The courtyard at Alexander Palace was lined with troikas, fur-clad men and women stepping out in their finery to make their way across the glittering snow. Within, the Semi-Circular Hall was alive with the movement of three hundred couples, sparkling like china figurines as they turned in perfect unison on the parquet floor in time to the echoing strains of an orchestra.
Even in peacetime, Olga was unaccustomed to such crowds at her family home: state occasions were generally held at the Winter Palace, while society events had always been the purview of her extended Romanov relations. Wartime, however, had forced her parents’ hands: they’d thrown open the doors of Alexander Palace to welcome the Romanian royal family, using a state dinner to press their case to the Romanians to join the war on the side of the Allied powers. Papa had lifted his moratorium on alcohol for the duration of the visit, and the assembled guests were reveling as much in the champagne as they were in the dancing: as Dmitri Pavlovich pulled her onto the dance floor, Olga watched Prince Carol and Felix Yusupov drain their glasses, holding out their empty coupes for more from a waiting footman.
Olga, too, had enjoyed her share of champagne, and as Dmitri whirled her across the dance floor, the bright colors of the evening ran together in a vibrant sprawl: the firelight swirl of gold; the greenhouse flowers Mamma had had sent from Crimea—violets and lilacs and white roses, wisteria tumbling from vases in a tidal sweep of purple. Pastel dresses pulled out from mothballed storage seemed to breathe with new life as the women wearing them danced in the arms of aristocrats clad in the bright reds and blues of their honorary regiments.
After spending so long in military hospitals, Olga found the sight of so many able-bodied men jarring. What would Mitya, sent back to the front with his stick still in hand, think of all these retainers in their ceremonial uniforms, carefully ironed but never pressed into service? On the fringes of the dance floor, Olga glimpsed the officers she’d nursed to their deaths, their clouded eyes narrowed at the sight of so many unearned medals.
She pressed her hand to her chest, her heart rattling beneath her ribs. “Goodness, I’m dizzy.”
Dmitri steadied her. “Too much champagne?”
“Too much of all of it,” she replied, as Dmitri led her out of the fray. “I don’t know that I feel up for dancing...it seems inappropriate, somehow.”
He shrugged. “No less so than singing in a cemetery,” he replied, holding out a chair for Olga. “But we answer the call of our tsar from whence it comes. Shall I get us some refreshments?”
He threaded back through the dancers as Olga looked around the room, her pulse returning to normal. By the fireplace, Maria was talking to Prince Carol; she lifted a hand to her dark hair, her diamond-and-pearl necklace sparkling in the firelight as she turned.
Olga smiled, amazed that Maria had become so lovely, seemingly overnight—but then, that was the magic of an official debut. Of her sisters, Maria was the only one who wouldn’t have been offended that her coming-out was something of an afterthought—indeed, her debut in wartime had only been possible because of the importance of impressing the visiting Romanians. Olga recalled the first state ball she’d attended: at sixteen years old, she’d found the evening to be magical, a tireless swirl of dancing unmarred by circumstance—but Maria, with her self-effacing nature and sweet temperament, hadn’t given a second’s thought to sacrificing her moment in the spotlight to the war effort. Even now, she looked at Carol with bright eyes, and though her interest in him was surely feigned, Olga was impressed by her sister’s commitment to dazzling their foreign guests.
Dmitri returned with two glasses of champagne. He sank into the chair next to her, following her gaze to Prince Carol. “Not going to dance with the guest of honor?”
Olga watched Carol sidle closer to Maria, thinking of her last conversation with the Romanian prince. She’d bristled at news of his return to court; indeed, she’d done her best to avoid him for the entirety of his visit. But Maria tilted her head to look up at him, looking utterly charmed. “Why? You think I’ve some measure of influence over him?”
“Don’t you?” Dmitri turned to face her, champagne sloshing dangerously toward the rim of his glass. “To hear Petrograd tell it, you’re all but betrothed.”
“In his case, as in ours, don’t believe all that you hear,” she muttered. “At least he seems to be behaving himself. Should we go rescue Maria before he says something insulting?”
Dmitri leaned back in his chair as the orchestra shifted to a Viennese waltz. “Oh, let her have her fun,” he replied. “It’s not as if she’ll get a proper coming-out; from tomorrow, we’ll be back to homespun cotton and black-market vodka.” He lifted his glass, letting the bubbles catch the light. “I’ll miss these little luxuries back at the front. Your father runs Stavka with a fist of iron.”
“Does he indeed?” Olga shifted closer in her seat. “Tell me, Dmitri, has he done well? Have the shortages stopped?”
Dmitri watched the dancers. “He’s certainly enthusiastic about the task,” he replied, and Olga wasn’t sure if he meant the observation as a compliment. “But I daresay our empress is taking some time to adjust to her new role as well. I gather she’s taking guidance from some rather unconventional sources.”
Olga didn’t feel up to sparring with Dmitri. “If you mean Father Grigori, Mamma surrounds herself with those she trusts.”
“As well she should,” Dmitri replied. “I only hope her trust isn’t misplaced.”
Olga stood, her hands heavy on the armrests of her chair. “I do wish you wouldn’t be so cryptic,” she said. “If you’ve something to say, then say it.”
“Very well.” Dmitri looked up, light flickering in the newfound hollows of his cheeks. “Is it true Rasputin wants to negotiate a separate peace with Germany?”
“Of course not,” Olga shot back. Why was everyone so preoccupied with Father Grigori? The press, the police—everyone, it seemed, had something to say about Grigori Rasputin. Olga had grown used to the sight of his black cassock sweeping around the corners of Alexander Palace, following in Mamma’s footsteps. After uncovering multiple attempts on his life, Mamma had had Father Grigori placed under police protection, but the constant intrigue was wearying: they’d both grown nervous, unsettled, in recent months.
“Then why does he spend all his time at the palace?” Dmitri’s charming façade dropped completely: he looked hard, sharpened by his experiences at the front. “To hear people tell it, he all but lives there, now.”
“Mamma trusts him—Papa trusts him. Why is that not good enough for you?” Olga shook her head. “Given your similar position of privilege in Papa’s entourage, I’d be wary of casting aspersions.”
Dmitri’s answering smile was empty. “Aspersions? You misunderstand me, Olga. Pay me no attention; I’m nothing but the court jester.” He drained his glass, setting it on the ground before rising to his feet. “A lonely fool, hoping that someone might take him seriously one day. Shall we dance?”
He held out his hand as the orchestra shifted into a new set, strings soaring above a cushion of brass. Olga blinked. Behind him, the pale faces of dead officers lingered, half-hidden by the candlelight, watching the glittering show.
“No,” she replied, disconcerted. “No, I’m done for the moment.”
Dmitri bowed and melted back onto the dance floor. When had her cousin grown so maudlin? When had Olga herself become so tense? She walked along the edge of the room, hoping to slip upstairs, out of earshot of the cloying orchestra; out of sight of the guests and their hollow pleasantries. In her mind’s eye, she saw Mitya, hunched over a desk behind the front line; Pavel and Sablin, their swords drawn as they faced down German bullets.
Near the door to the Hall, Mamma sat on a divan with Anna Vyrubova, the pair of them looking like playing cards—the queen of hearts and the queen of clubs—as they conversed with Grand Duchess Vladimir. In the year since her accident, Anna had recovered to the point that she no longer required a wheelchair to navigate the broad halls of the palace; she would, however, walk with a cane for the rest of her life. In some strange way, Olga rather suspected that Anna enjoyed the attention; that she saw her invalidity as a point of common ground with Mamma’s frequent indispositions.
As Olga approached, Grand Duchess Vladimir rose from her cane-backed chair, a circlet tiara glimmering atop her mass of iron curls. She performed a hasty curtsy before stalking off, glancing at Olga in passing.
Olga slowed. “Goodness, what’s got her in such a state?”
Mamma sighed, exchanging glances with Anna Vyrubova. “She came to discuss your marriage prospects, of all things.” She looked down, playing with the long strand of her pearls as if wishing she had some task to occupy her: knitting, embroidering. “She wanted to propose her son Boris as a match. Boris... I told her in no uncertain terms that such a union was quite unthinkable.”
Olga sat down. Boris Vladimirovich...at nearly twenty years her senior, Boris was useless: a vacant-eyed grand duke with nothing to offer Olga beyond his pedigree and a long line of mistresses. “I’m glad you declined.”
Mamma leaned over to pat Olga on the knee, her rings sparkling with a life of their own. “Your papa told you you’d not be forced into a marriage you didn’t want,” she replied. “I’m simply helping to shorten the list.”
“Indeed,” Olga said. They were silent for a moment; across the room, Dmitri approached Papa and bowed, his Cheshire smile restored as he said something that made Papa laugh. With its full complement of gleaming medals, Papa’s naval uniform marked his changed position within the military: he wore his sabre close to his side, a deep blue sash cutting down the front of his tunic.
“We so outnumber him,” said Mamma placidly. “I think it’s why he adores Dmitri so. All us women; your father, standing alone.” She smiled, though even in the midst of a pleasurable evening her expression still looked strained. “Much as I miss him while he’s gone, I think that’s why he was so eager to go to the front—to spend some time in male company. He’d never say so, but I know he hopes you’ll meet some nice, well-bred young man soon. A son-in-law would help tip the balance.”
Dmitri took Tatiana’s hand and led her out onto the dance floor, her arms aloft as they began to sway in time to the music. Court jester, he’d called himself, dancing in time to Papa’s tune. The circumstances of Dmitri’s life were tightly tied to Papa’s favor; but Olga had never once considered whether it was a favor Dmitri had wanted in the first place. What sort of life did he lead when he slipped out of the glare of her family’s spotlight? Once Olga and her sisters married, Dmitri’s proximity to that spotlight would fade. What relevance would he hold, once he was supplanted in Papa’s eyes by square-jawed sons-in-law?
She let out a breath, replacing Dmitri with Mitya in her mind’s eye: Mitya, laughing with Papa; Mitya, dancing her across the ballroom. “Given the circumstances, nice young men might be in short supply,” she replied. “Does Papa have anyone in particular in mind?”
Mamma looked meaningfully at Prince Carol, who waltzed past with Maria. “We’d hoped, of course...” she said, trailing off. “Such a disappointment—but no one blames you, darling. We simply have to be patient; wait out this ghastly war. He’ll turn up. I know he will.”
Olga played with her pearls. “And what if he already has?”
Mamma’s smile was more understanding than Olga had expected. “Your father’s officers—Malama and Kiknadze, that handsome Shakh-Bagov you spend so much time with—they’re wonderful men, you know. All so gallant...it’s a shame none of the foreign princes ever seem as nice. But those officers are not suitable husbands. Not for a grand duchess.” She tilted her head as the orchestra shifted into the opening strains of a Rebikov waltz: a melancholy thing, all minor chords and sloping progressions. “We’re content waiting. He’ll come along before you know it.”
Olga stilled, the pearls warming beneath her hand. “You know about Shakh-Bagov?”
“Of course, I do,” Mamma replied, exchanging a knowing glance with Anna. “Your mitya, is that correct? I make it my business to know everything there is to know about you and your sisters.” She leaned in, her tone conspiratorial, girlish. “But don’t give it a second’s thought, my dear.”
Olga pictured the sanitary at the Annexe, passing information to Mamma. How could she not have realized her quiet moments with Mitya were monitored? “Who told you? Do you have me followed?”
“Naturally,” Mamma replied, as though surprised that Olga had even asked the question. “What sort of mother would I be if I let you go off with some young man unchaperoned? And though I am pleased that your young officer has proven himself to be a gentleman, you mustn’t allow yourself to get carried away by a wartime diversion. I know how you can be about your little crushes.”
How like Mamma to misunderstand. “He’s not some crush, Mamma. He’s kind and smart, and a gentleman...and I’m in love with him, Mamma. I love him.”
The orchestra swelled into the silence that stretched between them, but Olga’s heart thudded with the certainty of it. She’d not said it before, not even to herself, but she’d never felt so sure of her own mind.
“My dear, you’re still a child,” Mamma replied finally, her certainty matching Olga’s note for note. “You don’t know what love is, and you certainly aren’t in love with an officer.” She looked across the room, a flush of red rising in her cheeks. “Besides, he’s not really even Russian, darling. You know how hotheaded the Georgians can be.”
“He fights for his tsar, like his father and grandfather before him,” Olga retorted. “If that doesn’t make him Russian, what else possibly could? Besides, you fell in love with Papa when you were younger than me. How can you say that I don’t know my own heart? Mitya and I—”
“Because the moment they’re gone, you turn your attention to another,” Mamma snapped. “Look at Tatiana and that lovely Dmitri Malama! Or you and that naval officer you met at your aunt’s tea parties! I’ll not stand in the way of an innocent dalliance, but you must understand that such things can’t possibly last.”
Olga tensed, recalling her last moments with Pavel on the staircase at Anichkov Palace: his sudden formality; Mamma’s timely arrival moments later. “What do you know about Pavel?”
Mamma pursed her lips, almost comically condescending as she shattered Olga’s illusion of self-determination. “You mooned over that boy for far too long, and it was becoming a distraction. Young men reach a point in their lives where nothing but marriage will do. I simply pointed his mother in the direction of a more suitable candidate.”
“You what?”
“And was I wrong?” Mamma’s eyes were round, guileless. “He’s happily married; you’re free to spend your time playing badminton with your officers. We’re not pushing you to find someone tomorrow, Olga, not until the war’s over. In fact, I think your father and I are being quite patient.”
“I see,” said Olga, trembling. “And what, exactly, constitutes suitability? Mitya is smart and brave, kind, gallant—”
“As are a dozen other young men of better stock,” Mamma replied crisply.
“Is that so? And who might those other men be? The Prince of Wales, perhaps? Yes, I can see it now: renouncing my faith in order to rule over an island half the size of Moscow; to be a figurehead with no ability to influence the country toward good. Prince Carol, perhaps? He and I would loathe each other from the moment we said our vows.” She was incandescent at Mamma’s presumption, at her snobbery, her blind arrogance—her assumption that Mitya was disposable, that Pavel had been disposable. That the officers she cared for were nothing more in Mamma’s mind than toy soldiers, toy paramours, to be cast aside when they no longer served their purpose. “What about a Prussian duke? Or an Austrian count? I’m sure our people would love to see me married to the enemy. The truth is, Mamma, there are no better prospects—particularly not for someone with tainted blood, as Carol so kindly reminded me the last time he was here. The old ways are dying out, along with the noblemen who’ve sustained them. I doubt there will be anyone left after the war who meets your impossible standards. They’ll all be dead, ground to dust on the front line, along with their titles.”
“Olga!” Mamma’s admonishment was as sharp as a slap, but Olga didn’t care: she continued, her voice low, hard.
“When the war is over, we will be living in a vastly different world, Mamma. We can all see it coming; a world where men are judged on the merits of their actions, rather than the accident of their birth. And I will not spend my life as a relic of a bygone era.”
Mamma was silent for a moment, then she lifted her chin, her tiara glittering in the candlelight. “You are ordained by God, like your father and your brother, to serve Russia,” she said finally. “God will provide. Trust in Him to provide you with the husband you need to help our country move forward.”
Mamma eased herself upright and held out an arm: Anna Vyrubova, summoned as a magnet to true north, was at her side.
“I think we’ll make our exit,” Mamma said, the matter clearly closed. “I don’t think I can bear the thought of Grand Duchess Vladimir throwing dirty looks at me for the rest of the night...you’ll make my excuses to Papa, won’t you? Only I’ve an early start tomorrow.” She shook her head one final time. “Boris Vladimirovich... What could she possibly have been thinking?”