The Crown's Game - Evelyn Skye Page 0,94

and Nikolai. “But Alexander said you could help me.”

Alexander. How humanizing to hear the tsar referred to by his name. For the first time, Vika saw him as simply another person, not the heaven-appointed ruler of an empire, and not the final arbiter of the Game.

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” Vika said. “I believe I can help.”

“Are you a doctor?”

Vika shook her head at this gentle, frail woman who had thought Vika’s snowy gown at the ball had been a mere illusion of fabric. “No, Your Imperial Majesty. I am not a doctor.”

“My dear,” the tsar said, “these two are enchanters. They work with magic.”

“Magic?”

He squeezed her hand. “Yes. Magic. It’s real.”

The tsarina’s eyes widened, and Vika could see Pasha in her expression. That innocent wonderment at the existence of “otherness” in their previously ordinary world.

“I am going to evanesce you to the Sea of Azov,” Vika said.

“Oh, my. What does that mean? And . . . right now?”

“It means I will magically transport you there, whenever you are ready.”

“What do you need me to do?” the tsarina asked. “How will it feel?”

“You don’t need to do anything,” the tsar said. “Correct?” He directed the question at both Vika and Nikolai.

Nikolai stepped forward. “Your Imperial Majesty, do you like champagne?”

She smiled up at him. “I do.”

“Well, evanescing is a bit like being transformed into champagne. Vika’s magic will turn you into tiny bubbles, and you will fly through the air, a bit giddy and a great deal effervescent, all the way to the sea. And then when you arrive, you’ll morph from bubbles back to yourself again, with the tsar by your side.”

The tsarina smiled even brighter. “I rather like the idea of being champagne.” She turned to Vika. “All right. I am ready.”

“Your Imperial Majesty, just one thing, if I may . . . ,” Nikolai said.

The tsarina nodded.

He flicked his wrist and transformed her nightgown into a burgundy traveling dress. A thick mink coat appeared as well and settled on her shoulders.

The tsarina gasped, but clapped her hands, delighted. “I should have thought to change. How silly to travel in a nightgown.”

Nikolai dipped his head and smiled. “Even evanescing ought to be done in style, Your Imperial Majesty.”

She smiled back kindly at him. “Indeed.” She turned to Vika. “I believe Alexander and I are truly ready now.”

The tsar nodded, himself pulling on a fur-lined greatcoat.

Vika glanced at Nikolai. Again, he gave her his subtle nod, his confidence. She turned to the tsar and tsarina.

One breath. Two breaths. Three . . .

And she evanesced the tsar and tsarina out of the Winter Palace, all the way to the sea.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Sergei cried out from his bed. Galina dropped the armload of firewood she was moving near the fireplace—with nothing else to do in Siberia, and with Sergei indisposed, she had begun finding solace in the daily chores of their household—and rushed to his side.

His forehead beaded with sweat, and his black eyes were open but seemed not to see her. “Galina . . .”

“Shh, mon frère.” She dipped a nearby washcloth in a basin of water and dabbed it on his head. “I’m right here.”

“Something happened. There’s no more.” Delirium tinged his whisper.

The composure Galina had been trying to keep fell from her face. Her jaw tightened. “No more what?”

“No more of me left.” He rolled toward the sound of her voice, his eyes still unseeing. “Tell Vika the truth about who I am. Who she is. And tell her I loved her.”

Galina dropped the washcloth back in the basin. “Sergei, no.”

“I am finished.”

“No! I shall write to the tsar. I’ll request that he declare a winner and end the Game. You will recover.”

“Hm?” Sergei grunted.

“You’ll get better.”

But he ignored her. It was as if his ears were failing him, as well. “Tell Vika I am proud of her. And not to be upset at me for the bracelet, and for not telling her about me, or about her mother. I did it all because I love her.”

“Sergei . . .”

His eyes drifted closed. Then they flitted open again, only to droop and fly open once more.

“Please don’t go,” Galina whispered.

“Sing to me,” he said.

She swallowed the dread lodged in her throat, and she began to sing his lullaby. Her voice carried out from the cabin across the fields of snow.

Na ulitse dozhdik,

S vedra polivaet,

S vedra polivaet,

Zemlyu pribivaet.

Sergei sighed when she finished, and she tucked the sheets tightly around him. “Sing again,” he said.

So Galina did.

At the end of the song,

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