CHAPTER 31
Astasia lay listlessly on the ivory silk-canopied bed with the shutters drawn. Nadezhda had placed a little cloth impregnated with lavender water on her forehead, but the strong scent made her feel queasy again, so she threw it to the other end of the bedchamber as soon as Nadezhda tiptoed away.
“I never faint,” she murmured.
“It’s just a headache,” Countess Lovisa had pronounced briskly. “A touch of the megrims. She’ll be over it soon.”
Even though the shutters were drawn against the bright daylight, they did not prevent the racket of the preparations for the ball from penetrating the bedchamber: the shouts of guardsmen tugging on the marquee ropes and the endless dull thuds as they hammered stakes into the grass.
“Eugene’s beautiful lawns will be quite ruined. . . .” She closed her eyes again, wishing all the noise would fade away and leave her in peace. But sleep eluded her as one thought kept going around and around in her brain like a horribly repetitive refrain.
Did you do it, Eugene? Did you order the sinking of the Sirin?
If it were true . . .
“No,” she whispered, “not Eugene.”
Why did this revelation have to come now, just as she realized she was carrying his child? And why did it hurt so much? Was it a simple feeling of betrayal? Or was it that, in spite of their differences, she had begun to love him . . . just a little?
Such a devious and ignoble act was difficult to reconcile with the man she had come to know more intimately than any other.
Now she remembered Eugene’s determination to ensure all the children of Muscobar would be properly fed and educated. She remembered how passionately he had spoken of his plans for the empire. And she remembered how he had kissed her the night they were married. . . .
Of course, Celestine could be wrong. It was even possible she had been sent to poison her mind against her husband. But then there was the fact that Andrei was alive, against all the odds.
I must get better before the ball. I can’t miss this chance to see Andrei; I can’t.
Until now she had not allowed herself to think how much this reunion meant to her. But lying here sick in this unfamiliar bed, so far from her own country, she felt helpless tears of homesickness begin to leak from her eyes. She missed Mama and Papa. She missed Varvara and Svetlana, her closest friends. She even missed Eupraxia and her constant chiding.
“Poor Tasia,” said a soft little voice.
Astasia opened her eyes and saw a golden-haired child standing at her bedside.
“Kari?” she said, startled.
“I’m sorry you’re ill,” said Karila. “It’s horrid to be ill, isn’t it? I was ill on my birthday.”
“I know,” Astasia said, wiping away her tears with her fingertips. “And I’m sorry we were late for your party—”
“I don’t really remember my party,” Karila said, “so it doesn’t matter. Have you seen my costume for the ball?”
“No . . .” The ball. Astasia closed her eyes again at the thought.
“It’s very pretty. It’s the Swan Princess. It’s white satin with soft feathers around the hem and the neck. They tickle, so I hope I won’t sneeze and make my swan mask fall off.”
Astasia could not stop herself from smiling.
“That’s better,” Karila said. “Now you don’t look so sad.”
“Does Marta know you’re here?”
“Of course not! I came through the secret passageways.”
“But if she comes back and finds you’re gone—”
“I’ve been made to stay in my rooms for too long. I was bored.”
“At least you came to see me, little Kari. I’ve lain here all these hours, and not once has your father appeared or even inquired after my health. Too busy, I suppose, with affairs of state and the ball . . .”
“It’s good to rest. It’s good for the baby,” Karila said.
Astasia raised her head.
“Baby? What baby?”
“My little stepbrother,” Karila said in matter-of-fact tones.
Astasia caught hold of Karila’s hand and pulled her closer.
“Kari, what nonsense are you talking?”
Karila stretched out her other hand and let it rest gently on Astasia’s stomach.
“This baby,” she said, smiling.
“But how—” Astasia let go of Karila’s hand.
“What will you call him? Will it have to be Karl after my grandfather? I don’t like the name; it’s too short.”
“Kari, how did you know?” If Karila had guessed, then who else might have come to the same conclusion?
“And when he’s old enough, I’ll let him visit my menagerie and feed the deer. Have you seen my little deer? They come from Khitari, Papa says, and they live on the steppes, eating lichen . . .” Karila prattled on, quite oblivious of the impact of her revelation.
Astasia sat up and swung her legs off the bed.
“Karila,” she said, “you must say nothing of the baby to anyone. It must be our secret.”
“Not even to Papa?”
“Papa . . .” Astasia hesitated, desperately trying to think of a reason to convince the child. She did not want Karila babbling the news about before she had told Eugene herself. And Celestine’s disclosure had thrown all thoughts of telling Eugene into disarray. “I haven’t told Papa. I’m keeping it as a special surprise.” She placed one finger over her lips. Karila imitated her, nodding and smiling.
“Our secret. Like my menagerie. Have you seen my dragon pavilion?”
“Not yet.” Astasia could not concentrate on what Karila was saying.
“If you stand at this window, you can just see the Khitari dragon on top of the pavilion with the little bells . . .”
And if what Celestine told me is true? . . .
The shadows were lengthening on the parterres and golden evening light glimmered on the still, dark lake. Eugene, making a short tour of the preparations for the ball, noticed that little clouds of midges were rising over the water.
“We will need citronella flares burning near the lake, to keep our guests from being eaten alive,” he said to the Master of Ceremonies, who was accompanying him. An assistant was busy scribbling down in a ledger what still needed to be done.
A woman was coming toward them past the white marquees; Eugene recognized her by her upright, stately bearing and the proud tilt of her chin.
“You asked to see me, imperial highness?” Countess Lovisa curtsied low to Eugene.
The Master of Ceremonies discreetly withdrew.
“Walk with me, Lovisa. I hear the first roses are in bud in the rose garden.”
“Delightful,” Lovisa said, accepting his arm.
They strolled in silence through the slowly darkening garden toward the walled rose garden. A blackbird began to sing from the top of the old stone wall, its piercing notes fluting questioningly into the dusk. From farther away, another answered.
“I’m glad we preserved a wall or two of my father’s hunting lodge,” Eugene said as they entered the rose garden, “though I’m not sure he would have approved of the use we put it to.”
“This will be such a pleasant place to stroll or to sit in during high summer.” Lovisa sniffed the evening air appreciatively. “Was it your inspiration, Eugene, to plant lavender beds beneath the roses? So charming.”
“My head gardener’s idea, so I can take no credit for it, I fear.” Eugene stopped a moment, checking to see if they were alone. From here, he was confident that the high walls would protect them from prying eyes or ears. He turned to the countess, determined to learn the truth. “So what is this sickness of Astasia’s? Is it real or feigned?”
“It seems to be nothing more than a touch of the megrims. Genuine, I believe. She has been acting rather dizzily these last few days.”
“Can we be sure it’s not the first symptom of some more serious affliction?” Margret’s death had brutally brought home to Eugene the fragility of human life. It had led him to endow the new school of the science of medicine at Tielborg University, in the hope that the researches there would prevent such tragedies occurring in the future. “Should I send Doctor Amandel to her?”
Lovisa smiled. “I really think there’s no need, Eugene. We women learn to endure these minor discomforts.”
Eugene let out a suppressed sigh. He lifted a cream and blush rosebud and stroked it pensively between finger and thumb. “I went ahead with all this frippery just to please her. Because she loves to dance. Given the situation in Smarna, I should have canceled the whole damned affair. God knows, I can ill spare the time at the moment—and now she’s sick.” He tugged a little too hard at the rosebud and it snapped off.
“I’m certain she’ll be well enough by tomorrow,” remarked the countess dryly.
“And must I wear some foolish costume? You know how I hate dressing up, Lovisa.”
“I have organized a disguise that will in no way harm your dignity.”
Was it a trick of the fading light or was she smiling at him? He had known Lovisa since they were children, and she still perplexed him: one moment icy calm, the next mysteriously alluring.
“What will Astasia be wearing?”
“Some flimsy little shepherdess costume in blue. In my opinion, the bodice is cut far too low. I will persuade her to drape a scarf over the décolletage.”
Eugene was silent a moment. Then he moved nearer to Lovisa, bending his head close to hers so that no one else could possibly hear what he said. “Are you certain, Lovisa?”
“Not entirely,” she said coolly. “And as to who, and the circumstances, I still have no firm evidence.”
“And you believe he will make an appearance at the ball?”
“She and the Francian singer are plotting some kind of charade together.” Lovisa gave a haughty little cough. “A child could see through their little plot.”
Lovisa’s opinions were not improving his mood. At first he had not entertained the slightest suspicion that Astasia was capable of deceiving him. He had even begun to believe that she felt some kind of affection toward him. Now, as dusk shadows crept through the garden and the servants began to light the candles within the palace, he felt as though the dark of night had seeped into his heart.
He slowly opened his clenched fist, and the crushed petals of the rosebud fell to the path.
“Oh look, Tasia, there’s Papa.”
Astasia had been standing at the tall windows, wistfully gazing out over the parklands, darkly gilded by the setting sun.
“Wh-where?” she asked dazedly.
“Down there in the rose garden.”
Astasia looked to where Karila was pointing and saw a tall figure, unmistakably Eugene, head inclined, close, far too close to—
She stared.
“Lovisa?” she whispered. She could not see the countess’s face from here, but that erect carriage, those white-blond curls so immaculately dressed in a chignon, that elegant silver-grey and rose gown . . .
So close. Close enough to be kissing, his mouth brushing the curls by her delicate little earlobe, the nape of her neck . . .
“Cousin Lovisa!” said Karila happily.
“Oh,” said Astasia, her voice soft, shocked. “Oh.” She tried to look away, but found she could not, some cruel impulse forcing her to watch what she had no wish to see. But the secret lovers had moved apart from each other, aware perhaps that they could be seen from the palace. This brief moment of intimacy she had glimpsed, was it a prelude to some later nocturnal assignation? Or was it evidence of a long-standing liaison?
Was she perhaps the only person in all of Swanholm to be unaware that Lovisa was her husband’s mistress?
Andrei Orlov gazed in amazement at the prospect below them. There, in the dusk, lay the Palace of Swanholm, its gardens, parklands, and lake all lit by strings of jewel-colored lanterns, so that the whole valley glowed.
“It’s magnificent.” So this was Astasia’s new home. Even at this first glance, he could see the palace was far more elegant than the old Winter Palace in Mirom. He was already excited at the prospect of seeing Astasia again after so long; impersonating Celestine’s accompanist Jagu only increased that excitement.
A magnificent stucco gatehouse with elaborate gilded ironwork grilles lay ahead. Guards were stopping each carriage as it arrived and checking the gilt-edged invitations and papers of each guest individually. They held lanterns and torches so that they could scrutinize each new arrival in a good light.
A lieutenant in the Imperial Household Cavalry approached and all the guards stood stiffly to attention, returning his salute.
“At ease, at ease . . .”
There was something familiar about the lieutenant’s voice and bearing. Andrei shrank back into the shadows as the officer popped his head in the open carriage window.
“Good evening to you, Demoiselle de Joyeuse!”
It was Valery Vassian, Andrei’s boyhood friend. What the devil was he doing here in Swanholm, in a Tielen uniform?
“Just a simple shepherdess and her swain,” Celestine said sweetly, smiling at Lieutenant Vassian.
For God’s sake, don’t ask me to remove my mask or wig, Valery! Andrei had begun to sweat under his disguise.
“Jagu and I make quite a fetchingly pastoral pair, don’t you agree?”
“You would look fetching in any costume, demoiselle.”
The dazzle of her smile worked its magic; they were waved through and their carriage began the long winding descent toward the palace.
Andrei let out a quiet whistle. “That was too close.” What was Valery Vassian doing in Eugene’s imperial bodyguard? Was he here to protect Astasia?
Andrei’s fingers began to tap out an insistent repetitive rhythm on the side of the carriage as they rattled down the wide graveled drive. His whole body was taut with nerves. He had been out of society for so long that the sight of so many people gathered together made him feel jittery. He still walked with a slight limp; suppose someone noticed? This illicit meeting with Astasia meant everything to him. Nothing must jeopardize it.
Music drifted in; by the lakeside, a wind-band was playing in a torchlit pavilion, the high notes of the flutes and hautbois carrying on the darkening air. And though the melodies were familiar old dance tunes, they seemed to Andrei to exude a strangely sinister quality that matched his jangled nerves.
Celestine leaned across and placed her hand on his, her touch soft yet reassuring.
“Don’t worry,” she said, gazing earnestly into his eyes. “You will see your sister. And very soon.”
The carriage stopped and a masked flunky opened the door. Andrei got down first, awkwardly; his mended legs were still stiff and unpredictable. Then he offered his hand to Celestine.
All around them, guests were descending from carriages, sporting a bizarre assortment of masks: from simple velvet or silk dominos to painted plaster, cleverly molded to cover the whole face. Andrei saw slant-eyed, powder-white Khitari actors’ masks, and grotesque blue and scarlet temple thunder-gods from lands far beyond the eastern mountains. Some guests wore jeweled bird masks with beaks and curling feathers; others furry animal snouts of fox, bear, and lion.
“We look very ordinary,” he said in Celestine’s ear as they joined the queue of guests.
“Exactly,” she said. “Who will take notice of such a boringly pastoral pair alongside all these exotic creations? Now don’t forget. Your cue is the fanfare announcing the start of the fireworks. Your sister knows that is the moment we will change places. The rest . . . is up to you.”
Francian fleet off Southern Smarna—
Eugene raised his eyes from the paper to see Gustave staring back at him tensely.
“Where’s the rest of the message?”
“We think our operative was interrupted. The transmission was terminated abruptly. Then the connection went dead.”
“Pavel,” Eugene murmured. If the Smarnan rebels had caught Pavel Velemir, he would be tried and shot as a spy, but not before being subjected to a lengthy and painful interrogation. He remembered the young man’s charm—and the frayed cuffs on his shirts. Pavel had shown such promise; and if he had been discovered, there was nothing Eugene could do to rescue him.
“Is this the same fleet that was taking Enguerrand on his pilgrimage to Djihan-Djihar?” A feeling of anxiety gripped his stomach. Had he and his ministers misread the Smarnan conflict? Was a small uprising about to escalate into full-scale war?
Outside in the gardens a little orchestra began to play a lively gavotte. There came a tap at the locked door.
“Imperial highness?” It was his valet, ready to dress him for the ball.
“One moment.” Eugene grimaced at Gustave. “The ball! How can I dance and joke and play the good host with the situation in Smarna out of control?”
Astasia had managed to smile her way through the formal reception. From time to time the temptation to scan the crowd of guests for a glimpse of Celestine and Andrei grew too great and she found herself glancing around, almost forgetting what she was saying to Countess this or Counsellor that.
When Fredrik, the majordomo, came to whisper to her that the ball was to start, she was almost glad that she could calm her nerves with dancing.
Eugene, evidently uncomfortable in his heavy costume, stood waiting for her at the head of the great marble staircase that led into the ballroom. As she placed her hand on his, she could tell that his mind was elsewhere; behind the mask, his eyes looked at her, through her.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered as the guests thronged into the ballroom.
“Nothing that need concern you tonight, Astasia.”
“Your concerns are my concerns too,” she said sharply, hurt that he had spoken to her as if to a child. But before he could reply, a dazzling fanfare rang out and the Master of Ceremonies announced, “The Emperor and Empress of New Rossiya!” and they were obliged to walk down the staircase to the applause of the assembled guests, smiling and nodding.
“And now the Emperor and Empress will start our Dievona Ball.”
The musicians began to play. Astasia stood on the empty dance floor staring at Eugene.
“We are expected to dance together,” she whispered, feeling herself blushing beneath her mask.
“You know I have no skill at dancing,” he replied brusquely.
For a moment she felt sorry for him. She placed one hand on his shoulder and slipped the other into his unburned hand and gently nudged his foot with her own. “Just walk it through,” she said in his ear, “one step at a time. Leave the counting to me.”
She could sense from the tension in his body that he was furious at being made to undergo this indignity. Slowly they moved off and the Master of Ceremonies began to applaud. Soon other dancers joined them and Eugene relaxed his grip on her hand, leading her to the side of the ballroom.
She glanced up at him, her feelings even more confused. For a moment on the dance floor, she had forgotten Celestine’s revelation, had forgotten Lovisa, had just let herself relax against him and felt . . . safe.
Now she found herself wishing that Andrei would tell her Celestine was mistaken and his ship had been dashed on the rocks by a genuine storm, not one whistled up by Kaspar Linnaius.
Eugene glowered at the bobbing sea of masked dancers who had invaded his palace. The riotous colors of their costumes offended his restrained tastes.
I should be on my way to Ty Nagar. Every minute spent here is another acre of Smarna lost to the empire.
His costume, organized by Lovisa, was considerably less dignified than she had promised. Whose fancy had it been to dress him as Artamon the Great? The robes were heavy and hot; the purple, turquoise, and gold brocades were far too ostentatious, and the gilt on the paste crown and mask were beginning to flake off as he perspired.
And the dance music was too insipid for his liking; these tedious, simpering little tunes, sighed out on violins and chalumeaux, lacked the vigor of martial music. They were probably Francian!
Young noblewomen of the court, dressed as wood-sylphs, with little sequinned wings attached to their gauze skirts and silk flowers in their unbound hair, ran past, giggling. Eugene sternly averted his gaze; their thin costumes were far too revealing, showing more than a tantalizing glimpse of unbound breasts.
No wife or daughter of mine . . .
He glanced at Astasia, who was dancing with Chancellor Maltheus now. Maltheus had come as a wild boar; his mask sported bristles and curling tusks. For a man of his bulk, he was a more than passable dancer and was partnering Astasia with skill.
More skill than I was capable of in the opening dance. Eugene had merely led his wife once around the dance floor to start the ball; he had not even attempted to perform a step or two.
“Papa, why do you look so unhappy?” Karila touched his arm. “This is such a lovely ball.” Her face, beneath the swan mask with its black and gold beak, was radiant.
Chastened at his show of ill humor, he bent down and picked her up in his arms so that she could see better. At least the night’s revels had made Kari happy.
“Astasia dances beautifully, doesn’t she?”
He heard such wistfulness in her voice. He looked at Astasia. She was transformed when she danced: graceful in her movements, wild, free. He glimpsed something that he knew she withheld from him when they were together, something she could only express when unconstrained by duty or court etiquette. And poor, lame Karila could only dream of moving with such grace and freedom.
“Yes,” he said, hugging her close, “she does dance beautifully. But dancing isn’t everything, Kari.”
“Why aren’t you dancing with her?”
“Me?” The directness of her question took him by surprise. “Because I have two left feet on a dance floor, Kari, and I would only embarrass your new mama with my clumsiness.”
She gave a little sigh of sympathy, which he felt resonate through his own body as well. And at that moment, the dance came to a close. The dancers broke into noisy chatter as they left the polished floor and the musicians changed their music sheets, indulging in a little tuning. Eugene winced; he could endure the whine and crash of exploding mortars in battle, but the wailing of catgut violin strings sliding in and out of pitch set his teeth on edge.
Astasia approached with Chancellor Maltheus; both looked a little out of breath and Maltheus was fanning himself with one hand.
“The Empress dances exquisitely,” he said, puffing. “Oh it’s no good, highness, I shall have to take off this boar’s head; whatever made me agree to wear such a hot, hairy mask?”
Instantly a servant appeared with a tray of refreshing drinks: fruit punch, lemonade, and sparkling wine, both white and delicate pink.
“Wine, Astasia?” Eugene took a tall fluted glass, remembering that she was fond of this sparkling rosé he had imported from Francia for the occasion, and handed it to her.
“No, thank you,” she said—rather brusquely, he thought. “Lemonade is more to my taste tonight.” Her manner was distinctly chilly toward him; he supposed it must be because of his poor performance in the opening dance.
Brilliant fanfares rang out from the terraces. And at the same moment, the darkening sky lit with showers of gold and silver explosions.
“The fireworks!” cried Karila, clapping her hands in an ecstasy of excitement. “The fireworks have begun!”
Astasia’s heart was pattering so fast with anticipation and fear that she could not speak. This was the moment. As the imperial party moved toward the terrace, she spotted Celestine behind one of the pale marble pillars. It was almost too easy, in the mêlée, to slip behind the next pillar just as Celestine slid into her place behind Eugene.
Astasia felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned—and saw dark eyes gazing into hers from behind a gilded mask.
“Andrei?” she whispered. For a moment, the candleflames of the chandeliers overhead merged to a blur and she feared she would faint. Outside, rockets whizzed and screamed as starbursts of color lit up the dark gardens.
“We’ll get a better view down here.” Her shepherd guided her down the steps, moving away from the terrace. Everyone was watching the fireworks; no one would notice a shepherd and shepherdess slipping out into the night.
“The Orangery,” Astasia said, making swiftly for the graceful white-painted pavilion. Inside, the air was perfumed with the sugar-sweet scent of orange blossom and the earthier aroma of leaf mold and mulch. It was dark enough under the glossy-leaved trees, but Astasia led Andrei to an arbor at the heart of the Orangery, where no one could glimpse them when the fireworks lit up the night sky.
“Is it really you?” she said in their home tongue, breathless now with nerves.
He took off the gilded mask and powdered wig. Dark curls, tousled from confinement beneath the wig, sprang up. Dark eyes gazed at her from a face that was far leaner than she remembered, all the boyish contours honed away.
“Andrei,” she said again and threw her arms around him, clutching him tightly. “It is you!” She was laughing and crying and she didn’t care; she was just unspeakably happy that he was alive.
After a while he put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length, looking into her eyes as if trying to read her thoughts. She saw his cheeks were wet with tears too; he was weeping unashamedly, her big, strong brother who never cried.
“Don’t,” she said, reaching up to gently wipe the wetness away with the tip of one finger.
“How long have we got?” he asked, his voice unsteady.
“The finale of the display is to be the illumination of the lake with the emblems of the five countries of New Rossiya.”
“So short a time.”
“Stay, Andrei.” She caught hold of his hand, clutching it between her own. “Eugene will welcome you at court. For my sake, he’ll welcome you—”
Andrei shook his head. “I can’t, Tasia. Not now that I know what I have to do.” A dazzling cascade of silver stars erupted overhead, outlining the orange branches in stark shadow. “His work, I suppose?”
“Kaspar Linnaius?”
“Celestine told you?”
“But I still can’t believe it to be true. How can a man, a mere man, control the winds? How can he send storms where he wants them to go?”
“Your husband has built his empire using the occult arts to defeat his enemies.” Another brilliant cascade, white as cherry blossom, lit up the Orangery. “Better he still believes me dead.”
“And what of Mama and Papa?” Astasia felt her lower lip trembling; she bit it to stop herself from weeping. “Papa is a broken man, Andrei. He has never recovered from the news. And Mama . . .”
She saw him swallow hard. “Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to see them, Tasia. But I’ve been advised that it’s too soon.”
“Advised? By whom?”
“I’m going to Francia for a while, to the court of King Enguerrand. I have information that they need to make use of.”
“Information?” Astasia drew away from him. Suddenly she felt she was treading dangerous ground. Could she trust this new, reborn Andrei? “About Tielen?”
“Don’t worry, little sister; I’m not here to spy on you.”
She looked at him, wary now. Had she been unwise to agree to this meeting?
“The information is to do with my miraculous recovery. It’s too long a story for now, but I was a mess, Tasia—nearly every bone in my body broken in the wreck.” As a flight of rockets burst overhead into swooping, shrilling phoenixes, trailing fire, he drew down the silken hose, revealing the scars still seaming his mended legs.
Astasia looked away, overcome with guilt.
“I’m sorry, Andrei,” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. They searched for you, you know? They searched for weeks until the riots began in Mirom. Then the search was abandoned.”
White light, diamond-bright, began to suffuse the gardens and the Orangery. Fanfares brayed out again. Astasia glanced over Andrei’s shoulder and saw that the finale of the fireworks had begun. One by one, heraldic panels began to burn beyond the lake: a giant silver swan for Tielen, a two-headed sea eagle for Muscobar, the fiery phoenix of Khitari, the green-scaled tail of the Smarnan merman, and the brilliant blue dragon of Azhkendir.
“It’s nearly over,” she said, clinging to him in sudden panic. “Must we say farewell so soon?”
“We mustn’t be seen together.” Andrei hastily pulled on the white powdered wig; she stood on tiptoe to help him adjust it. “Tasia,” he said, kissing her forehead, “take care. Once Celestine and I are gone, who will be here to look out for you?”
His words frightened her. “What do you mean? What do you know?”
“Come away with me. There’s a ship in Haeven harbor bound for Francia, the Melusine. She sails tomorrow on the evening tide.”
“Run away?” The suggestion shocked her. “But how can I leave my husband, Andrei?”
“If you change your mind, meet me at the harbor.”
The fresh colors of the heraldic shields faded as another, darker glow began to illumine the lake, bathing the waters and gardens, even the pale stone of the palace in its deep, crimson glow. Kettle drums beat a thunderous roll and trumpets blared. This was what Eugene enjoyed best: the music of war. Transfixed, Astasia clutched hold of Andrei’s hand.
“Artamon’s Tears,” she said softly. “The Ruby of Rossiya . . .” It was only another of Linnaius’s artifices, she knew, but for one horrible moment it looked to her as if the palace and all the guests were drowning in a sea of blood.
She felt Andrei’s warm grip loosen on her hand—and, as the red light of the fireworks died, she found she was alone in the Orangery.