***
That night at the banquet, the room is very clearly divided. The empress sits at the head of the table, Sergei to her left and Bestuzhev at her right. Princess Charlotte and her brother sit beside the chancellor. I sit on Sergei’s other side with my mother beside me. A few other dignitaries fill the remaining seats and Peter is at the other end of the table, chatting with Mikhail and Alexander, who flank him.
“How was your journey?” Sergei asks Charlotte politely.
“Lovely,” she responds automatically, staring down the table to Peter. “Russia is truly a lovely country.”
Peter snorts and raises a glass of wine.
“Russia is a truly cold country, at least this time of year.”
He inclines his glass in my direction before taking a long drink. Setting the cup down, he frowns.
“This wine is terrible,” he winks at me, “must be Portuguese.”
I grin at the remark.
“And how are you enjoying your time at court?” Charlotte asks me pointedly. “It’s your first time here, isn’t it?”
I smile. “It is my first time in Russia, though I met Peter years ago at Swedish court. We were actually good friends as children.” It’s a slight exaggeration, but Peter doesn’t correct me so I continue, “And I have been having a wonderful visit. Only today, His Highness surprised me with the most beautiful breakfast picnic.”
I watch her face and see her smile slip, just a touch, before she takes a bite of food. A roar of pride fills me, followed immediately by guilt. I should not be so cruel. She is only a girl, like myself, being used as a pawn in a much larger game. Under any other circumstances, we might even be friends. But here, in this court, we are rivals.
And we must each do whatever it takes to win.
Turning to the empress, I continue.
“Sergei has set a meeting with the cardinal tomorrow so we can discuss my conversion,” I say boldly. Truthfully, I hadn’t yet decided to go through with it, but as soon as the empress hears the words, she rewards me with a warm smile. I know there can be no changing my mind now.
“That’s excellent.”
At the end of the table, Peter snorts. “I see my aunt has convinced you of the merits of Orthodoxy. Congratulations,” he says bitterly. “She tried to convince me to do the same, but I refused.”
I glance quickly at Sergei, who doesn’t meet my eye.
Recovering as best I can, I simply say, “Being the future king has its benefits, I suppose.”
After dinner, we retire to the massive theater where the empress has staged a production of Ariadne—a respite from her preferred entertainment of Italian Opera, Peter assures me. Peter is flanked by his men, as always, but motions for me to take a seat next to Alexander. I almost feel bad for Charlotte. She smiles warmly, trying to catch Peter’s eye, but he looks right past her. I watch the smile slip off her face, replaced by a confused frown. I doubt any man has ever looked beyond her in such a manner. It’s his man, Mikhail, who finally steps in and offers the princess and her brother a seat beside him. She looks grateful, her brother, however, looks completely put out as he takes his seat.
The lamps are put out as the stage lights are lit. Immediately, the room is thrown into shadows as the first actors appear.
And the play is in Russian, of course.
I sigh deeply and sit back, watching as a man in yellow brocade struts across the stage. In the darkness, Alexander leans over and whispers.
“You don’t speak Russian, do you?”
I shake my head silently.
He leans in closer. “Then I will translate for you,” he offers softly.
Alexander leans over, his shoulder grazing mine. In the darkness, the gesture seems too intimate, too deliberate. “He is narrating, saying that Theseus has killed the Minotaur and now he and Ariadne have fled to the island of Naxos, to the protection of King Oenarus.”
The narrator steps off stage and the long, golden curtains open to reveal a young woman’s room. She’s weeping in the arms of another woman. They exchange words in a sad, rushed conversation. One strokes the other’s long, brown hair and soothes her softly and begins a low, wistful aria
“The one crying,” I say quietly. “She’s Ariadne?”
Alexander nods. “She’s upset because she’s in love with Theseus, but he has refused to marry her. The other girl is her sister, Phaedra.”
The play goes on, each character draped in nearly sheer togas, garlands of ivy upon their heads. It would be quite indecent, except for the art of it. Though I don’t understand what’s being said, I am able to follow the story very well—a testament to the skill of the actors.
“I don’t understand. If Theseus is in love with Phaedra, and she with him, why don’t they just tell Ariadne? Surely, she would understand?” I ask quietly to Alexander.
“Because, they both care about Ariadne. They want her to accept the love of the king and find happiness before they tell her, for fear that the truth would destroy her,” he explains.
“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.”
&nb
sp; 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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