The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)(54)

Vika held a very long breath.

“Father, Mother, may I present to you Lady Snow.”

Vika smiled as if she had never met the tsar before, and she curtsied to the floor again.

“That is an impressive gown,” the tsarina said when Vika had risen. “The shimmering fabric gives the illusion of the snowstorm being real. Wherever did you have it made?”

“I tailored it myself, Your Imperial Majesty. I am very grateful that it pleases you.” Vika cringed at her own words. She sounded like such a sycophant. But what was the appropriate thing to say when the tsarina complimented your magic, without knowing it was magic? There was certainly no etiquette manual to cover that.

“Take care not to become too enamored of the tsesarevich,” the tsar said. “It will require more than a showy gown to be worthy.”

Vika’s hand fluttered to her collarbone. She had charmed her scar to be invisible tonight, but it still burned. And even though the tsar was commenting ostensibly on her dress, his warning was clear: he was not impressed by the enchantments recently cast over the city by her and the other enchanter, Nikolai. They would have to do more to win the right to advise him.

But at least it seemed that he would not end the Game tonight. He would give them more chances to prove themselves. A little of the tension leached from Vika’s shoulders.

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” she said. “I understand completely.”

The tsar grunted. The tsarina nodded and said, “Enjoy the ball.”

As the tsesarevich led Vika across the ballroom, he said, “Now it’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry my family are so . . . dreadful.”

Vika shook her head violently. “Oh, no, Your Imperial Highness, they’re not—”

He grinned, and it appeared more the expression of an impish boy than that of the heir to an empire. “Please, call me Pasha. And it’s true, they are dreadful. Well, not my mother. But Father and Yuliana can be. Father is an awfully good tsar, though. And Yuliana can’t help being dour; she was born that way.”

Vika didn’t know anything appropriate to say. How to respond when the crown prince pokes fun at his family would also not be in the etiquette manual. She could respond with something clever or snide—I never thought kindness was a prerequisite for world domination anyway—but Vika didn’t fancy being arrested tonight for treason. So she kept her mouth shut.

As they approached the center of the ballroom, a bald man in white uniform—not a military one, but something with silver tassels and epaulettes nonetheless—scurried up to the tsesarevich.

“Your Imperial Highness, would you like the entire floor to yourself?”

The tsesarevich scrunched his nose. “Goodness, no, Fyodor. And ask the orchestra to play a waltz, please.”

Fyodor, whom Vika deduced must be a dance manager of some sort, scuttled away and began waving urgently at the costumed men and women around the room. As Vika and the tsesarevich took their place, the dance floor around them began to fill with other couples. Nearby, a peacock and a young man in a harlequin mask caught her eye.

The tsesarevich took her hand and rested his other behind her opposite shoulder.

“Oh! I, uh . . . I’ve never waltzed before, Your Imperial Highness. Actually, I must confess I have never danced any sort of dance.”

He blinked at her. “Any dance?”

“Folk dances. But not proper ballroom ones, Your Imperial Highness.”

The tsesarevich lifted her left hand and placed it on his shoulder. “Will you please call me Pasha?”

“I—”

“I will call you Vika, if that makes it a fairer trade.”

“I . . . Wait.” A tiny laugh escaped her. “You do know who I am.”

“The gown was a clever clue. My boots are still cold from that day. I’m very glad you accepted the invitation. My apologies for its last-minute nature. You’re a difficult girl to track down.”

Now Vika truly laughed.

“So you will call me Pasha?” He tilted his head, and he looked like a little boy asking for something as simple as ice cream. As if calling the heir to an entire empire by his nickname were such a simple matter.

But why not? He was a person, just as Vika was. “All right then. Pasha.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, and the delight lit him from within. Those around them on the dance floor smiled, too, as if his joy were contagious.

He could smile like that and have anyone agree with him, about anything, she thought. It wasn’t magic, but it was close.

The orchestra began a gentle rhythm, and Pasha squeezed Vika’s hand. “Just follow my lead.”

At first, she concentrated on her steps. It would be best not to make a complete fool of herself, since everyone was watching. Thank goodness for the mask. Although it would not save her from the tsar. He already knew who she was.

They spun around the floor, and Vika tried not to step on Pasha’s toes. Soon, however, she figured out that they danced in the shape of a box, and she was able to release some of her focus and let him guide her.

“Thank you for what you’ve done to the city,” he said close to her ear.

“What I’ve done?”

“You know: Nevsky Prospect, the Neva Fountain, the Canal of Colors, the music box pas de deux, the pumpkin kiosk, the Masquerade Box . . .”