The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)(73)

Vika tilted her head. “Gavriil?”

“The captain of my Guard. He doesn’t like it when I try new things. A boat made of a leaf, I think, may push him to the limits of his tolerance.”

“You may assure him it is entirely safe.”

“I have no doubt. Perhaps I ought to send him out on the leaf first, to prove its sturdiness.”

Vika laughed, and Pasha did, too. She sparkled like the lanterns under the moonlight.

“Have you tried the benches?” she asked.

“No. Gavriil wouldn’t let me when so many people were around during the day. Have you been through all the dreams?”

“Yes, and some more than once. They are all astounding.”

Pasha glanced over his shoulder at the benches he had passed on his way to Vika. “Which is your favorite? Besides the obvious?” He dipped his head toward the Ovchinin Island bench on which she sat.

“The steppe,” she said without pause.

“Interesting. I have a friend who is originally from the steppe. You met him, actually, at the ball. Nikolai. He was the harlequin.”

Vika paused, and for a moment she seemed as frozen as her dress had been that night. But then she was herself again. “Right. The harlequin. I think I remember him. Remarkable dancer.”

“Indeed. He is always popular with the girls at balls.” Pasha watched her closely for her reaction.

“Is he?” Vika’s expression remained even and bland. It was as if she were neither impressed nor unimpressed, as if Nikolai wasn’t memorable to her at all. Pasha exhaled.

“But enough about Nikolai. Could we sit on the bench with the steppe dream? Would you show me around?”

Vika furrowed her brow. “Actually . . . if you don’t mind, I was rather fancying a walk. I’ve been sitting here for a while. Or if you’d rather have some time alone with the benches—”

“No. A walk sounds perfect.” Pasha offered her his arm, and she linked hers through his.

They strolled down the rest of the promenade, past the last bench, the one that contained the dream of the steppe, and turned left onto another path.

“Why did you come to the island in the middle of the night?” Vika asked. “To experience it without Gavriil watching? And how did you escape his watch? I would think a tsesarevich would be closely guarded.”

“They try, but I know secret passageways in and out of the palace of which they are unaware. In general, they don’t report my absences, for at best they would appear to be fools, and at worst they would be disgraced and lose their positions. So in exchange for them ‘forgetting’ on many occasions to inform my father when they lose track of me, I return unscathed each time.”

“A risky bargain, but I suppose I understand. You haven’t answered my other question, though. Why are you here?”

“I may ask the same of you.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nor could I.”

They walked on for a while without speaking. Vika looked up at the lanterns, while Pasha took pleasure in the weight of her arm against his. There were many layers of cloth that separated them, but he swore his skin tingled at her touch anyway. His pulse definitely thrummed faster. It was a welcome distraction from worrying about his mother.

When they turned onto another path—this one, Pasha recalled, led to a grove of maple trees—Vika said, “You have a great deal on your mind.”

Pasha started. It was the second time she had surprised him in half an hour. “Are you also a mind reader?”

“No. I hate to tell you, but your face gives everything away. There’s so much tension in your jaw, and you have a groove chiseled into your forehead. Not to mention your hair. Do you always pull it when you worry?”

Pasha shook his head. “You are remarkable.”

“Merely observant.”

He sighed as they stepped into the maple grove. “It’s just that my mother is very ill,” Pasha said. “It has been one thing after another, and the doctors are at their wits’ end. Their last hope is to send her to the South in hopes the warmer weather will do her good. I love her dearly, so I, too, hope it is the cure, but the truth is, I doubt it. Her problems began long before autumn arrived.”

Pasha released Vika’s arm and began to pace along the path. He thought of his mother’s life; it had not been easy to live in the Winter Palace with his father. The tsar had had many well-known affairs. Other children, borne by other women. The tsarina could have left and taken Yuliana with her, but Pasha would have had to remain behind as official heir to the throne. As such, his mother had stayed and abided a mountain of insult and indignity for the love of her son.

“I wish there were some miracle that could heal her.”

“Are you asking me to use magic on her?” Vika asked.

Pasha stopped his pacing. Hope caught in his throat. “Can you?”

Vika exhaled slowly and rubbed a spot just under the collar of her coat. She took several more breaths before she replied. “I can heal cuts and broken bones, but what ails your mother sounds much deeper. I think I’d do her more harm than good.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. Magic is not always the answer. It’s old and very complicated, and comes tied with many strings. Even this”—she tapped the knot of the maple tree, which began to pour amber liquid into a bucket below—“one of Ludmila’s innocent ideas, has consequences greater than syrup.”