That night, the banquet is somber, no boisterous laughter—other than Peter’s, of course—with no music, no dancing, and no jokes. Each noble is formally introduced by the herald, and they take turns bowing and kissing Peter’s hand. They chat with me about everything from news that the Russian Army has taken Berlin to spice trades with the Indies. People take turns saluting the fallen empress and the new emperor. They even raise a glass to me.

“A toast to our lovely new empress, Her Majesty Catherine, may her reign be long and prosperous,” Count Mercy says in broken Russian. I smile, despite the faux pas. It’s Peter’s reign, after all. I glance over to see if he’s taken notice, but he’s much too busy chatting with Mikhail.

When the feast ends, Peter hurries off to his new chamber, no doubt eager to meet his mistress. I have to practically run to catch him in the hall. Though our rooms are in the same wing, I am far down the corridor from him. He has chosen to take up Elizabeth’s old rooms, the sprawling, five-chamber area set aside for the reigning monarch. I don’t imagine all the gold, jewels, and silk in the world could make me want to lie in that bed—with or without Peter. So I stay close enough not to amass much gossip, but far enough not to have to see him if I choose not to.

“Peter,” I call out.

He stops mid-step, looking at me quizzically. “Yes?”

“I was hoping I might accompany you to your rooms,” I say lightly. “I’ve not seen you much of late, and I’d like to catch up. To talk about our plans for the future.”

He nods and offers me his arm. Thank heavens he hasn’t drank enough to let his good mood sour, at least not yet.

I have to admit, his outer chamber is breathtakingly beautiful. Everything is gold and green—a change made at his request—with thick tapestries woven with strands of gold and silver that hang along the walls. There are tables with statues of hunting dogs and busts of heroic warriors like Alexander the Great, and his own namesake as well. I settle myself onto the settee as he calls for a tray of brandy.

“It’s been quite an exciting day for you, hasn’t it?” I ask, picking up one of his toy soldiers from the open box on the table and examining it. Slowly, I set it down on the table, facing Peter. He smirks, retrieving a toy of his own and setting it facing mine in a miniature standoff.

“It has been glorious. If I had known how much my people loved me, how much they needed me, I would have slit her throat years ago.”

He’s talking about Elizabeth, of course. How ironic that I so often had to talk him out of killing her, only to later poison her myself.

Fate, it seems, makes fools of us all.

“Well, you have the throne now and she is gone. Have you thought about what you want to do first?”

He takes another wooden soldier from the box, adjusting its hat carefully, setting it to face me. I do the same.

“I am going to end the war. I’m already having Bestuzhev draft up a treaty with Prussia. Tomorrow, I’m ordering the troops out of Berlin.”

I swallow, moving another soldier. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do? Prussia is all but defeated. They can’t stand against us much longer. We could win the war outright, and then approach Prussia with a treaty. You would certainly be able to command better terms, and you would retain France and Austria as allies as well.”

He shakes his head. “No. Frederick sent me a letter only last week. His forces are overrun. He will be destroyed if we don’t pull back. He appealed to me as a friend and a fellow ruler. I will not see him decimated for the sake of Austria.” He stops, picking up a soldier and pointing it at me. “Do you disagree?”

I take a long breath. Truly, I don’t. Prussia was my home once, and I want to secure peace as much as anyone. But I would not endanger current allies to do it. Still, Peter has made his mind up and to push the point will only drive a wedge between us.

“No, of course not. I support your decisions, whatever they may be,” I say with a nod of my head.

He smiles, setting his soldier with the others.

“I would offer a few words for you to consider on other matters, if you would hear them,” I say, slowly turning each soldier I’ve laid down so they are facing me, in unison with his own wooden army.

“Of course.” He rocks back on his heels, standing when the tray of brandy is delivered only long enough to pour us each a glass, waving off the footman who tries to do it for him. When he holds it out to me, I take it without touching his fingers. The last thing I want is to give him any wrong impressions about my intent tonight.

“Well,” I say, taking a sip. “The people of the village love you—that much is obvious. We might extend that goodwill a bit by making some minor policy changes.”

“Such as?”

“Well, the salt tax for one. You could lower it just a bit; that would give the serfs some relief. Times have been very difficult since the fevers and the pox swept the country. A small measure of relief would show how concerned and benevolent you are.”

He nods. “Yes, that is a good idea.”

“And as for the lords, you could abolish the mandatory service law. That would go a long way to keeping them in your good graces, as well as ensuring that young nobles would be in your debt.”

He salutes me with his glass. “All wonderful ideas, little mother. And I have also been thinking of reforming some of the church practices.”

I pause, taking a drink to hide my concern. “Which practices?” I ask after swallowing.

“I don’t know. Maybe we can make them all shave off their beards and wear women’s stockings!” He laughs, and I force a chuckle. “Better yet, I will seize all the church lands and property for the crown. Make them beg in the streets like paupers.”

The shock of his words hits me like ice water. If he does that, it will destroy the core of the church, turn it and those who hold firm to its doctrine against us. My mind spins, looking for an alternative. I force a smile.

“You know what would be worse than that? If you allowed some of the exiled Protestant leaders back into Russia. That would drive them mad! They have worked so hard to keep them from moving into Russia. I mean, can you imagine? If Russia was seen as the champion for religious tolerance in Europe?” I force another laugh.

This time, he doesn’t join me. His face is blank as he tries to decide if it’s a viable idea.

“Oh, no, Peter. You mustn’t. The clergy would have absolute fits,” I add, hoping it will push him toward the idea rather than away from it. It would be a small consolation, returning those exiled, but better that than the alternative.

“That’s a wonderful idea. It would serve them right,” he says finally.

I nod. “As you say.”

A knock at his chamber doors draws his attention away from me. His valet steps in and announces his late-night visitor. “Lady Elizavetta Vorontsova, Your Highness.”

Peter waves his hand.

Elizavetta bounces merrily into the room, her bright red curls bobbing as she moves. That is, until she catches sight of me. She freezes, her face settling into an expression of shock and rage. I almost feel bad for her.

Almost.

Peter hurries to her side, kissing her quickly on the cheek. “Hello, darling. Please, wait for me in the far chamber.”

She nods, her mouth set in a thin line, and brushes past me to the rear chamber where Peter’s private apartment sits. She slams the door behind her, and Peter smirks.

“A little envy is good for her,” he says.

I frown but say nothing.

“I suppose you should go.” His tone brightens as he adds, “Unless you’d like to stay. Oh, wouldn’t that be interesting?”

My eyes widen before I can stop them, a horrified look stamping itself across my face. When he laughs, I curtsy and move to leave. He stops me with a hand on my elbow.

“Thank you for your counsel. And your friendship,” he says.

These words are almost more shocking than the last, but I hide my surprise this time, achieving a look I hope is one of humility and meekness as I nod and take my leave of him. As soon as I’m out the door, I hear Elizavetta start shouting, and as much as I deplore them both, it brings a smile to my face. Grigori waits patiently for me to move.

“Is everything all right, Your Highness?”

I nod. His concern is touching, but unnecessary. He follows me down to my chamber where my maids wait to help me undress. I pause outside my door, looking at my handsome young guard. “Grigori, I am very tired. Please see to it that I have no visitors for the rest of the evening.”

“None?” he asks.

“None.”

When I’m finally alone in my bed, I think of Sergei and Alexander. What a sad, fickle creature a woman’s heart is. Yet, here I am. In love with two men, neither of them my husband. And I wonder if they will ever forgive me.

When I finally fall asleep, I dream of the green hills of Prussia, of doors opening and closing with the wind, and I’m not altogether certain why.