The Tsarina's Legacy (39 page)

“No one else?”

“Directly to her. I promise.”

Except that Grisha had not been able to adequately express his final wishes and the strain pushed hard on his heart, the last tendril of melancholia having its way with him, telling him he was nothing, that he had never mattered. “I need to finish. I had a thought for a postscript to better explain my feelings.”

“She knows your heart better than anyone in this world. You have often said as much. You have expressed yourself clearly.”

“If I had a few more moments…”

“You need to rest. She knows your feelings and your true affection.”

Grisha felt once more as though he were suffocating, as though an unseen hand wrapped tightly around his throat and refused to let go. He sputtered. He had asked to travel because he thought a pristine natural environment might revive his worn body, perhaps even give him a few more months. But it had been a weak attempt to prolong this life. There was no point in arguing with God. When would he ever learn?

“I found something!” He heard the Cossack speak. The man held up a five-
kopek
coin, not exactly the gold used to send off the great Greeks like Agamemnon, to pay off the ferry captain on the way to the next world. Could a captain refuse him passage for such a light fare? Perhaps he would be sent back to this world and then the entourage would have to further contend with his pleas for forgiveness.

Another round of chills attacked and he shuddered uncontrollably, despite Anton's steady hand on his shoulder. A five-
kopek
coin would probably suffice.

Anton's gentle voice whispered in his ear. “It was a pleasure to serve with you.”

“And with you,” Grisha replied hoarsely. “Make good use of your life.”

“I will. I promise.”

Anton was pushed to the back of the crowd. Grisha could just make him out. He had the letter to Catherine in a roll by his side. He pulled it out of the casing and held it high, so that Grisha could see it above the gathering mourners.

The pasha stood to the right of Anton, shimmering and distant, a serene smile softening his harsh features. With great effort, Grisha inclined his head toward the letter for Catherine. The pasha nodded and then slowly faded.

Grisha had thought Catherine would die first. She was older than him, but he should have known better. Catherine might live forever. He could almost see her, hunched over the letter bringing word that he was gone and crying softly to herself, shunning even Zubov's advances as she clung to her grief. She was a strong woman and she would be all right. The empire they had built together would go on as well. Their time on this earth was brief, but it had meant something. He needed to cling to that belief.

All of his desires and ambitions evaporated, and it was as though the fever had broken and he felt himself once more. Perhaps he had been taken down too soon, but he had lived life fully and tried to make things better along the way.

The birdsong grew louder, more exquisite, rising slowly and sweetly to drown out the hustle and voices of the people around him. For a moment, he was once again transported back to the golden fields he had known as a boy, playing with the children from the serf families, stomping through the wheat until his nursemaid called for him to come inside, where she fed him buckwheat and turnips and told him stories of Father Frost and the Snow Maiden, the Firebird, and Prince Igor. The vision in his one good eye shifted, the trees and sky and grass merging into a single orange light.

“
Matushka
,” he said quietly.

He couldn't see Catherine, but he sensed her presence, the gentle squeeze on his shoulder, the soft voice in his ear like a caress.
You belong to me. Now you can let go.

Grisha closed his eyes and felt the earth sink beneath him.

Matushka,

I can't believe we are separated this one final time, especially when I feel the end is so near. I want to be near to hold your little hand and help you with the hundreds of small tasks that occupy your day. But this time, darling wife, even from afar, I must ask you to grant me one last favor to make our legacy to this great empire complete.

Anton read the rest of the letter in the dim light of the dying campfire, careful to keep his head back so his tears would not mar the vellum. The prince's scrawling handwriting stopped abruptly at the end of the second paragraph, and then he had added strange Arabic symbols to the bottom of the page, a code for the empress no doubt.

He had not wanted to travel to the south, despite the prince's ravings on the healthful air and clean living of the place. He detested
kvass
and stinking cabbage soup and all of the other vile Russian remedies the prince insisted on ingesting, as though they somehow held more power than the strongest Western medicines.

When Anton had caught these rancid scents, he had been transported back to the golden fields far outside of Moscow and his sisters bent over shafts of wheat. His mother worked with them, brandishing a curved scythe. Her skin was dotted and wrinkled from the sun and her lips pursed into a perpetual frown, although she would still look at him with loving eyes and sing to him softly at bedtime. Anton was six and deemed old enough to work, but he had pleaded a sore throat that day and his mother feared the grippe. She told him he could play on his blanket and they would cover for him.

One of his sisters tripped in the field and skinned her knee so badly she hobbled when she walked. Anton's mother yelled at her to get back to work.

His father had left for the capital after Anton was born. Every so often, they received a small fold filled with coins and crumpled bills but no summons to join him in St. Petersburg.

At last, six years after his father left, the messenger came from court. Did they have a boy? Prince Potemkin needed him, for his valet was growing sick and weak and wished to finally do right by his family.

Without the prince's intervention, Anton would still have been working the field. Anton had visited the old man once but scarcely recognized him. After that, Anton grew convinced Prince Potemkin had summoned him, not his own father. The prince had probably heard the story of Anton's family somewhere and determined to help make it right.

Anton looked at another letter he had saved. The prince had composed it, but his writing had grown so awful, his hands unable to stop shaking, that Anton could barely decipher the words. Nonetheless, he thought he knew what the prince would want to tell the empress and what she would want to hear. He took pen to paper, careful to emulate the prince's handwriting.

We spoke of empire and expansion and absorbing the continent into an enlightened and prosperous whole. I know my project to build the mosque may seem a minor part of this grand vision, but think of the implications.

He thought on everything the prince had shared and his last few months in St. Petersburg. Anton continued to write.

*   *   *

Platon had retired to another room, exhausted from his attempts to comfort Catherine. She cried still but didn't dare let any of her subjects, no matter how close to her heart, see her true emotions. It was not appropriate. She had enough concerns about the ways in which her court perceived her sentimentality, especially as she aged. As though her emotions had ever hindered her ability to rule.

When it came to maintaining power, appearances were everything; as a woman and a Romanov by marriage only, she knew this better than anyone. She feared some at court, goaded by Paul, would claim she'd grown senile in her old age. Even after all of these years, after all she had done for her adopted Russian empire, they still doubted her right to the throne.

Her love affair had not helped. Grisha had been correct on that point, though she would never have admitted as much to him. Catherine knew well enough how her relationship with Platon looked, the aging woman and her young favorite, the nonsense whispered behind her back. Let them whisper. Any spirited woman in the twilight of life wanted a chance to feel young once more, joyful and energetic, rather than bitter and done. Why should she give up such bliss? And if by some twist of fate their positions were reversed? If Platon were the aging monarch and she an aspiring young woman? No one would think twice of their union.

Only her husband had truly understood, even if he did object to her dear Platon personally. What a singular marriage it had been.

She had his sword knot still, the gold tassel he had given to her when he was still but Platon's age. She could not sleep. Instead she had wandered to her study, where the tassel hung from the wall, and lit the tapers of a candelabra so she might reread the letter her husband's little valet had handed her earlier. She held her emotions in check until she came to the end.

You may be the greatest woman who has ever walked this earth. I was honored to even have been near you, let alone allowed to treasure and love you and aid in your mission. I love you.

Your devoted husband as ever,

G

She could have built the mosque. She could have told Platon to hush. If he pouted, she would only need to find another monkey to distract him, or award him a new title. The mosque would have been such a small gesture really. If only she had known it would be Grisha's last request on this earth. She could still order its construction, but what was the point if he wasn't here to experience it with her? What was the point of anything?

If she looked at the letter again she would break.

And then she saw the arabesques, their secret language. Despite everything, she smiled to herself and her cheeks flushed. Her little kitten could still have that effect on her, even after all of these years, even after he had departed from this earth.

Catherine had the plans he had drawn up for the project framed and hung on her wall. She folded the letter into four parts and tucked it behind the backing of the picture. She didn't want anyone else to find it. She would attend to it herself when the time was right.

Twenty

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
(SECOND DRAFT)

NEW HEIR SCHEDULED TO SPEAK
ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

Dmitry Potemkin, former spokesperson for the Russian Monarchist Society, has issued an invitation for reporters to meet a new heir to serve as ceremonial tsar after the unexpected withdrawal of Romanov heiress Dr. Veronica Herrera.

 

ST. PETERSBURG
PRESENT DAY

Veronica stared at the frayed sword tassel that had fallen to the office floor last night. Someone had placed it back on its hook on the wall, alongside the other Potemkin mementos. She tried to imagine what the tassel might have looked like when Potemkin and Catherine first met, on the night Catherine seized the throne, bright gold rather than gray and musty with age. Veronica's gaze shifted to their portraits. Perhaps if she stared long enough, she might somehow conjure the prince to help her get through the next several hours.

“Enjoying your last moments as tsarina?”

Slowly, Veronica turned. Irina sat at the desk, tapping her fingers together, face a patient mask. She smiled placidly in Veronica's direction, her latest gray pantsuit so freshly pressed the fabric practically shimmered.

Sasha had followed Irina into the office but didn't bother to sit, only lingered affably, as he was prone to do, near the portrait of his pretty ancestor Felix Yusupov. Sasha took a moment to appraise Felix's serene, if somewhat arrogant, features, and Veronica worried he was having second thoughts.

“I'll sign papers.” Veronica tried to keep her voice flat. “Whatever you need. I'll relinquish my claim. I'm through with all of this. It's not worth it.”

Irina widened her eyes in mock surprise. “Giving up that easily?”

“It wasn't easy at all.” Veronica's heart thudded. Perhaps she should have put up more of a fight. Acquiescence may have heightened Irina's suspicious nature. She modulated her voice to sound angrier, not that it was difficult. “How do I know you'll keep your end of the bargain? How do I know Michael will be released?”

“I stay true to my word. It is part of the code of the nobility. You relinquish your claim and Michael is released within the hour.” She hunched forward and Veronica caught the harsh aroma of Irina's reproduction of Catherine's perfume. “In exchange, I want you out of the country. I do not want this organization associated with a pro-homosexual agenda.”

Veronica met her gaze. “And I want Michael out of that hellhole now.”

Irina turned to Sasha. “You understand what this means for you?”

“I do.” Sasha smiled gamely, same mellow smile under the hipster beard. Veronica had a feeling he was a good poker player. She liked that.

“This is a shame,” Irina said, addressing Veronica once more. “I think your tenure as tsarina could have been most successful. But you simply could not grasp the full picture. Success is a complicated matter and involves compromise.”

“I couldn't make the kind of compromise you wanted.”

“So what are you going to do now? Go back to your old job?”

Veronica tried not to think too much about her old job: the dry, artificial office air and the dull spreadsheets. “If necessary.”

“You would rather sit in a cramped cubicle than take advantage of your position. And for what? Do you think the government is really going to do anything about Reb?”

“You seemed to think they would if I got involved,” Veronica shot back.

She clamped her mouth shut and bent her head, trying to seem pensive once more.

“You have three hours to leave,” Irina said testily. “I'll make sure Mikhail's visa is returned to him. Your tickets are ready. I'm even going to make sure Mikhail's personal items are collected. I will escort you to the airport myself.”

*   *   *