The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)(70)

Nikolai wished, for a moment, that he could keep falling, and she could keep catching him.

But they couldn’t. He stood, and she released his hand so he could brush the dirt off his trousers.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded. But she did not reach for him again. Rather, she looked at him as if she expected something else.

All he wanted was her hand again, that quickening of his pulse when she touched him. But he answered her question instead. “No, I am not at all glad for the Game. Are you?”

Vika chewed on her lip as she considered. Finally, she said, “Yes. I’m glad for it. I both love it and hate it. Which, I think, means I both love and hate myself. I am the Game, and the Game is me. This is what my whole life has led up to, and this will determine the rest of it.”

Nikolai sighed. He knew she was right, despite these fleeting moments of peace they seemed to have. They would both continue to play the Game to win. His entire existence had been built upon fighting for this, fighting against powerlessness, fighting to be somebody who couldn’t be ignored, and he wouldn’t give it up so easily. He suspected Vika felt the same way. If only he’d never started calling her by her name.

But who was he kidding? He would’ve been drawn to her whether he’d said her name or not. Their enchantments might be pitted against each other, but they were also part of the same magic. Part of the same whole. It would make winning so much more bittersweet.

At that thought, the dream around them vanished suddenly. Nikolai found himself crumpled on the bench, with Vika kneeling at his side.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I . . . nothing. I just . . . I lost my grip.” Nikolai pushed himself upright, but unlike in the dreamworld, fatigue saturated him, and he could hardly keep his eyes open.

“The benches have taken a great deal out of you,” Vika said.

Why didn’t creating the island do that to you? he wanted to ask, but he was so thoroughly exhausted, his mouth couldn’t form the words.

“You should rest,” Vika said.

“I’ll sleep on the bench,” Nikolai managed to whisper.

“No, people will be coming to the island soon. After all, you made a dock that invited them. You should rest in your own bed.”

“It’s too far.”

“Not as far as you think.” She laid her hand on his arm, and again he warmed at her touch. “Sleep well, Nikolai. You deserve it.”

“I—”

But he didn’t get the chance to finish, because she pushed him gently, and he exploded and imploded all at once. His eyes flew open as the world went completely white, and for an instant, he thought she had finally killed him.

But she had turned him into . . . bubbles?

He rematerialized a few seconds later, and his vision pieced itself together. He was standing at the steps outside the Zakrevskys’ house.

“Vika?”

It took a minute for Nikolai to realize what had happened. He had been a person. And then he’d dissolved. Then come back together again.

“Mon dieu! She evanesced me.” He shook his head and stumbled. His reconstructed hand shook as he tried to charm open the front door.

She was so powerful, she had evanesced him all the way home.





CHAPTER FORTY-THREE


Curtain rings scraped along their metal rod. Drapes parted, and the midday sun blazed into Nikolai’s room, straight into his face. Renata stood over his bed.

“Argh, what are you doing?” He buried his face in his pillow.

“You need to get up.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s almost three in the afternoon.”

“But how did you get in here?”

“You forgot to lock the door.”

“What?” Nikolai rolled over and stared at his bedroom door. The five locks were indeed undone. How had he forgotten? He never forgot, even when it was only a single lock, not since Renata had discovered him in the midst of magic two years ago.

Then he remembered the island, and the benches, and it made some sense that he’d drowsed asleep without flipping the dead bolts. He flopped back onto his pillow.

“You’re falling to pieces, Nikolai.”

“Am I? I appear to be rather intact.” He held out his arm to prove it. Which, however, reminded him of Vika evanescing him, and he drew his arm back close to his body, for perhaps he had fallen to pieces after all. Only, she had put him back together. This time.

“You know what I mean.” Renata set a tray on the table by his bed. On it was a pot of tea, a section of baguette next to a dish of butter and jam, and a tiny pastry shaped like a swan. The swan swam in a dish of butterscotch. It literally swam.

“What is this?”

“Ludmila gave it to me. I mentioned you were ill, and she sent me home to nurse you, with this as medicine. Of course, that was hours ago. Lucky the swan isn’t real. Its poor legs would have broken off from exhaustion by now.”

Nikolai jolted up in bed. “How could you bring this here?”

Renata frowned. “What do you mean? It’s only breakfast, well, afternoon tea, now. And I . . . Oh. Oh no.” Her eyes grew wide.

“Precisely.”

“It was enchanted by Vika. So I shouldn’t have been able to bring it past the front door.”