Queen of Someday (9 page)

“Do they really think it would hurt her so badly?”

He chuckles softly. “Spoken like one who has never been on the wrong side of unrequited love. This line she just spoke, she said to Theseus, Of the entire universe, I only wanted you.”

I watch as the poor, star-crossed lovers flee the kingdom and, in despair at her lost love’s betrayal, Ariadne sings a sad melody and then falls on her sword. The curtain closes. I feel the moisture roll from my eye just as the valets re-light the wall lamps.

“Are you crying, princess?” Alexander asks, offering me a hand to my feet.

I wipe the tear away but another falls in its place.

“It’s so devastating. The pain and the suffering, and for what? It strikes me to my very soul.”

“Ariadne believed that without love, life had no meaning. Killing herself spared her a lifetime of heartache.”

I shake my head. “That’s idiocy. She didn’t stop the pain, she only handed off her chance to make things better. She could have found love again. It was a waste.”

He snickers.

“You take the story too closely to your heart, I think,” he says. Reaching up, he wipes a newly fallen tear from my cheek. The touch is so quick and gentle that for a moment, I think I might have imagined it.

I look up to find his green eyes staring at me, as if they could peer through my flesh into my soul. I want to hold his gaze, but it’s too overpowering, like staring into the noonday sun, and I have to look away.

My next words catch in my throat. Even looking away, I can feel the weight of his stare on me. The flush fills my face with heat, adding to my embarrassment.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I manage finally.

Reaching around Alexander, Peter takes my hand.

“Come, Princess. I will see you safely to your room,” he offers.

Alexander steps back and lets me pass in front of him. The empress turns to us, giving Peter a quick jerk of the chin, gesturing to Charlotte. He pauses only for a moment to incline his head to the princess.

“Good evening,” he says quickly, leading me out into the foyer.

“What did you think of the production?” I ask as we make our way down the hall, my ladies and his men falling in step behind us.

He leans over, his voice barely a whisper. “I thought it was dreadfully boring. I think something with a little more action and less prose would be more entertaining.”

“Perhaps,” I mutter halfheartedly. I thought the play was quite enjoyable, despite not being able to understand the words. But then Peter was never much for the arts.

“All these formal balls and plays. This court seriously lacks the more masculine entertainments. When I am king, we will have tournaments like in old days. Jousting, swordplay, and archery. And we will have formal military drills every day. These are the things that make a country strong. Not dance and theater.” He pauses. “It will be more like King Fredrick’s court.”

I pat his hand gently. “Surely arts and poetry will have its place as well. Those are the things that nurture the soul.”

He looks at me, his face stern and serious. “I worry less about the soul of Russia and more about its might. Times are changing, and we must be on firm footing before the tide of change rolls our way.”

I smile softly. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

He stops. “Why do you say that?”

“It’s from a poem by Shakespeare. You’ve heard of his work?”

He shakes his head. “Reading gives me terrible head pain. Especially when the author is English.”

He laughs, and I hear others behind us join in. I try to hide the disappointment that weighs on me. Books are one thing I love above all else. In a story, I can become anyone, travel any place. In those pages lives my only true freedom.

We stop at my door, and my ladies open it. I curtsy to Peter, who bows, taking my hand.

“Farewell, sweet Sophie. I hope to see you again soon,” he says with a flourish.

“Sleep well, Peter,” I offer, leaving him to his friends.

As soon as the door closes, my mother enters from her private chamber.

“How was the play?” she asks with cool disinterest.

“It was delightful,” I offer. “Which you would have known if you’d been in attendance. Where on earth did you get off to?”

She waves her hand, as if it doesn’t matter at all.

“I was feeling ill, so I retired early.”

I narrow my eyes suspiciously and look her over. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips plump. She doesn’t look ill at all, and from experience, if she had fallen ill, she surely would have made quite a show of it. No, something is strange about her, and though I can’t quite place it, I’m certain she’s lying.

“Mother, please. I know something has you stirred up. Can you not tell me what it is?”

She presses a finger to her lips and waves me over, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“Kind Fredrick has tasked me with keeping him apprised of the goings on here at court. I am his personal correspondent.”

I feel myself recoil.

“You mean spy?”

She waves me off.

“Nothing so indelicate. I am a representative of Prussia; it is my solemn duty to keep him apprised of what I see here.”

I bite my bottom lip. There is a stiff penalty for spying and if she’s discovered…

“You are putting both our positions here in great jeopardy. I must insist that you stop this madness at once.” I demand.

She straightens, her face pulling into a frown.

“Do not presume to order me about, little one. You aren’t queen yet. I suggest you worry less about me and more about what will happen to you if you fail to secure an engagement.”

Her words are like ice, filling me with dread.

“Yes, Mother,” I say through clenched jaw.

With a firm nod, she turns and leaves, closing her door behind her.

With a resigned heart, I let my ladies help me out of my gown and into my nightdress. I dismiss them for the evening, and a maid brings me up a tray of warm milk. When I take a sip, I notice there is a small, folded parchment under my cup. I pick it up quickly, clutching it to my chest as I make my way to my private room. Sitting on the edge of my lush bed, I unfold the letter.

They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.

Meet me in the library at midnight.

I wad up the note in my hand and clutch it to my chest. From my open window, I hear the bells at St. Peter’s Cathedral chime out the hours. Eleven clear, deep bell strikes echo through my chamber.

I open the paper up and read it again. It’s the next verse from the Shakespeare poem I had quoted to Peter earlier. Had he been feigning his distaste of poetry? Had he been teasing me? Perhaps I have misjudged him. After all, he is no longer the boy I remember. He’s a man, groomed to be a king. I look down at my hands, waiting for some feeling of excitement. But all that comes is a wash of relief. Peter has chosen me, and all my family’s problems will be solved. My father will keep his land and my brother his title, even Mother will never want for anything ever again. No more second-season gowns or scraping by. Her dream for me has come true. So why do I, deep in my heart, feel nothing but cold detachment?

I chew on my bottom lip as I read the words over and over, trying to ferret out any possible hidden meaning. Going out at such an hour seems so… rebellious. That is a side to Peter I wasn’t aware of. I have to admit, the idea that there may be more to him, well, it excites my curiosity. Perhaps I simply need to give it time, to allow my feelings for him to grow as I get to know him in the small, secret ways only a wife can know a husband. I allow the flicker of hope to grow, giving me something to cling to. Still, wandering around the palace in the middle of the night is risky at best, what would people say if I were found out? What would my mother say?

Carefully holding the paper to the flame of my flickering bedside candle, I watch as it burns, dropping it on the marble floor just as it turns to ash. Walking to my window, I stare out, the cold night air blowing across my face, stirring my long, loose hair. I close my eyes, imagining the wind is his fingers, touching my face, stroking my hair. Only the image I conjure isn’t Peter, but another. For the briefest moment, I lose myself in the daydream, the scent of him, the feel of his body pressed against mine as we dance. I look at his full lips and wonder what they would feel like, dancing their way across my flesh. My eyes snap open, and I push the dream away. I can’t afford thoughts like that, dangerous, errant desires for a man who will never be mine.

The city below is silent, held in the grip of night. Only the sliver of moonlight reflecting on the rooftops sets it aglow. It’s eerily still, frozen in time. Reaching out, I pull the window closed and turn the lock. The city may be sleeping soundly, but I have never felt more awake.

I slip into a simple gown and wait. As soon as I hear the first bell chime, I sneak through the dark room and out the door. My guard has long since retired for the evening and won’t be back until nearly dawn.

The hall is quiet; each footstep I take echoes like thunder, along with the sound of my drawing breath, which to my nervous ears is much, much too loud. My heart races, pounding against my chest like a hammer striking an anvil. I get turned around only once before finding my way through the maze of halls to the library. I can see lights flickering under the door, so I push it open slowly.

Once inside, I’m flooded with golden lamplight. The room is tall, two floors with a large, wooden staircase in the center of the room, with books stacked floor to ceiling. The exposed walls are stark white with gold inlay, the Romanov crest—the double-headed eagle—appears all around the room, carved into every surface, ceiling to table. There are two long, rectangular tables decorated with vases of fresh flowers and marble busts and various golden chairs and settees litter the room. I look up, and the domed canopy above me is painted with a lovely sky fresco, giving the illusion that the room is open to the heavens.

But what draws me in, what gives me a sense of calm, is the smell. That marvelous scent of paper and leather fills the room. I inhale deeply, letting the familiar smell carry me away. Crossing to the nearest shelf, I run my hand along the row of spines, enjoying the texture under my fingers. A noise above me startles me from my tactile reverie.

“You’d think you’ve never seen a library before.”

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My heart leaps into my throat. At the top of the stairs is Alexander. He’s still wearing his formal suit, his dark hair slightly disheveled as always. For a heartbeat, I’m too stunned to speak. It’s as if my deepest desires have been formed to flesh. If not for the rush of blood to my face, I might think I was dreaming.

When I finally regain my wits, I have to look away, swallowing heavily before I speak.

“Alexander, I did not expect to see you this evening.”

I hear his heavy boots bound down the steps.

“I understand. You must have thought my note was from Peter. I apologize for disappointing you.”

He crosses the room, standing close enough for me to feel the air around me stir with his presence.

“I admit I did think they were Peter’s words.” Though hoped is more accurate. I don’t tell him that it isn’t disappointment coursing through my veins, but joy. Sheer, terrible, frightening joy. I clear my throat, knowing I can never say such things to him. “I never suspected you would be so rude as to proposition me in such an inappropriate manner.”

Without looking at him, I turn, ready to run back to my room but also steeling myself against his absence. When had my own feelings become so muddled and complicated? Before I take a single step, he catches my arm, turning me to him.

“I apologize for the misunderstanding, but please know it was never my intention to proposition you in any way. I needed to speak to you privately. This seemed the best way.”

Without meaning to, I look up and catch his eye. His expression is solemn and sincere.

“Please,” he adds gently.

I nod my head just a fraction of an inch. I doubt I could deny him anything when he’s looking at me like that. I pull away, afraid he might hear my heart gain speed, racing at his simple touch.

Stepping forward, he slides a book from the shelf and hands it to me. I glance at the cover. It’s a book of poetry by Sir Walter Raleigh. I hand it back, determined to hide the emotions raging inside me.

“I prefer something less rigid, if you please.”

He smiles lopsidedly, a dimple appearing in the side of his cheek. It is all I have to remain stone-faced, to not grin myself.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

“My patience grows thin, Alexander. I’m sure you didn’t come here to spout poetry to me.”

He slides the book back onto the shelf.

“Do you remember how Peter reacted that first night you were here?”

I fold my arms across my bust. “You mean how he ignored me completely? Flirted with Elizavetta?”

He turns back to me, one eyebrow arched. “Did this evening remind you of anything?”

I open my mouth to say no, to say that he had been perfectly kind and attentive all evening. But then I stop.

He ignored Charlotte. He flirted and fawned over me, but ignored her almost completely.

My expression must give me away because Alexander sighs.

“I’m so sorry, but I wanted you to see that this evening was not the victory you hoped it was.”

I lick my lips slowly because my mouth has gone dry. “Peter’s playing games again.”

Alexander nods solemnly. A ball of silent fury builds inside me. How could I have been so stupid? Of course he wasn’t genuinely interested in me. How could I have been so easily fooled? I replay every moment in my mind, our ride, the picnic he made for us. Had it all been a ruse? I square my shoulders and lift my chin. I’ll have to redouble my efforts to catch his attention. Perhaps I gave in too quickly, or perhaps I needed to remain more aloof? Then another, much darker thought occurs to me.

My head snaps up. “Why are you telling me this?”

Alexander takes a step back, looking affronted.

“Peter is your friend; I am just a stranger from another country. So why do you tell me these things? Or are you more part of this game than you would like to admit?”

I swear I see him blush before he looks away.

“It lies not in our power to love or hate, for will in us is overruled by fate. When two are stripped, long ere the course begin, we wish that one should love, the other win.” His voice trembles on the last line, and it does not escape my notice.

I know the poem. Marlowe is one of my favorites. His verses of love and longing are deep and still, something I often allow myself to indulge in. This poem, in particular, resonates with me. I complete the last line.

“Where both deliberate, the love is slight. Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?”

He turns back to me.

“If any were to remain here, as empress, I wish it to be you. Should Peter’s heart fall to a beautiful face, he need look no further than what is right in front of him.”

My heart skips in my chest painfully. I stare at him for a long moment, unsure what to say. He is a dark beauty. His gaze is fervent and almost excruciating to behold. Unlike the others at court, all golden hair and fair skin, he feels wild.

Dangerous, a soft voice whispers in the back of my mind.

“If he marries you, then you can remain here, at court.” He rakes a hand through his hair in a boyish gesture. “And I would have you stay, for purely selfish reasons. So that I might—from a distance—be allowed to behold you.”

His words slice through me like a sword, sharp and quick. I know I cannot indulge this feeling I have—a feeling we seem to share. But there is something else, a deep longing that threatens to overwhelm me. I open my mouth to speak but the room spins, my stomach churning. I stumble back as my knees go weak. I feel myself fall, and his arms catch me as I collapse.

“Princess?” his voice calls out to me as if from a great distance. “Sophie?”

He sets me gently into a chair. I place my hand on his chest and open my eyes. The room has become unbearably hot, and I feel weak as a newborn kitten. Under my fingers, I feel his heart pound, strong and steady. I focus on the sensation, clutching it like a drowning man might clutch a rope. In that moment, he is my lifeline, the only thing tethering me to the earth.

“I need to get back to my room,” I whisper hoarsely.

Without a word, he scoops me up, cradling me in his arms. I rest my head in the curve of his neck. His skin is cool compared to mine so I nuzzle against him, touching him everywhere I can find exposed flesh. I know I shouldn’t touch him so, but the rational part of my mind is being burned away in a haze of fever.

I don’t see the guard throw my door open, but I hear it. Alexander orders him to fetch the physician, lays me across the settee, and wipes my hair back from my face.

“Go,” I order softly. “They can’t find you here.”

I hear him curse lightly under his breath and I feel a quick, nearly imperceptible kiss graze my forehead before he releases me and backs away. As soon as I’m sure he’s gone, I call out to my mother, who rushes into the room. Seeing me, she screams for help. I roll off the lounge and spill onto the cool floor. A pain in my chest rises up and I cough, suddenly unable to catch my breath. When I look down, I see sprinkles of blood pooled on the floor under me. Then a thick, white fog fills the room. I try to swat it away with my hand, but it’s no use. It consumes everything, and I feel my arms give out under me. The last thing I remember is wishing, that if I were about to die, that I could do it back in Alexander’s arms.