The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)(56)

“Clever.”

“Not clever enough. You didn’t fall for it.” Nikolai offered her his arm.

Vika didn’t take it.

“There is no charm on my arm, I promise. You can test it.”

She hovered her hand over his sleeve. There was no hint of magic, not even anything residual on the cloth.

“The coat is an ordinary one from Bissette and Sons,” Nikolai said. “A gift last Christmas from the tsesarevich. But if you leave me standing here like this and don’t take my arm, I’ll never hear the end of it from him. Spare me his teasing, will you?”

She pursed her lips and nodded. Then she slipped her arm through his, although carefully.

But she didn’t die when her white glove met his black sleeve. Instead, every one of his turns in the Game flashed back in an instant. She gasped. It was like the shock of touching Nikolai at Bolshebnoie Duplo, when she had suddenly seen him so clearly. Except this time, rather than seeing his face, she saw and understood his magic. Quiet euphoria coursed through her as she relived the first moment she saw that breathtaking, powder-blue building on Nevsky Prospect, and all the other candy pastel buildings that followed. Then she recalled the Jack and ballerina’s bittersweet duet, and the tugging began again at her chest. Oh, and that feeling when she’d placed her hands on the Imagination Box and it carved everything she longed for . . .

It was as if the attempts to kill her faded into the background, and now she saw the truth at the core of it all: Nikolai’s magic was gorgeous and powerful and . . . and . . .

Her lungs faltered. Even the mere memory of his magic was so strong. And touching Nikolai, even through her gloves and his sleeve, was like being pummeled by a stampede of wild horses. No, wild unicorns. Beautiful, wild unicorns.

Vika stumbled.

Nikolai reached to brace her. His breath also stuttered.

Had he felt their connection, too?

Their eyes locked. They didn’t move.

The orchestra began to play in the background.

After a very long moment, Nikolai cleared his throat and asked, in a hoarse whisper, “The mazurka?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes. The mazurka.” She merely repeated his words without processing them. A mazurka could have meant a death drop into the ocean, and Vika would have agreed to follow him. Nikolai led her in a daze to the far end of the ballroom.

But the orchestra’s upbeat, chirpy tune soon roused her. Vika suddenly remembered she did not know the dance.

She gripped Nikolai’s hand tighter. “I don’t know how—”

“Will you trust me now?”

“To do what?”

“To dance for you?”

She didn’t know what that meant. But the other couples around them had begun to trot, and from across the ballroom, the tsar seemed to frown at her. And the grand princess watched her as if just waiting, hoping for Vika to fail. Vika and Nikolai needed to dance, or they would create chaos in the carefully planned set.

Yet what had she whispered to the ballerina in Palace Square when the Jack had offered his hand? Don’t trust him.

Vika touched the basalt necklace at her throat. “No. I still don’t trust you.”

Nikolai shrugged. “No matter. I’m not giving you a choice.”

Magic rushed around her like the floodgates of a dam had been released, and Vika levitated several inches off the floor on its flow. “Oh!” He must have released the shield he’d used earlier to contain his power. It nearly swept her away.

Nikolai smiled, and this time it was different from the first. There was no mischief. It was purely a blush in smile form. “I’m sorry. But I really want to dance with you.”

A part of Vika—the nonrational part of her—melted.

And the rational side of her was too shocked to fight back. She’d never encountered magic that surged and glowed like this before. It wrapped around her like silk, and she found herself reveling in its warm elegance. Nikolai charmed her feet and her arms, and immediately, they joined in on the lively mazurka. Without needing to think, Vika glided and spun with him, as perfectly synchronized as if they had been dancing together forever. He twirled her out, and like the other men, he knelt, and Vika and the other ladies pranced around them. Then he rose and drew her back in, and they were a couple again, stamping and whirling together.

There was, of course, another irony: Vika was now Nikolai’s puppet, his ballerina in a music box. But Vika also knew that if she wanted him to release her strings, she could force him to. She had magic, too. Only, she didn’t want him to stop.

They didn’t speak, but, rather, let the music carry them. They swiveled and sidestepped, came apart and back together again, each time united with Nikolai’s hand resting gently on Vika’s waist and the snow on her skirt flurrying fiercely. To counter the chill, she threw her arm out toward the fireplace behind the orchestra, and the flames blazed and warmed the room. He smiled at her small enchantment.

Then he spun Vika quickly, and she was a blur, blur, blur, and they danced as if lifted by the wind. He commanded the instruments and their musicians to match their blistering tempo, and the mazurka accelerated faster and faster and faster.

All around them, couples attempted to keep up. They stepped and twirled. They tripped and stumbled. When the song finally ended, one dancer fainted, and her chaperone and a gaggle of others hurried to her side. The orchestra declared a break. And despite the fire in the fireplace, the servants rushed to serve hot tea and warm cakes to their shivering guests.