some notion, yes,” Astasia said, looking at herself critically in the mirror as she tried to tuck in stray dark strands that kept escaping from under her wig. “I know that he has placed certain wards on the palace and its grounds to protect us from harm.”

“But were you also aware,” and Celestine’s voice, normally so clear and lighthearted, dropped to a low whisper, “of his other talents? Or that his title, ‘Magus,’ is not a fanciful conceit? He is a wind-mage, able to bend the winds to his will.”

“I had no idea.” A year ago Astasia would have dismissed Celestine’s statement as absurd. But the last few months had shown her that there were darker forces at work in the world than she had ever imagined.

“In the conflict between Francia and Tielen, your husband’s father, Prince Karl, won a decisive victory over my countrymen in a sea battle off the Saltyk Peninsula. At the height of the battle, a terrible storm broke and many of the Francian fleet were blown onto the rocks.”

Astasia stared at Celestine. The conversation had suddenly become too intense for her liking. She wanted to steer it back to lighter topics before someone overheard and reported back to Eugene.

“The seas around the Saltyk Peninsula can be treacherously unpredictable,” she said, taking off the heavy wig and replacing it on its stand, “even in the best of weather.”

“And Prince Karl was Kaspar Linnaius’s patron.”

“I don’t think we should be talking of this, Celestine. . . .”

But Celestine continued, seemingly unconcerned about her warning. “Your brother’s ship, the
Sirin,
went down in a storm that blew up out of nowhere. On a calm, moonlit night.”

There came a loud rap on the door. Someone rattled the door handle.

“Imperial highness!” It was Countess Lovisa’s voice. “Why is your door bolted?”

“To keep you out,” muttered Astasia. The door handle rattled again, louder this time. Annoyed, she hastily loosened one of her laces until the bodice slipped off one shoulder. She would shame Lovisa in the one way she suspected would hurt the well-bred countess the most: a breach of etiquette.

“Please open the door for the countess,” she said loudly. As Celestine let Lovasia in, keeping out of sight, Astasia half-turned, her shoulder and one breast exposed. She let out a loud cry of feigned embarrassment, crossing her arms over her nakedness.

“But wait until I’ve put on my
peignoir!
”

“Highness—I’m so sorry—” The countess froze in the doorway and then retreated, slamming the door shut.

“Did she see me behind the door, do you think?” asked Celestine, her blue eyes wide with apprehension.

“I don’t think she did. But you can’t stay here,” Astasia said to Celestine, hastily putting on her ivory silk peignoir. It was time to risk revealing one of Swanholm’s most well-guarded secrets, yet she felt she could trust Celestine de Joyeuse not to abuse the privilege. She beckoned her to the fireplace. Reaching out, she touched the marble acanthus leaf on the right and heard the grating of hidden machinery as a panel slowly slid into the wall.

“Ah,” said Celestine, her look of apprehension changing to one of amazement. “A secret passageway.”

“Once inside, take twenty-one steps to your right. That brings you to a little stair.” Astasia’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Go down until you feel fresh air from a grating on your face. There’s a handle directly below the grating. Turn it to your right as far as it will go. It opens into the shrubbery near the Orangery—but be careful there is no one about to see you.”

“With so many people around for the ball, I shall simply melt into the crowd.” Celestine bent low to enter the secret passage.

“Nadezhda will bring the costumes to your room.”

“And the next time we meet, sweet shepherdess . . .”

“You will introduce me to a certain shepherd.”

“Are you dressed yet, highness?” called a voice from the corridor.

Astasia gave a little groan. “Lovisa is back. Go. And don’t forget—twenty-one steps to the right.”

She touched the acanthus leaf again and the panel slid to, hiding Celestine in the dark of the secret passageway.

Andrei,
she whispered in her heart as she went to unbolt the door,
can it be true that Linnaius sent the storm to sink your ship? Because if so . . . was it my husband Eugene who gave the order?

She had opened the door and was staring into the ice-blue eyes of Lovisa when the terrible implications struck her. Suddenly she felt hot and dizzy. Too late, she grasped at the doorframe to keep herself from falling. As she tumbled forward into the countess’s arms, she heard the countess cry out in alarm, “Help, here! The Empress has fainted!”

CHAPTER
31

Astasia lay listlessly on the ivory silk-canopied bed with the shutters drawn. Nadezhda had placed a little cloth impregnated with lavender water on her forehead, but the strong scent made her feel queasy again, so she threw it to the other end of the bedchamber as soon as Nadezhda tiptoed away.

“I never faint,” she murmured.

“It’s just a headache,” Countess Lovisa had pronounced briskly. “A touch of the megrims. She’ll be over it soon.”

Even though the shutters were drawn against the bright daylight, they did not prevent the racket of the preparations for the ball from penetrating the bedchamber: the shouts of guardsmen tugging on the marquee ropes and the endless dull thuds as they hammered stakes into the grass.

“Eugene’s beautiful lawns will be quite ruined. . . .” She closed her eyes again, wishing all the noise would fade away and leave her in peace. But sleep eluded her as one thought kept going around and around in her brain like a horribly repetitive refrain.

Did you do it, Eugene? Did you order the sinking of the
Sirin?

If it were true . . .

“No,” she whispered, “not Eugene.”

Why did this revelation have to come now, just as she realized she was carrying his child? And why did it hurt so much? Was it a simple feeling of betrayal? Or was it that, in spite of their differences, she had begun to love him . . . just a little?

Such a devious and ignoble act was difficult to reconcile with the man she had come to know more intimately than any other.

Now she remembered Eugene’s determination to ensure all the children of Muscobar would be properly fed and educated. She remembered how passionately he had spoken of his plans for the empire. And she remembered how he had kissed her the night they were married. . . .

Of course, Celestine could be wrong. It was even possible she had been sent to poison her mind against her husband. But then there was the fact that Andrei was alive, against all the odds.

I must get better before the ball. I can’t miss this chance to see Andrei; I can’t.

Until now she had not allowed herself to think how much this reunion meant to her. But lying here sick in this unfamiliar bed, so far from her own country, she felt helpless tears of homesickness begin to leak from her eyes. She missed Mama and Papa. She missed Varvara and Svetlana, her closest friends. She even missed Eupraxia and her constant chiding.

“Poor Tasia,” said a soft little voice.

Astasia opened her eyes and saw a golden-haired child standing at her bedside.

“Kari?” she said, startled.

“I’m sorry you’re ill,” said Karila. “It’s horrid to be ill, isn’t it? I was ill on my birthday.”

“I know,” Astasia said, wiping away her tears with her fingertips. “And I’m sorry we were late for your party—”

“I don’t really remember my party,” Karila said, “so it doesn’t matter. Have you seen my costume for the ball?”

“No . . .” The ball. Astasia closed her eyes again at the thought.

“It’s very pretty. It’s the Swan Princess. It’s white satin with soft feathers around the hem and the neck. They tickle, so I hope I won’t sneeze and make my swan mask fall off.”

Astasia could not stop herself from smiling.

“That’s better,” Karila said. “Now you don’t look so sad.”

“Does Marta know you’re here?”

“Of course not! I came through the secret passageways.”

“But if she comes back and finds you’re gone—”

“I’ve been made to stay in my rooms for too long. I was bored.”

“At least you came to see me, little Kari. I’ve lain here all these hours, and not once has your father appeared or even inquired after my health. Too busy, I suppose, with affairs of state and the ball . . .”

“It’s good to rest. It’s good for the baby,” Karila said.

Astasia raised her head.

“Baby? What baby?”

“My little stepbrother,” Karila said in matter-of-fact tones.

Astasia caught hold of Karila’s hand and pulled her closer.

“Kari, what nonsense are you talking?”

Karila stretched out her other hand and let it rest gently on Astasia’s stomach.

“This baby,” she said, smiling.

“But how—” Astasia let go of Karila’s hand.

“What will you call him? Will it have to be Karl after my grandfather? I don’t like the name; it’s too short.”

“Kari,
how did you know
?” If Karila had guessed, then who else might have come to the same conclusion?

“And when he’s old enough, I’ll let him visit my menagerie and feed the deer. Have you seen my little deer? They come from Khitari, Papa says, and they live on the steppes, eating lichen . . .” Karila prattled on, quite oblivious of the impact of her revelation.

Astasia sat up and swung her legs off the bed.

“Karila,” she said, “you must say nothing of the baby to anyone. It must be our secret.”

“Not even to Papa?”

“Papa . . .” Astasia hesitated, desperately trying to think of a reason to convince the child. She did not want Karila babbling the news about before she had told Eugene herself. And Celestine’s disclosure had thrown all thoughts of telling Eugene into disarray. “I haven’t told Papa. I’m keeping it as a special surprise.” She placed one finger over her lips. Karila imitated her, nodding and smiling.

“Our secret. Like my menagerie. Have you seen my dragon pavilion?”

“Not yet.” Astasia could not concentrate on what Karila was saying.

“If you stand at this window, you can just see the Khitari dragon on top of the pavilion with the little bells . . .”

And if what Celestine told me is true? . . .

The shadows were lengthening on the parterres and golden evening light glimmered on the still, dark lake. Eugene, making a short tour of the preparations for the ball, noticed that little clouds of midges were rising over the water.

“We will need citronella flares burning near the lake, to keep our guests from being eaten alive,” he said to the Master of Ceremonies, who was accompanying him. An assistant was busy scribbling down in a ledger what still needed to be done.

A woman was coming toward them past the white marquees; Eugene recognized her by her upright, stately bearing and the proud tilt of her chin.

“You asked to see me, imperial highness?” Countess Lovisa curtsied low to Eugene.

The Master of Ceremonies discreetly withdrew.

“Walk with me, Lovisa. I hear the first roses are in bud in the rose garden.”

“Delightful,” Lovisa said, accepting his arm.

They strolled in silence through the slowly darkening garden toward the walled rose garden. A blackbird began to sing from the top of the old stone wall, its piercing notes fluting questioningly into the dusk. From farther away, another answered.

“I’m glad we preserved a wall or two of my father’s hunting lodge,” Eugene said as they entered the rose garden, “though I’m not sure he would have approved of the use we put it to.”

“This will be such a pleasant place to stroll or to sit in during high summer.” Lovisa sniffed the evening air appreciatively. “Was it your inspiration, Eugene, to plant lavender beds beneath the roses? So charming.”

“My head gardener’s idea, so I can take no credit for it, I fear.” Eugene stopped a moment, checking to see if they were alone. From here, he was confident that the high walls would protect them from prying eyes or ears. He turned to the countess, determined to learn the truth. “So what is this sickness of Astasia’s? Is it real or feigned?”

“It seems to be nothing more than a touch of the megrims. Genuine, I believe. She has been acting rather dizzily these last few days.”

“Can we be sure it’s not the first symptom of some more serious affliction?” Margret’s death had brutally brought home to Eugene the fragility of human life. It had led him to endow the new school of the science of medicine at Tielborg University, in the hope that the researches there would prevent such tragedies occurring in the future. “Should I send Doctor Amandel to her?”

Lovisa smiled. “I really think there’s no need, Eugene. We women learn to endure these minor discomforts.”

Eugene let out a suppressed sigh. He lifted a cream and blush rosebud and stroked it pensively between finger and thumb. “I went ahead with all this frippery just to please her. Because she loves to dance. Given the situation in Smarna, I should have canceled the whole damned affair. God knows, I can ill spare the time at the moment—and now she’s sick.” He tugged a little too hard at the rosebud and it snapped off.

“I’m certain she’ll be well enough by tomorrow,” remarked the countess dryly.

“And must I wear some foolish costume? You know how I hate dressing up, Lovisa.”

“I have organized a disguise that will in no way harm your dignity.”

Was it a trick of the fading light or was she smiling at him? He had known Lovisa since they were children, and she still perplexed him: one moment icy calm, the next mysteriously alluring.

“What will Astasia be wearing?”

“Some flimsy little shepherdess costume in blue. In my opinion, the bodice is cut far too low. I will persuade her to drape a scarf over the décolletage.”

Eugene was silent a moment. Then he moved nearer to Lovisa, bending his head close to hers so that no one else could possibly hear what he said. “Are you certain, Lovisa?”

“Not entirely,” she said coolly. “And as to who, and the circumstances, I still have no firm evidence.”

“And you believe he will make an appearance at the ball?”

“She and the Francian singer are plotting some kind of charade together.” Lovisa gave a haughty little cough. “A child could see through their little plot.”

Lovisa’s opinions were not improving his mood. At first he had not entertained the slightest suspicion that Astasia was capable of deceiving him. He had even begun to believe that she felt some kind of affection toward him. Now, as dusk shadows crept through the garden and the servants began to light the candles within the palace, he felt as though the dark of night had seeped into his heart.

He slowly opened his clenched fist, and the crushed petals of the rosebud fell to the path.

“Oh look, Tasia, there’s Papa.”

Astasia had been standing at the tall windows, wistfully gazing out over the parklands, darkly gilded by the setting sun.

“Wh-where?” she asked dazedly.

“Down there in the rose garden.”

Astasia looked to where Karila was pointing and saw a tall figure, unmistakably Eugene, head inclined, close, far too close to—

She stared.

“Lovisa?” she whispered. She could not see the countess’s face from here, but that erect carriage, those white-blond curls so immaculately dressed in a chignon, that elegant silver-grey and rose gown . . .

So close. Close enough to be kissing, his mouth brushing the curls by her delicate little earlobe, the nape of her neck . . .

“Cousin Lovisa!” said Karila happily.

“Oh,” said Astasia, her voice soft, shocked. “Oh.” She tried to look away, but found she could not, some cruel impulse forcing her to watch what she had no wish to see. But the secret lovers had moved apart from each other, aware perhaps that they could be seen from the palace. This brief moment of intimacy she had glimpsed, was it a prelude to some later nocturnal assignation? Or was it evidence of a long-standing liaison?

Was she perhaps the only person in all of Swanholm to be unaware that Lovisa was her husband’s mistress?

Andrei Orlov gazed in amazement at the prospect below them. There, in the dusk, lay the Palace of Swanholm, its gardens, parklands, and lake all lit by strings of jewel-colored lanterns, so that the whole valley glowed.

“It’s magnificent.” So this was Astasia’s new home. Even at this first glance, he could see the palace was far more elegant than the old Winter Palace in Mirom. He was already excited at the prospect of seeing Astasia again after so long; impersonating Celestine’s accompanist Jagu only increased that excitement.

A magnificent stucco gatehouse with elaborate gilded ironwork grilles lay ahead. Guards were stopping each carriage as it arrived and checking the gilt-edged invitations and papers of each guest individually. They held lanterns and torches so that they could scrutinize each new arrival in a good light.

A lieutenant in the Imperial Household Cavalry approached and all the guards stood stiffly to attention, returning his salute.

“At ease, at ease . . .”

There was something familiar about the lieutenant’s voice and bearing. Andrei shrank back into the shadows as the officer popped his head in the open carriage window.

“Good evening to you, Demoiselle de Joyeuse!”

It was Valery Vassian, Andrei’s boyhood friend. What the devil was he doing here in Swanholm, in a Tielen uniform?

“Just a simple shepherdess and her swain,” Celestine said sweetly, smiling at Lieutenant Vassian.

For God’s sake, don’t ask me to remove my mask or wig, Valery!
Andrei had begun to sweat under his disguise.

“Jagu and I make quite a fetchingly pastoral pair, don’t you agree?”

“You would look fetching in any costume, demoiselle.”