She didn’t know how Tatiana had managed it, but a week after their midnight conversation, Olga and her sister were standing at the front door of their aunt’s St. Petersburg town house, staring up at the lighted windows.
Olga tugged her fur closer around her neck, seeking to block the billowing snowflakes from finding their way to her skin. “And you’re sure she doesn’t mind?”
Tatiana grinned. “She was practically sending out invitations before I finished asking,” she replied, but still Olga hesitated, watching shadows move behind the netted curtains of a second-floor window.
“And he’ll be here?”
“I’m not going to answer that,” Tatiana replied. She lifted the heavy brass knocker as Olga glanced back at their motorcar, idling in the cobbled street. “Really, Olga. It’s a party. At least pretend to be excited.”
Aunt Olga opened the door herself, letting light and the faraway lilt of a piano concerto spill into the street.
“My darlings,” she said, pulling first Olga, then Tatiana, into tight embraces. “So pleased you could come.” She wore a high-necked tea gown, her dark hair pinned up in an elegant pompadour with cotton-ball wisps escaping at her temples. She carried an elaborately embroidered black shawl with an endlessly trailing fringe, and she repositioned it in the crooks of her elbows as she met Tatiana’s admiring gaze.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” she said, holding out her arm to let the light sparkle on the jet beading. “Made by blind nuns. But I keep tripping over the ends of the silly thing, it’s far too long. I’ll take my own eye out if I’m not careful.”
She led Tatiana and Olga up the staircase toward the sound of voices and music.
“I’ve seated you at separate tables, I hope you don’t mind,” Aunt Olga continued as they walked down the long hallway. “I love Tsarskoe Selo as much as anyone else, but you seem so far away, there... I keep hoping your parents will change their minds about coming to St. Petersburg for the season, it’s been too long since they’ve had some fun.” Aunt Olga turned without stopping, giving Olga and Tatiana a sly grin. “But at least we’ve got the two of you! What Nicky doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”
She led Olga and Tatiana into a small ballroom, where twenty or so young people sat at round tables clustered beneath a glittering chandelier. On the ceiling, detailed plaster moldings melted down the walls, encroaching on mint-green silk; at the end of the room, a fire crackled in an immense marble fireplace flanked by tall mirrors. Framed by casement windows that looked out upon the deepening twilight, a pianist played a Glinka composition on a grand piano. To Olga, it felt as though she’d been invited to one of St. Petersburg’s supper clubs, rather than a tea party hosted by her stylish aunt.
She surveyed the room and her heart lifted: there, at the table closest to the fireplace, Pavel was deep in conversation with an officer from Papa’s Guards regiment. Aunt Olga deposited Tatiana at a table with two young women and a pair of gallant-looking soldiers and then, with a knowing glance, steered Olga toward Pavel.
Both Pavel and the other officer rose to their feet as Olga and her aunt approached, clicking their heels together with tidy deference. Pavel bowed, and Olga’s stomach leapt at the brief, thrilling pressure of his lips on the back of her hand. He was as handsome as she’d remembered: broad-shouldered, with a trim beard and a sharp, sloping nose.
“I believe you’ve met Lieutenant Voronov,” said Aunt Olga, “and I’d like to introduce you to Captain Nikolai Kulikovsky, my husband’s aide-de-camp.”
Captain Kulikovsky was tall, with even features and a full mustache, its ends waxed into tidy points.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Captain Kulikovsky,” she said, as Pavel pulled out a chair for her. The table was dominated by a tall silver samovar; within, she could smell the deep and comforting scent of coal. She looked around the room before addressing Aunt Olga once more. “Where is Uncle Petya?”
Aunt Olga shrugged. “With over two hundred rooms, it’s easy to lose track of him.” She reached across the table, her arm briefly, delicately, resting against Captain Kulikovsky’s as she poured hot water from the samovar into a teapot. “He knows we’re here; he’ll join us if he wants to. But luckily for us, we’ve got dear Nikolai to fill his place at the table.”
Olga waited for Captain Kulikovsky to move his arm away from Aunt Olga’s, but he didn’t—with an odd jolt, she realized Aunt Olga didn’t want him to. She threw a final, flustered smile at Captain Kulikovsky as he handed her a cup of tea before glancing around, certain she would see disapproval in the eyes of Aunt Olga’s guests—but they were all immersed in their own conversations, eased along by the gentle, steaming aromas rising from their own samovars.
Across the room, Tatiana was already speaking to the guests at her table, laughing and smiling as she doctored her tea with milk. She looked so at ease: though the rest of the table was dressed in the latest finery from Europe, Tatiana’s plain dress accentuated her beauty, making her fit in amidst their casual elegance. How did she make it look so easy?
Beside Olga, Pavel held out a sectioned dish filled with jam, sugar cubes and slices of lemon.
“I don’t know how you take it,” he said. “I prefer tea with jam myself, but your tastes might differ...”
Olga smiled: this, at least, she knew. “My mother was raised by Queen Victoria,” she said, plucking a sugar cube from the dish with silver tongs. She dropped it into her teacup, finishing it off with a splash of milk. “We learned to drink tea the way the English do: no jam, no sugar cubes caught between the teeth. No sipping out of saucers.”
Pavel grinned. “We Russians and our backward ways,” he said. “Do you make fun of us when you have your tea and crumpets?”
“Of course not,” she replied. She glanced at Aunt Olga, worried she’d said the wrong thing already—but Aunt Olga was leaning closer still to Captain Kulikovsky, her dreamy smile utterly unbecoming of a married woman. “I would never presume to make fun of Russia’s people.”
Aunt Olga tore her gaze away from Kulikovsky. “Lieutenant Voronov was only teasing,” she said, and Olga realized how clumsy she sounded, how young and provincial she felt in this room full of sophisticates. Flirting, she told herself. This is what flirting looks like. “I should warn you, my dear, not to take a single word he says seriously.”
“Not one word?” said Pavel, his smile broadening. “Do you see, Grand Duchess, how your aunt slanders me?”
“Slander is as slander does,” Olga replied, her heart quickening. She glanced at her aunt and Captain Kulikovsky, hoping to score a point in this strange game. “Lieutenant Voronov, your own reputation might be quite beyond repair, but I don’t intend on harming my own.”
She smiled, but nobody laughed; finally, Pavel let out an uncertain chuckle, and Olga knew she’d missed her mark. “Well, let’s just get through tea first, shall we?” he said, not unkindly, and Olga looked away, her cheeks burning. He offered her a second tray—cakes and meringues—and lowered his voice. “Do you not spend much time in St. Petersburg, Grand Duchess?”
“Is it so obvious?” she replied as Aunt Olga turned to speak to the couple at the next table over. She was grateful for it: Pavel alone seemed easier to talk to. “My parents prefer Tsarskoe Selo. But Aunt Olga’s been good to Tatiana and me. We’re hoping we might be able to spend more time here, get to know some new faces before we come out formally.”
“I’m glad,” said Pavel. “It would be difficult for me to get to know you behind the walls of Alexander Palace.”
Olga straightened in her chair, resisting the urge to look at Pavel as she sipped her tea. “And would you like to get to know me better?” she asked, striving to match her aunt’s nonchalant tone.
He smiled, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “I would, Grand Duchess.”
After the tea trays had been cleared, Aunt Olga invited her guests into an oak-lined sitting room, where a crackling Parisian record spun on a gleaming gramophone.
“She’d better not have any more food in there,” said Pavel, offering Olga his arm as they walked through to the sitting room. Her heart lifted as she curled her fingers around the pristine sleeve of his naval whites. She could picture walking with him, arm in arm, down the tree-lined pathways at Alexander Park—meeting Papa, charming Mamma. He patted his flat stomach. “They’ll have to roll me onto the horse for the next parade.”
Olga laughed. Pavel had gotten his wish: though there weren’t any more tea sandwiches set out, Aunt Olga’s staff had set up a cocktail bar along the far wall. Guests milled nearby, pouring glasses of champagne or vodka before setting themselves up at sofas scattered throughout the room.
“I can’t believe I’m saying it after all that tea, but I’m thirsty,” Olga replied, eyeing the champagne bottles on ice. Mamma and Papa practically abstained from alcohol at Tsarskoe Selo.
“Shall I get us a glass?” said Pavel, but before Olga could respond her aunt had come to steer her away.
“Sorry, Lieutenant!” she said. “You’ve monopolized far too much of my niece’s time. Let someone else have a chance to talk to her.”
Olga looked over her shoulder with an apologetic shrug; Pavel, smiling, threw his hands up in mock defeat.
“Enough,” Aunt Olga muttered, squeezing Olga’s elbow. “You don’t want to seem overeager.”
Olga glanced back once more and saw that Pavel had already struck up a conversation with Felix Yusupov and Dmitri Pavlovich. Dmitri clapped Pavel on the back, and Olga watched, hoping that Pavel didn’t share her handsome cousin’s proclivity for carousing: together, Felix and Dmitri had gained a longstanding reputation as St. Petersburg’s chief troublemakers.
Aunt Olga led her to an empty love seat in the corner. “So nice to take a break from official business,” she said, fanning herself with one hand as they sat. “Champagne? Don’t tell your father.” She waved at Kulikovsky, who nodded from across the room and made his way toward the cocktail table.
“Now that I’ve got you to myself,” said Aunt Olga, once Kulikovsky had delivered their drinks, “I’ve been meaning to ask, how is my dear brother?”
Olga watched Kulikovsky thread back through the room to join Tatiana and a dark-haired girl at one of the other couches. “Papa’s fine, I suppose. He’s busy with the tercentenary celebrations coming up. He’s finalizing the guest list for the church service, I think.”
Aunt Olga leaned against the sofa cushions, crossing her legs at the ankle. “Surely that’s work someone else can see to?” she said. “A secretary, perhaps?”
Olga smiled. “Papa won’t have one. He says it’s the tsar’s duty to oversee every detail.”
Aunt Olga exhaled, and Olga suspected she’d had this conversation with Papa before. “Every detail in Russia is a job too large for anyone, even the tsar,” she replied. They lapsed into companionable silence for a moment, then Aunt Olga leaned closer. “See that girl sitting with Tatiana? Anya Kleinmichel. Her mother’s one of the empress’s ladies-in-waiting. And that young man beside her,” she said, nodding, “is the Duke of Leuchtenberg.” Aunt Olga took Olga’s hand, searching the room for more faces. “Zia de Torby—descended from Pushkin, you know. Of course, she’s only visiting from Luxembourg.” Olga watched her with interest. Olga had read Pushkin’s work, of course, and had long been fascinated by the story of Pushkin’s great-grandfather Gannibal, an African slave to whom Peter the Great had taken a shine, adopted as his godson, and elevated to a prominent position at court. More recently, Zia’s parents had been banished from Russia following their scandalous elopement, but Zia looked unruffled by the whiff of infamy that had no doubt followed her on her trip to St. Petersburg.
“There are so many exciting people in the world, my dear, and I want you to meet them,” Aunt Olga continued. “Find some excitement for yourself. I don’t mean to be critical of your parents, but living in those summer palaces, with those summer people... You don’t experience much of life, out there.”
Olga was silent. Given Alexei’s condition and Mamma’s ill health, Olga’s parents preferred to keep to themselves: a decision which, by extension, meant that Olga and her sisters spent more time alone than in the company of friends. Friendship was a risk: friends might take notice of Alexei’s frequent illnesses; friends might let slip that Russia’s heir was less than robust.
Her aunt wasn’t wrong—but agreeing with her didn’t feel right.
“Tell me, my dear. That priest. Rasputin. Does your mother still invite him to the palace?”
Olga frowned. “Father Grigori? I suppose so, why do you ask?”
Aunt Olga took a sip of her champagne. “No reason. Curiosity, I suppose. He’s quite intense, isn’t he? Those eyes.” Aunt Olga shivered, almost imperceptibly. She lowered her voice. “Tell me—entre nous, of course—what do you think of him?”
Olga watched Dmitri Pavlovich drain a glass of champagne. She ought to have known that Aunt Olga’s generosity came at a price: if Mamma were to be believed, rumors about Father Grigori served as a long-established currency amongst the St. Petersburg set. She could hear Mamma’s voice echoing in her ears: Your brother’s condition is not to be discussed, she’d said, her warning as frequent as a prayer. Father Grigori does God’s work. It is not for us to criticize his methods.
“He’s a true help to my brother,” said Olga carefully. “And to Mamma, of course.”
Aunt Olga smiled, the gramophone blanketing their conversation with a tinny accordion track. “Well, we’d all like to be a help to your mother. But that’s not really an answer to my question, is it? Do you take confession from him, you girls? Alone?”
Olga bristled. “He’s a priest. What would be wrong with that?”
Her aunt raised her eyebrows, her tone delicate as she followed Olga’s gaze across the room. “It’s a matter of propriety. A man of his reputation...” She lowered her voice, her merry eyes uncharacteristically serious. “I worry for you, my dear. They say he takes liberties with women in order to bring them closer to God.”
Olga turned away from her aunt’s inquiring gaze, annoyed, suddenly, at her presumption—at her snobbish disdain. She looked again at the crowd through Mamma’s eyes: at Kulikovsky, whose gaze kept shamelessly straying toward Aunt Olga; at Dmitri and Felix, who’d started a game of dice. At Tatiana, who was clutching an almost-empty glass of champagne, the color high in her cheeks as she spoke to the Kleinmichel girl. Was this what Aunt Olga meant by excitement?
“Well, if it will put your mind at ease, Aunt, I will tell you that Father Grigori is nothing but proper in his dealings with us,” Olga retorted. “But if you want to concern yourself with propriety, perhaps you’d be better to start at home.” She set down her glass, her temper rising like a cork in water. “I may not spend much time in society, Aunt Olga, but I know what’s said in a marriage vow. And the way you’ve been carrying on with that—that captain—”
Aunt Olga’s expression closed quickly as a garden gate. She smiled, but it was a gentle, pitying thing that made Olga wish she’d never spoken.
“I keep forgetting how little you’ve learned,” she said, without heat. She put her hand over Olga’s, and Olga, amazed, let her. She’d been so ready for a fight that she had no response. “Look around this room and you’ll see a thousand forms of love—not all of which fit within the bonds of marriage.” She leaned back in her chair, and Olga followed her gaze: across the room, Captain Kulikovsky was watching Aunt Olga with a tender expression.
“Not that it’s any concern of yours, but my husband and I have a very satisfactory arrangement. Most couples do, when you look past the surface,” Aunt Olga continued. She met Kulikovsky’s gaze with that same soft look, and Olga could see why she’d chosen to respond to Olga’s insolence with pity, rather than anger. “You think you know everything—it’s a trait shared by all eldest siblings, I’m afraid,” she said. “But live a little, my dear. Fall in love and out of it. Build friendships and break them. Live a little and earn the right to criticize others.”
She patted Olga’s hand once more, reassuring. Then she stood and tapped the edge of her glass, her wedding ring chiming against the crystal.
Olga scuttled off to join Tatiana, her cheeks burning as the hum of a dozen conversations fell quiet. Her aunt’s gentle rebuke wasn’t lost on her: the afternoon had, in the most fundamental way, been a disaster. Had she really expected to dazzle Pavel Voronov with her simple Victorian manners, her quiet country existence? What did she have to contribute to any conversation other than the little details of court life that her aunt had pressed her for, tidbits about Mamma’s holy man, about Papa’s work? Her life, far off in a country palace, had ill prepared her for an afternoon amidst St. Petersburg’s elegant shadow court. She’d been foolish to think that, here, anyone would care about meeting her; that Pavel, for all his flattery and kindness, could really yearn for the touch of her hand.
Tatiana shifted onto the couch to make space; beside her, Anya Kleinmichel leaned forward, her brown hair falling over her shoulder. She was pretty, in a plain sort of way, and Olga smiled back.
“Your mother is one of Mamma’s ladies-in-waiting, isn’t she?” Olga asked.
Anya nodded. “A lady-in-waiting to Her Imperial Majesty, yes, Grand Duchess,” she said, but Tatiana swatted her hand.
“None of that here,” she said. “We’re Olga and Tatiana, yes?”
Olga grinned. “The whole ceremony of it. So stiff, don’t you think?” she added, and Anya’s face relaxed, as though she’d been waiting for Olga’s approval. Olga looked at the girl, her foul mood lifting slightly. Was this all it took to make friends?
At the end of the room, Aunt Olga tapped her ring against her glass for silence once more. Standing near the fireplace, Pavel, playing with the stem of his champagne coupe, caught Olga’s eye. She smiled at him, her heart lifting further still. Even with little experience in the complicated language of romance, a smile was an easy thing to give.
“The game,” said Aunt Olga, pausing for a delicious moment of suspense, “is called ‘Sardines.’”
Immediately, the room broke into excited chatter, but Aunt Olga held up a hand, her black shawl falling behind her like a wing. “One of you will hide somewhere in the house—east wing only, I should say—and the rest of us must find him and hide, too. The last one to find everyone loses the game. Felix, would you like to do the honors?”
Leaning back against the pillows with his long arm stretched across the top of the sofa, Felix Yusupov lifted a cigarette from his lips with thin, elegant fingers. “There’s more fun in the seeking than the hiding, surely?” He smiled, bestowing upon the room the full effect of his rakish charm. “I’d rather be the hunter than the hunted.”
The room erupted into whispered conversations once again, and Olga watched Felix lean closer to Dmitri, clasping him by the back of the neck as he whispered something, close enough for his lips to graze Dmitri’s cheek. Her heart pounding, she turned her attention to Pavel, daring to hold his gaze.
Tatiana nudged her side. “Is this entirely proper?” she whispered. “Running through the house, hiding... What would Mamma—”
Olga smiled, borrowing an ounce of Felix Yusupov’s confidence. “Mamma isn’t here,” she breathed, feeling suddenly, wildly, invincible.
Aunt Olga held up her hand again. “In that case, Alexander, would you care to...?”
The young man who Aunt Olga had pointed out earlier—the Duke of Leuchtenberg—stood up, straightening his tailcoat. “Give me a fighting chance, Grand Duchess, before setting the hounds on me,” he said as he took off down the hallway.
Anya Kleinmichel stood as the guests began to break into search parties. “Where do you think will he go?” she said, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “I don’t know the palace very well.”
“The library, I should think,” said Olga. “The false wall, remember, Tatiana? With the staircase?”
Tatiana grinned, and Dmitri clapped her on the shoulder in passing as he and Felix set off down the hallway at a run. “Olga and I used to know this palace like the backs of our hands,” she said, taking Anya’s arm.
Tatiana and Anya set off for the door, but Olga remained on the sofa, playing with the loose strap of her shoe. By the time she looked up, Tatiana and Anya were far down the hall, their figures shrinking as they reached the staircase.
Behind her, someone cleared their throat.
“I have a feeling you’ll be good at this game. Might we join forces?” said Pavel. He stepped closer, brushing his thumb along the delicate skin at the base of Olga’s wrist and sending up a wave of gooseflesh along her arm.
Olga hesitated, the better to let Tatiana move even farther ahead. “The bedroom wing,” she said. “There are more wardrobes up there than I can count.”
Pavel smiled. “The bedroom wing it is, then,” he said. “I’ll follow you.”
They had lingered long enough in the sitting room that Olga and Pavel were the last two down the hallway, and Olga maintained her hold on Pavel’s hand without looking down, as though to acknowledge the connection would be to break it. They started up the staircase; from below, they could hear the sound of laughter.
“Should we be up here?” said Olga, breathing lightly as they reached the upper landing. The long hall was deserted; the doorways in dark alcoves were closed, light pooling from the chandeliers onto the heavy carpets.
“She said the east wing, didn’t she?” Pavel stepped ahead, tugging Olga’s hand playfully. Olga’s pulse quickened, spurred in equal measure by excitement and terror. She’d never been spoken to so informally; she’d never been alone, completely alone, with someone. She knew she ought to turn around—that Mamma would be horrified if she ever learned Olga had gone off with a man unchaperoned—but Olga tightened her fingers around Pavel’s, savoring their solitude.
They paused in front of a closed door, and Pavel grinned.
“Shall we?” he said and twisted the knob.
The room was nearly pitch-black: in the dark, Olga could see the outline of a vanity and the bulk of a wardrobe, light from the hallway tracing a line down to the end of a four-poster bed. There was something thrilling about the prospect of an unlit room; something magical in the half moonlight that made Olga want to close the door behind them.
Pavel turned on the light and opened the wardrobe: inside, three dresses, long since out of fashion, turned on hangers. He pushed them aside as though to verify the wardrobe’s contents, then got on his knees and lifted the bed skirt. Olga walked to the window and shook the heavy curtains, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air.
“Well, we know the maid isn’t hiding in here, at least,” said Pavel, coughing. Olga waved her hand to dissipate the cloud and Pavel stood too, a half smile on his face as they watched the dust dance in the light.
“My parents used to make me clean my own room,” said Olga. “They only allowed us a maid once we’d learned to empty the fireplace ashes for ourselves.”
“Really?” said Pavel. He straightened his jacket, brushing a mote of dust from his arm. “I somehow didn’t think you the type for manual labor.”
“They wanted me to learn the value of hard work.”
Pavel stepped closer and Olga was struck by how much taller than her he was; his hand enveloped her own, the span of his shoulders twice as broad as her corseted waist. Her stomach turned: now that she was alone with him, she couldn’t believe the extent of her scandalous actions. She glanced back at the open door, unsure whether to pull Pavel back into the hall, but Aunt Olga’s rebuke echoed in her mind. Were she to leave now, she’d be doing the proper thing—but her life would remain half-lived.
“And did you?” he whispered. “Learn?”
Olga leaned in closer, letting Pavel run his hand up her arm—but then they heard voices.
“Quick!” Pavel beckoned her toward the wardrobe and Olga climbed in, all her fears flooding back. What would be said about her if she were discovered here, in the company of a man she barely knew?
The voices grew louder and Pavel, too, stepped into the wardrobe, pulling the door shut. The interior was cedar-scented and cramped; Pavel needed to bow his head to fit. Unconsciously, it seemed, he put an arm around her waist and pulled her close, one hand gripping the small handle inside the wardrobe door.
Olga pressed her cheek against his chest, breathing in his heavy cologne, resisting the urge, suddenly, to laugh.
“Aren’t we supposed to be seeking, not hiding?” she whispered, and she could feel Pavel’s chest rumble with laughter. He ran his hand up her back and into the crush of her hair, letting his smiling lips rest on the top of her head.
From the other side of the wardrobe, they heard the voices once more.
“This one’s open!” Olga opened her eyes at the sound of Dmitri Pavlovich’s voice; on the floor of the wardrobe she could see a sliver of light, quickly eclipsed before the door to the wardrobe rattled, alarmingly. Olga pressed closer to Pavel in terror; she looked up to see him squeezing his eyes shut as he gripped the tiny doorknob.
She watched the sliver of light on the wardrobe floor: Dmitri’s pacing shadow, his huff of disappointment.
“Locked,” he said. “Anyone under the bed?”
“No,” Felix Yusupov replied. “Nor in it, sadly.” Olga could picture Felix’s downturned mouth, handsome even in defeat. “It would be a better way to while away an afternoon than these silly parlor games.”
Dmitri sounded devilish. “Depends on the group,” he said, his voice drifting farther away. Through the crack in the door, she watched Dmitri slow on the lintel before he and Felix drifted back into the hallway. “If we were to lose the chaperones for a little while, perhaps, we could have some fun...”
Olga let out a breath: she and Pavel were safe. Belatedly, she realized she’d been gripping him by the waist; she looked up, unwilling to move away. In the darkness she could see the outline of his face; his mouth, dark and soft; his eyes inscrutable. His expression, in the gloom, unreadable as she lifted her lips to meet his.