Sylvie of a Single Name had read her fair share of happy endings.
It seemed to her, as she sat outside the magnificent mausoleum of Honoré Côte, that this had the makings of a perfect one: an empty glass casket, lost siblings who’d followed a trail of enchanted breadcrumbs back to each other, and two true love stories. There was even a striking sunset for her friends to fly off into—and as Sylvie watched them winging away, to their castle and their carnival, she found herself thinking about the phrase ever after. It seemed so simple in books, but standing by her colorful stack of fairy tales in the almost-empty tomb, she understood that real life didn’t just end. (Until it did.) The sun would rise again tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.
And so they lived…
A lot could happen in those four short words.
Sylvie decided not to fly into the stained glass sky with the rest of the Enchantresses. She walked out of the cemetery instead, through the southernmost entrance, where stairs and a battered blue door led down to the cobbled stones of rue de la Réunion. Though most of the city’s bakeries had started flipping their signs to OUVERT after the German army’s retreat, the one she’d once plundered for a breakfast croissant remained closed. The door to Tsarskoe Selo was locked too. Sylvie paused by its fuchsia wood and shoved her hands into her pockets. She carried the key everywhere with her, running her fingers over the teeth so often, she figured that even if she lost it in the barrel of keys the Fisherman kept in the corner of his shop, she’d be able to fish it out again.
The photographs were still there too.
Just in case.
She’d thought a lot about what the Fisherman of the Moon had told her—about the magic of joy and hope. These were important things to consider, now that she was gathering more than just her own imaginings. If Sylvie was going to become a Sanct, she’d better be like La Fée Verte or Nicolas Stohrer. The alternative was too terrible…
Sylvie stared at the keyhole and tried not to think about Rasputin.
She tried not to imagine his unholy blue eyes staring back.
The Mad Monk did not know about this door. It was too obscure. Too childish for him to stumble across. Besides he was too busy harvesting the anima of dying Russian infantry to sit in the Children’s Palace waiting for Sylvie… if she was quick and careful, she might be able to reach Anastasia’s bedroom…
Marmalade leaned on her, rubbing his ragged ear against her calf. What is wrong, oh hunter mine?
Sylvie pulled out the key, along with one of the smoother photographs. “I promised I would Enlighten Nastya again, but then I never came back. I left her there in the dark.”
That is understandable, the tomcat purred. You were trapped inside a necklace.
Sylvie could feel the beginnings of another firebird flickering through her mind, defiantly bright. “I’m not trapped anymore.”
Marmalade narrowed his orange eyes. Not inside jewelry, no. But if you awaken the princess, the Mad Monk will know. He will use Anastasia to hurt you. You are not strong enough to fight him yet, oh hunter mine.
Sylvie’s fist wrapped harder around the key. She knew the tomcat was right. The grand duchess had too many fears tying her to the palace. Opening Anastasia’s eyes to them would be cruel at best. Even worse? The princess might be puppeteered the same way Alexei had been when he’d torn Sylvie’s wings from her back. The same way the rest of the Romanovs were when it came to waging this war.
Some curses could not be broken.
Some futures could not be told.
But maybe, just maybe, the tangled threads coming out of the grand duchess’s head could be rewoven. Sylvie remembered what Madame Arcana had said—about tightropes and tapestries. She also remembered the things she herself had told Honoré, when the other Enchantress despaired about the shadow strings wrapping around Gabriel.
“Anastasia’s story isn’t over yet,” she told Marmalade firmly, as she slid the key into the lock. “I might not be able to Enlighten the princess, but I don’t have to abandon her either.”
The door to Russia creaked open. The other side was empty. Too empty. Sylvie shivered as she stepped over the threshold. The walls of the Children’s Palace seemed to be pressing in, in, with the same suffocating smallness she’d known inside the necklace. It helped, some, when Marmalade padded into the room after her. He lifted his nose to the air and sniffed.
The Mad Monk is not here, oh hunter mine, but you must take care. His spells are strung everywhere—like a spider’s web.
All Sylvie could smell was drying foliage and cold smoke. The same stage of autumn it had been when she’d first arrived here. “What about Nastya?”
You’ll find the princess in her room, the tom answered. If you must go to her, then I will go with you. I will keep watch. I will guard you with the rest of my lives.
She scooped the cat up into her arms, feeling his deep purr against her freshly healed scar. Beneath that was the heat of Sylvie’s firebird, growing with all the glowing memories she’d made here with the princess. That first thermos of smoky cocoa on the fur coat. Their two days spent imagining doors. The ice bridge they’d imagined over the lake, long since melted.
Sylvie had to fly over the water this time. It was an amethyst evening, too dark for her to see the turning leaves as she soared toward Anastasia’s window. Even though it was early—too early, even, for Anastasia’s older sister to be in the room—it seemed that the youngest grand duchess had fallen asleep reading in her camp bed. A candle sputtered on the bedside table, lighting the lilac fairy book splayed across her chest. The gilded fairy on the cover shimmered as the princess snored.
When Sylvie approached the bed, these sounds softened.
“Marie?” Anastasia mumbled her sister’s name, then cracked an eyelid. “You’re so… pink.”
Sylvie halted, watching the grand duchess warily. Her hair was jet-black against her pillow, but when Anastasia’s eyes opened, she could see a sliver of blue fighting through their dimness. But how could the princess see Sylvie? Had she walked straight into a trap set by Rasputin?
Sylvie glanced over her shoulder, but the window she’d entered through was empty.
Marmalade squirmed against her chest and hopped down to the floor. The princess is almost asleep. She sees you on the edge of dreams… You might be able to talk with her, quietly.
“Oh,” Sylvie whispered. She wasn’t entirely sure what else to say. How could any words compare to the magic she felt inside? To everything Anastasia Nikolaevna did not remember?
“Hello, Nastya.”
The princess gave a sleepy groan and twisted under her covers. The lilac fairy book went tumbling to the floor by Sylvie’s feet. It was the same copy Libris had saved in order to complete her rainbow. The volume had never joined the rest of her Andrew Lang books though. As soon as they’d left the shop that evening, Sylvie had lent it to Anastasia, which meant she’d never had a chance to read the final stories of her favorite author.
It was just as well.
Anastasia needed them more. Sylvie could tell by the way the book’s spine was cracked that the princess had read through the volume multiple times. That was a good sign. It meant there was still room for fairy tales in the dark and fearful forest of her mind. There were still places where Sylvie might be able to plant a seed.
“My name is Sylvie. Just Sylvie. You and I, we went on some amazing adventures together.” She swallowed, thinking of the memories she’d stolen: Exploring the haunted opera house. Making the city’s statues dance the tango—an especially amusing spectacle with Emperor Charlemagne and his horse. Lying on the floor of Saint Chapelle and watching the stained glass windows swirl. All of it felt like a lifetime ago. “When we first met, I thought I was the luckiest orphan alive. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d ever get to become best friends with a real princess. But I did. And then I got to show you other dreams, and it was so, so wonderful…” Until it wasn’t. Until Alexei’s hand had felt as cold as death around her wrist. “We used magic to create beautiful things, but there’s a darker side to it too. There are men who use their powers to unmake other people… I didn’t realize that was what Rasputin was doing to your family. I didn’t see how selfish it was to make you see those things too…”
She thought of Alexei’s frigid hand again. So cold, in spite of the heat of his sister’s firebird. It made sense. The tsarevitch was a dead child walking, beyond saving even before Sylvie had brought his tin soldiers to life.
Anastasia’s fingers were warm, though, when Sylvie knelt by the princess’s bed and grabbed them. “I want to stop the Mad Monk, but I’m not strong enough. Yet,” she added. “We’ve established the League of Imaginers, and I’m finding more daydreamers to help me grow, but none of them fit as well as you did. I miss you, Nastya. I miss you so very, very much.”
The grand duchess gave another groan. Less sleepy.
Sylvie let her friend’s hand fall back on the bed. She picked up the book, leafing through its blood-flecked golden pages all the way past The End. From her pocket, she pulled out the smoothest photograph of the two of them, slipping it between the novel’s endpapers the same way Libris used to preserve imaginings. It was only a picture, simply paper and ink, but if Anastasia found the photograph, she would begin to wonder where it had been taken.
Wonder. That was the first step.
Sylvie could imagine the second. The fiery feeling in her chest should not come out as a bird, not here. Instead, she took their joined memories and created copies—much like the photographs in her pocket. Or the way a locksmith might match a key. Her key. That’s what the spell looked like, when Sylvie pulled it from her mind. She’d shaped the thoughts using a technique La Fée Verte had taught her. I’ve used this to forge swords, but there are many reasons you might want to fuse ideas together…
The shining key was a contingency, really. Meant to sit in the back of Anastasia’s mind, until Sylvie was strong enough to break Rasputin’s curses. If the princess needed to escape before that happened? Well, the spell would unlock all sorts of things: the grand duchess’s memories, her magic, even the door to rue de la Réunion.
They would be together again, one day.
Sylvie believed this with all her flaming heart.
“I promise I’ll keep dreaming for you,” she whispered, slipping the glowing key beneath the princess’s pillow. Then she placed the fairy-tale book on the bedside table and blew out the candle there. “Go back to sleep now, Nastya. You’ll wake up and find me when you’re ready.”