The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)(61)

As soon as the skiff pulled close to the rocky shore, Gavriil jumped out to tie the boat to a maple on the coast. The tree was fully leafed and green. Eternal summer, indeed.

Pasha climbed out next, and finally, Nikolai. All three of them stood with mouths agape as they took in the scenery.

It was, as Nikolai had guessed, very much like the Summer Garden in Saint Petersburg. The breeze from the bay rustled through trees and pink flowering bushes. The burbling of water indicated fountains or waterfalls in the distance. Warblers chirped and ducks quacked.

And everywhere in the air was her magic.

Nikolai closed his eyes and felt the tingle of it on his skin, like a sprinkle of rain or a dusting of snow. Her enchantment pulsed in the ground beneath his boots. And he could smell it in the wind, the scent of honeysuckle mixed with cinnamon, the same fragrance that wafted from Vika’s hair when she danced. He felt hot and cold again, found and lost, like he’d felt with her in his arms at the ball.

“Are you asleep again, Nikolai?”

His eyes fluttered open, and Pasha stood in front of him, grinning. How long had he been there? Nikolai really had lost track of space and time.

“Gavriil has gone off to inspect and secure the coast. But I thought we might head inside.” Pasha pointed at the wide gravel path that led into the park. It was a long promenade lined with oaks and shaded overhead by their leaves.

“Yes, of course,” Nikolai said. “Lead the way.”

They followed the path and entered the boulevard of trees. Everywhere they looked, there were larks and wrens, peeping a melody that sounded almost like an old Russian folk song. If Nikolai listened too closely, the song disintegrated into random notes, but if he softened his focus, the tune came back together again, like the whistling of panpipes and the strumming of a balalaika.

“This is a wonderland,” Pasha said.

Nikolai could only nod, for he did not have the words to express how true a statement that was. For every leaf that Pasha saw, Nikolai also saw every stem and vein on that leaf. For every pond that Pasha marveled at, Nikolai sensed every droplet of water that filled it. A boulder was not merely a boulder, but a rock face full of detailed crags and slivers of crystal. None of it was as simple as it seemed, and it had all been conjured out of nothing.

“This island is the best enchantment yet,” Pasha said.

Nikolai suppressed a grimace. Ever since dancing with Vika, it had been harder to think of the Game as a competition. But here was proof once more that it was, and she had bested him yet again.

The boys walked deeper into the park. It was easy to maintain their bearings; like the Summer Garden, the island was laid out geometrically, with paths running parallel and perpendicular. Unlike the Summer Garden, however, Nikolai noticed an absence of statues and fountains. In fact, there was nothing resembling the man-made here—no benches, no sculptures, no columns and iron-grille fences. Perhaps because that was not Vika’s strength.

But it was his.

Nikolai’s scar seared against his skin, and it suddenly occurred to him that the lack of a dock and the dearth of statuary were deliberate. It was an open invitation for him to play. This island was not Vika’s alone; it could also be Nikolai’s.

He looked overhead to the canopy of leaves and smiled.

But then his smile faded. Had she created this island for them to collaborate? Or was it a trap, waiting to be sprung? Nikolai might have forgotten about the Game the other night at the ball, but it was possible she had not.

No, it was likely she had not.

Pasha waved to him from an outcropping that overlooked the Neva Bay to Saint Petersburg. Beside him rose a pillar of rock shaped like an enormous candle.

“Hey-o, Nikolai, come see the view.”

Nikolai sighed. “I’ll be right there.”

He trudged over to where Pasha stood. But he did not take in the bay or Saint Petersburg. All he could focus on was the pillar of rock.

It looked just like a candle that had been snuffed out.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


Since work at the Zakrevsky household had slowed to a tortoise’s crawl, Renata was permitted to set up a tea stall next to Ludmila’s pumpkin kiosk to make some extra money. Her station consisted of a simple table and several large copper samovars and a set of barely chipped cups and saucers Renata had salvaged when the countess declared them wanting. For a few kopecks, Renata would sell Ludmila’s customers a cup of tea to go with their pastry. For a few more coins, she would read their leaves.

As soon as she opened her stall, the first customer arrived. “I understand you read leaves,” she said.

Renata gaped at her. It was the lightning girl, Lady Snow, the other enchanter in Nikolai’s Game. She tried to look Vika in the eyes but had to turn away. There was something too vibrant about them. Too green. Too intense. “Y-yes, miss. I read leaves.” She fumbled with setting up the samovar.

“Will you read mine?”

“Uh . . .” She could not seem to form a coherent sentence. Although she and Vika were close to the same age, Vika’s confidence and the way she carried herself made her infinitely more formidable than Renata could ever be.

“You were the girl at the ball with Nikolai, were you not? In the peacock gown. I recognize your braids. They’re very intricate.”

“Yes, that was me.”

Vika reached over to help Renata with the stubborn spigot on the samovar. “There. That ought to be better.”