a part of me, whatever the outcome. If you die, a part of me dies. If you live but suffer over guilt from the Game, then I suffer as well.”
“I am very sorry for that.”
She shook her head. “I’m not.” She took the tray of dirty dishes and strode to the door. “I don’t regret loving you, Nikolai. It’s always been in my leaves, and I wouldn’t trade it for another cup.” She opened the door and slipped out to the hall.
Nikolai looked after her long after she had gone. He did not relock his door.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The tsarina had been unwell for quite some time. This Pasha knew, as he had heard his mother muffling coughs into handkerchiefs at supper, seen her retire earlier and earlier from state functions, and watched her once-regal presence wilt into a near nonexistent one. Yuliana had commented on the tsarina’s wan complexion as well, and Pasha himself had caught her once when she fainted during a stroll in the gardens.
Now Pasha strode into the small chamber his mother used for conducting business—the same room through which he’d sneaked the night of the ball—having been summoned by the tsarina in the middle of his meeting with the Spanish ambassador.
“You wished to see me, Mother?” Pasha asked as he strode up to the tsarina’s desk. He took her gloved hand and kissed it.
“Yes, darling.” There was no one else in the room but some of her attendants, and she waved them out. “I apologize for interrupting your meeting. This may be the only moment I have free before I leave.”
“No apology necessary. The Spanish ambassador is a pompous bore, and Father had me meet with him only to keep the Spaniards out of his own hair. But did you say you’re leaving? Where to? Are you sure you’re fit to travel?” Pasha dragged a chair from the opposite side of the desk and set it next to his mother’s. When he sat down, he took her hands and clasped them in his lap.
“The doctor has deemed it advisable to move me to warmer weather, now that October is ending and the chill has arrived. Your father and I shall depart for the South in two days’ time.”
“Forty-eight hours’ notice? Why the rush?”
She frowned. “Your father has urgent business to which he must attend in the Crimea.”
“Trouble with the Ottoman Empire.”
“Yes, the situation is worsening.” The wrinkles on her forehead pinched, making her look even more worn down. “He wants to see it for himself. You’ll take care of the city and your sister while we’re gone, will you not?”
“Yuliana does not need taking care of.”
The tsarina laughed then, and her wrinkles unpinched. But her laughter was punctuated with hacking coughs.
Pasha winced.
She waved off his concern with her handkerchief. “I shall see you soon, all right?”
“All right.” Pasha kissed his mother’s hand again. For what could he say? She was his mother, but she was also the tsarina, and other than the tsar, the tsarina had the final word.
“Now if you will help me up, I need to check on how the staff is handling my luggage.”
He stood and pulled her up. She needed a second to steady herself, and then he led her out of the room, into the hall. She clung to him for support the entire way to her rooms.
Pasha rowed toward the island with long, even strokes. It was not hard to know where to go; the island was lit with twinkling lanterns, luminescent against the black sky. He had been back to the island only once—the tsar had been trying his hardest to keep Pasha occupied—but unlike the first time, Pasha’s second visit had been crowded, since the new dock allowed the rest of Saint Petersburg access.
And everyone had known he was the tsesarevich, for his Guard had accompanied him. It was impossible to enjoy the Dream Benches when he knew everyone would watch him, and besides that, Gavriil had refused to allow the tsesarevich to “fall under the influence of hallucinatory drugs.” Pasha shook his head. As if the benches could be explained so simply! But the people of Saint Petersburg had convinced themselves that the colorful mists surrounding each bench were hallucinogens, and then they’d shown a surprising willingness to throw themselves into the experience anyway. That in itself, thought Pasha, could be construed as magic. He laughed aloud at the memory of the crowds of ordinarily staid Petersburgers, packing themselves ten people to a bench.