The stable is dark, the grooms long since turned in for the evening. Carefully, I light a lamp, setting it in the hay in the empty stall. Around me, the horses shuffle in the soft glow, nervous at my presence. Despite all the luxuries and decadences of French court, their steeds still have nothing on strong, stout Russian breeds.
“Why you insist on meeting in this odor-filled barn, I will never know,” a voice teases from behind me. Turning toward him, I lower the hood of my black cloak.
“It’s the only place my maid won’t come searching for me,” I explain, motioning to the horses. “She’s terrified of the creatures. She was kicked as a child or some such thing.”
He laughs, his golden curls framing his face, “Well, that explains the one odd eye. I swear I can never tell if she’s looking at me or someone down the hall.”
Laughing, I step into his outstretched arms. He draws me close, engulfing me in his warmth as he lowers his mouth to mine for a deep, long kiss that sends heat through my chest.
When I finally pull away, he groans, his blue eyes hooded.
“Elizabeth, my Elizabeth.”
“Not yours yet,” I tease, drawing free of his embrace. “Not until the engagement is official.”
He shrugs. “Soon enough”
“Perhaps you should tell your dear cousin the duke to rush the agreement,” I counter.
Father has been negotiating the arrangement for the entire month of our visit, far longer than it should have taken. The politics of marriage—alliances of nations—were never easy. Besides simple things like dowries, a host of other items are included in the agreement, everything from how many ladies I will have to my allowance and lands—most of which increase the moment I produce a healthy male heir. The thought of it twists my stomach. Having a strong son is the key to a stable future, and a task even my very capable mother had never managed to accomplish. Her failure on that count is a constant shadow over us all.
“You may not sit upon the throne of Russia,” Father assured me during our voyage to Paris. “But a throne you shall have.”
My father is nothing if not a man of his word, and in this matter, I am confident. Not only because of his wealth and power, but also because of the way I’d been able to immediately capture Louis’ attentions. Even with a court teaming with eligible ladies—my sister Petra included—he’d been unable to resist me. Versailles is a splendid palace, and Louis is even more charming and handsome than I’d heard. Mother is ecstatic at the prospect of joining our nations, and I am more than eager to begin my life as queen.
“I don’t know,” I say, circling the young king. “I hear there’s a certain Polish princess who has been sending you letters.”
Louis laughs again. “Already you have your spies on me? I should be flattered. You truly do have the heart of a French woman.”
I have to force myself not to bristle at the remark. It’s intended as a compliment, but it feels more like a slight. French women, at least the ladies I’ve met in my weeks here, are delicate things, content to sing and sew and let the men around them speak. Only behind closed doors do they reveal their true natures—conniving, backstabbing harlots, the lot.
“My king, you flatter me. But I should need more than pretty words to soothe my aching heart,” I offer coyly, batting my lashes and gazing toward the chestnut mare two stables over.
“My lady requires a token? Jewels, perhaps? I would lay the crown jewels at your feet this moment if I could,” he swears, reaching out and claiming my hand.
I shrug. “Rocks.”
When he chuckles, the sound rolls along my skin. “Then tell me, what does your heart desire?”
Moving into him, I press the bodice of my nightdress to his chest and draw a deep breath. “I want only to sit by your side. Tomorrow, at supper. Have them bring me a chair. Allow me the honor of supping at your right hand.”
He blinks his blue eyes, taking my chin in one warm hand. “My love, such things must wait until we are wed. Court protocol…”
I pull away roughly. “Court protocol. Do not speak to me of these things. You are the king, the ordained of God. Who dictates such things to you? Who would dare?”
He reaches out, and I allow him to capture me once more. Raising my hand, I touch his face with just the tips of my fingers, a gesture I’ve seen my mother employ on my father more than once.
“My king, my love…” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Show me that I am your queen. Show everyone I will rule at your side, and I shall give myself to you.”
The rise and fall of his chest halts, his eyes widening. “Whatever your heart desires, I will give you. You will be my queen. You will sit at my side tomorrow and every night after, I swear it.”
With that, he seizes the back of my neck, pulling me into a deep kiss. Releasing myself to his embrace, I let the cloak fall from my shoulders. With slow, skilled fingers, he pulls the ribbons from my hair, freeing it into soft waves that roll down my back. The night air is crisp, his touch is hot, and I shudder.
Faintly, in the back of my mind, my sister’s voice echoes words of caution. It whispers doubts, reminding me I’m not Louis’ first conquest. Tells me that my virtue is all I have to give—the only weapon I have to wield.
But in that moment, I can’t bring myself to heed her words. My own heart is beating too loudly, every touch sending tingles along my flesh. Strong hands lift me from my feet, gently lowering me into the hay.
“My Elizabeth,” he moans. “My wild, fiery princess. Give yourself to me this night, and I will lay all of France open before you.”
“I am yours,” I swear, drawing him down onto me. “And you are mine.”
I’m able to slip back to my chamber just before dawn breaks, still picking straw off my cloak as I make my way through the kitchen and into the damp passage that empties into my antechamber. Opening the door as quietly as possible, I bundle the cloak and stuff it into the chest at the foot of my bed. Glancing at my shift, I examine it for any sign of my sacrifice—all sacrifices require blood, do they not?—but there’s nothing. I tug it over my head anyway, tossing it in the basket of soiled linens waiting for the maids to launder. Replacing it with a fresh gown from my wardrobe, I climb into bed, my skin still warm from my lover’s touch, my body aching from the exquisite pleasure.
It’s my sister who first bursts into the room, and I grumble, too exhausted to put on a display of normalcy.
Opening one eye, I see Petra give me a shocked glance before slamming my door closed behind her.
“Lizzy,” she chastises as I sit up. “What on earth did you get up to last night?”
I open my mouth, but only a tired whimper escapes my lips.
Rushing into bed beside me, she takes my head in her hands and plucks.
“Were you in the stables?” she demands, holding out a crumpled piece of hay.
Flushing, I clamp my mouth shut.
“Honestly, Lizzie,” she says as she continues to preen me. “You simply must stop these antics.”
I toss the bedsheets back, brushing her off. “Calm down, Petra. The engagement will be announced today, I’m sure of it. After that, nothing else will matter.”
A nervous expression crosses her thin face, her doe eyes lowering even as her lips press into a thin line. “Are you so certain?”
I nod, taking her hand. “I am. He swore it to me only tonight. And we have consummated our bond.”
The shock on her face is plain, but she does not chastise me as I fear she might. She hesitates briefly, then lifts her chin to offer me a half-hearted smile. “Then I am glad for you, sister.”
“Be glad for us both. I will ask Father to allow you to stay with me, I will find you a wonderful suitor here, and you can remain at court with me for as long as you wish,” I promise.
“Father has been ill,” she whispers, and I lunge forward, covering her mouth with my palm.
“Don’t,” I warn. “Do not speak of it. It would not do for whispers to circulate here, to cast doubts on the future of the monarchy.”
She frowns behind my hand, and I release her. “Is that your concern? Not that we might lose our father?”
I glare. “My concern for our nation will always come first, sister. As should yours. But Father is strong, and his illness will pass soon enough.”
Petra slides off the bed, brushing the skit of her gown. “The maids will be here soon with breakfast. We should prepare. Perhaps a prayer?” Her brown eyes glint in the warm morning light streaming into my window.
“Of course,” I offer, kneeling beside my bed and inviting her to join me.
I watch from the corner of my eye as her lids close, her lips moving in a silent prayer. No doubt she’s praying for Father, for his health and probably for my own as well. She is good in that way, much closer to God than I am. Her heart is gentle. Meekness is her gift.
Closing my own eyes, I lay a hand on my belly, offering a prayer of my own.
A few minutes later, a gentle tap comes at the door before it is opened.
Closing our prayers, we rise.
“Your Grace…” The first lady, Marjory Du Beaumont, addresses me. “His Majesty, your father, would speak with you immediately.” Her Russian is nearly flawless, much better than many others at court. It’s why Mother chose her—that and her familial relation to Prince Alexander Menshikov, Father’s closest friend and one of our few allies in this foreign land.
Petra and I exchange a glance, and I cannot hide my smug grin. “Of course.”
The maid rushes to my wardrobe and selects a dress, offering it to Lady Du Beaumont for approval. The woman nods curtly, her hair curled and powdered into a tower at the top of her head, as is the fashion here. Turning to her other ladies, she begins barking orders in French. Only once the others have gone about their tasks does she come to me, working to fasten the ties of my panniers.
Lady Du Beaumont speaks again, her voice hardly a whisper. “Your mother bid me to give you a message, Your Grace. She says you must not speak to anyone—that you confide in no one—until she is able to come to you.”
My stomach churns. Does Mother know what transpired last night? How could she? I feel the color drain from my face, prompting the lady to pinch my cheeks roughly. No matter, once the engagement is official, none of that will matter.
Dressing quickly, Petra helps me tie my hair into a simple twist at the top of my head, two long curls descending from the base of my neck and draping over my shoulders. The maid powders my face, adding a strand of pearls around my neck.
“Come,” Lady Du Beaumont says, leading me to the great hall.
We stand in line outside the doors, which open periodically, just wide enough to allow me a glimpse of my father as he meets with his advisors. A plate of meats, cheese, and bread is ushered into his chamber, making my mouth water. A few minutes later, my mother approaches, her own ladies in tow, her billowing gown rustling as she glides down the hall toward me. When I curtsy as she approaches, she meets my eyes, but says nothing. The valet announces her at the door, and she vanishes inside.
I stand, fidgeting from foot to foot, as the others around me chat mindlessly about various affairs of state, both here and at home. Wheat blight has affected the farmers and serifs north of St. Petersburg, an outbreak of smallpox has been discovered in the northern provinces, and closer to Paris, the mistress of the previous cardinal is threatening to go to the pope if she’s not given lands she claims to have been promised before his passing, and a banking crisis is thought to be a conspiracy by the Orleans family—a bid to force the king into bringing the Duke of Anju back into the royal court.
I listen to these murmurs, silently planning how they should be dealt with, quietly strategizing how I might offer counsel to not just my father, but also my future husband. Pleasure and politics, the lifeblood of royal court.
Raised voices echo in the chamber, drawing the gaze of the assembly. Lady Du Beaumont stiffens beside me, and the first wave of doubt beats against me. When the doors finally open, my mother approaches, leveling a gaze at me when she passes. Though she does not speak, her expression says enough. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips pressed into a thin line. She’s holding her tongue, a feat I’ve witnessed more than once at our own court. Sucking in a breath, I straighten my shoulders and force my expression to an emotionless mask.
The valet announces me and I glide into the room, offering a curtsy to my father and Louis, who sit opposite each other at the head of the chamber. Father has often doted on Louis, visiting his court often when the king was just a boy, even embracing him as a son—an act shocking in itself. There is a rift between them now, silent but deep. It is cut into the lines around Father’s eyes, in the tick working in his jaw. Shifting my attention, I notice Louis does not meet my gaze, opting instead to fiddle with the gold signet around his finger. The air between us is icy, a far cry from how warmly he’d held me only hours before. His silence is a contrast to his whispered promises and declarations of affection. Though the first quakings of anger ripple through me, I hold firm, even as my insides long to weep with the news I fear is coming.
The Duke of Bourbon stands, not reaching his full height due to a slight hump at the back of his neck, his frame thin but his face fair.
“Your Imperial Highness Princess Elizabeth, it is lovely to see you again. I hope your visit has been amenable?”
“His Majesty has been most kind,” I say softly, forcing a smile to my lips. “The whole of court has been so delightful I dare say I have felt quite at home.”
He nods, offering a sad smile. “I am glad to hear it. Unfortunately, it is with deep regret I must inform you that no contract of marriage can be offered from His Majesty at this time.”
The words are like knives in my heart, but I hide the pain. Instead, I nod. “I hope I have not offended His Majesty in some way. Though if I have, I must beg his forgiveness.”
Louis speaks, his head snapping up as if unable to contain himself. “Of course not. Never.”
The Duke of Bourbon clears his throat. “No offense has been noted. Other matters, however, must be considered.”
Staying silent for a moment, I blink back the tears of rage threatening to spill down my cheeks. I can only hope they mistake it for grief as I struggle to speak without a tremor in my voice.
“My Lord, it has been my dearest wish that our nations might be joined in matrimony. Might I at least know the reason I am so disappointed?” I ask.
The duke fumbles for a moment, his gaze drifting to my father.
“She is owed that, at least,” he mutters.
“Simply put, it is a matter of law. There have been some concerns raised from the other council members about the lack of royal lineage of Her Majesty, your mother, the queen.”
There it is. My mother’s status as a commoner comes to haunt us once again.
“And, of course, the issue of legitimacy must also be considered,” he continues.
“Surely French court is not subject to such idle gossip,” I offer gently. “My father himself has attested that he was wed to my mother before my birth.”
“But not publicly wed, I believe,” he stammers.
“And my sister and I have been legitimized besides,” I press.
“Yes, well…” He holds out his hands, opening his mouth to speak again, but I cut him off before he’s able.
“Unless you doubt the word of the Tsar of Russia? I wonder, is it his law or his word in which you find fault?”
The duke’s mouth clamps shut. I know I should stop, but I’m unable—my anger, my betrayal, it burns inside me now, a righteous flame too hot to extinguish.
“Are you, yourself, not the son of Louise Françoise de Bourbon? She was the product of the previous king and his mistress, if memory serves. It occurs to me that if a king’s ability to legitimize his offspring despite his council’s reluctance might be of import to the both of us.”
His cheeks flush and his eyes narrow, but I hold his gaze, waiting for his response.
“Your passion is a credit to your heritage,” he decides after a moment. “His Majesty offered similar concerns. But alas, the council has decided. Unless there is some reason we might reconsider?”
It’s a trick, my mind warns. He is baiting me. Dishonor my father by admitting I’ve been had by the king, confess my lack of virtue, and they might let me stay—not as queen, of course. Mistress at best.
I glance at Louis, who eagerly leans forward.
Do I love him enough to destroy my reputation? Enough to abandon my rank and accept this meager offer of his companionship, but not the title that goes along with it?
I cannot help but wonder if this was his plan all along. To make me his without having to sacrifice the demands of his council.
To make me his whore.
The thought stabs at my heart.
How little he must think of me.
“Of course not, my lord,” I offer quickly. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
With that, I turn and walk from the room with my head high.
It’s not until the doors close behind me that I break into a run toward my mother’s chamber.
Petra catches me just outside her door.
“Sister, are you unwell?” she asks, putting her cool hands on either side of my face.
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
“I only just heard. The maids have been whispering. Oh, but what will you do? Surely Father will demand a wedding once he knows how the king has dishonored you.”
I brush her hands away. “Don’t be silly, and lower your voice.”
When the door opens, Mother sees me through the crack as her maid leaves with a tray of tea.
“Elizabeth, come in here,” she demands, lowering herself onto the settee in the outer chamber.
“Keep silent,” I order Petra, abandoning her to the hall.
“Ladies, leave us,” Mother demands. With a quick dip, the maids and ladies exit, closing the door behind them.
“Daughter, you must speak plainly here. What has transpired between you and King Louis?”
I want to deny everything, to keep my shame secret from her, but her eyes pierce me, her gaze calculating and comforting at the same time. She already knows. Nothing happens at court without her knowledge.
Holding out my hands, I have to force my words around my hitched breaths. “I thought if I could convince him, if I could make him love me—the way you did with Father—that he’d keep me,” I admit, falling to my knees at her feet. “But it was not enough. I was not enough.”
She pats my hair. “My sweet daughter. It is a difficult lesson to learn, but the power does not always reside with the head who wears the crown. Even if Louis wants you, his advisors have too much influence. They would never let him choose his own queen. He has been their puppet since he was a child.”
“But now I have done something so foolish,” I admit, unable to say more. The shame is gnawing at me, biting into my belly.
She moves so suddenly it startles me, and I fall back. Kneeling beside me, she grabs my chin in one hand, her grip painful.
“Did you give yourself to him? Have you abandoned your maidenhood? You must tell me.”
I nod, her grip too tight for me to speak.
She groans, releasing me with a push. “Stupid child. I thought you had been taught better.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
She waves one hand, resuming her seat in the chair. “How long have you been bedding him?”
“Once only, last evening. I think…” I hesitate to share my thoughts. “I think he tricked me, so that I might be disgraced. Be forced to stay here as his mistress.”
She narrows her eyes. “A clever rouse. Too clever for the boy king. No doubt the duke’s influence. Only he did not count on your bravery, on your refusal to acknowledge the incident. If they say the king bedded you, you can claim he took you against your will. The pope will condemn him. Force him into a marriage. To do less risks war. If they say nothing, you leave with your virtue intact—but the king does not get his prize. Either way, you have put the duke in a difficult spot.”
“What shall we do?” I ask, still too raw of heart to think clearly.
“You, Petra, and I will spend a few weeks at the abbey in Moscow. Some time for prayer and reflection will be good for us. Once we are assured no child has been conceived, we will return to the palace. We should leave as soon as possible. Go and bid your ladies to pack. And do not speak to Louis again. Do not see him before we go.”
“Surely he can do no more damage,” I say bitterly. “Any affection I might have had for him is well past.”
She shakes her head. “Men are idiots, my daughter. The sooner you learn that, the wiser you will be.”
“Not Father—” I defend, but she cuts me off.
“Your father is a good man, the best I’ve ever known. But yes. Even him. Peter—God bless him—set aside his wife and only legitimate male heir for the love of a lowly maid. He was so blinded, so besotted, that he nearly tore his country apart. We had to marry in secret lest his advisors and nobles rise against him over it. Even now, he pays the price for those decisions. They will haunt him—and us—all our days. It is a pity these men are destined to rule the world based only on the lump of flesh between their legs and not the sharpness of their mind.”
I’m shocked by her candor, for she has never spoken to me so frankly, but the truth of her words is plain.
“That is why we must always rely on our wits. And you, my brave Elizabeth, must be the cleverest of us all. You must be like the ice—beautiful, but cold and unrelenting. There will always be men who envy your title, who covet your body, or who would crush your spirit. Should you ever wear a crown, they will claw it from your head if they are able. You must be above them all. You must be a winter queen.”
“Father would never allow that,” I say. “He will protect us.”
She cocks her head, her expression softening. “Your father grows old. His time on the throne is short. It is the only reason he will suffer this slight. He cannot afford war with France so close to his end.”
“When he passes, you will reign. He has decreed it so. You are the Crown Queen of Russia.”
“And yet, our marriage has always been debated—as has your legitimacy. Should I be fortunate enough to sit upon the throne, my time there will be short. No woman can rule Russia, Elizabeth. It is the curse of our sex.”
I shake my head. “No, do not speak of it. Father is strong, and he will recover. We will find another marriage. Perhaps Spain or Austria.”
She sighs. “Perhaps. In the meantime, off to your rooms. We must prepare for our departure.”
We both stand. As I smooth my skirts, my hand hesitates, lying flat across my stomach, “And if there is a child?” I whisper, the idea striking me not for the first time, but now with a dread I have never expected.
Is such a thing possible? Surely one encounter isn’t enough to conceive a child.
Her tone is soft, but unwavering. “If there is a child, we will deal with it. In the meantime, pray that you bleed. An indiscretion we can easily conceal, a child, however, leaves evidence that cannot so easily be hidden.”
The days are grey, the air cool. Rain beats like hooves on the roof of the abbey, the sound lulling me to rest after a long day of working with the nuns to clean, tend the garden, and translate some of the texts in their humble library.
I haven’t been so bored in all my days.
We have been in Moscow nearly three weeks when I’m awakened in the dark of night. The pain is like being ripped apart, and I cry out, waking Mother and Petra, who share my meager rooms. The next days are a blur of fever and bleeding. When the days had come and gone with no courses, I’d feared the worst.
The blood flowing now would be welcome except for the stabbing, burning pain that steals my breath and keeps me from my feet. We dare not send for a physician, so the nuns tend to me as best they can. Soothing herbs and teas are offered in between fits of vomiting. I pray daily, even as sweat holds my gown to me while I toss, even as we struggle to keep clean linens on the bed.
During one of my feverish fits, I notice a great beast in my room. Its fur is grey, its muzzle long, ears pointed and alert. A wolf, I think. Come to eat me like a monster in a children’s storybook. But the more I stare, I see it’s not quite wolf. A mixture, perhaps. A great dog with wolf-like features. It’s sitting, watching, from the corner of the room. An omen, perhaps. A death omen.
I’m dying, I realize.
This is my punishment, my penance for trading my maidenhood to the unworthy king.
I pray for absolution. For forgiveness. But more even than that, I pray Louis might feel my pain—that he might wake in the night knowing what he has done to me. I pray for that with a bitterness that stains my very soul.
Morning comes again, and the sounds of birds chirping beyond my window echoes through my chamber.
“Be strong, sister,” Petra coos as she wipes my head and face with a cool cloth. “You must eat something today. It has been too long, and you grow weak.”
“Where is Mother?” I ask, glancing around the room. Besides my sister, the only other creature with us is the dog, curled at the foot of my bed and sleeping soundly.
“Mother has gone,” she says, setting the cloth aside and lifting a bowl of soup. “Father needed her in St. Petersburg.”
“She left me? Even as I lay here so close to death?” I whine.
“Father is ill, Lizzie. Badly ill. The sisters whisper—they say he may not recover.”
That thought alone clears my mind, pushing everything else away. The pain, the despair, the self-pity.
Father is dying.
“Help me sit,” I bid. Setting the bowl aside, Petra adjusts my pillows. The dog growls softly as I disturb his sleep.
“Oh, hush, Pushka,” she chastises softly.
“Whose dog is this?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
She shrugs. “He appeared the night you first cried out, and he’s not left your side since. The nuns started calling him Pushka. He’s been eating the scraps you leave behind.”
“I thought him a death omen come to carry me to heaven,” I admit.
“Or perhaps an angel come to guard you in your illness. Tell me, how are your pains?”
Leaning forward experimentally, I wince. “There is hurt, but it is not so terrible now. Mostly, I am just exhausted.”
“Well, your fever has broken, so that is a blessing.”
“How is Father? What have you heard?”
Petra hesitates, reaching to stroke Pushka. “They say it is grave. The sweating sickness. He is not expected to survive. Mother has gone to him, but…”
But indeed.
“I cannot imagine it,” I say. “Father was always so strong. So fierce.”
“Even kings must pass…eventually. It is the way of things.”
“I want to go to him,” I say, motioning to the soup. “Help me eat, and we will go to him.”
She shakes her head. “Mother bid us stay here. We are not to return to St. Petersburg until she sends word. She fears for our safety. She fears the Privy Council will use his illness to undo some of his less popular legislation.”
“Such as our legitimization,” I say for her.
She only nods.
“Then I shall eat and rest, and we shall prepare for her summons.”
With a deep sigh, Petra offers me a spoonful of pheasant soup.
“A letter from Mother,” Petra calls out.
It’s not yet full dawn, but the nuns are already bustling in the garden, harvesting the wheat with withered hands. I stand, dropping a tomato into my basket and wiping my hands on my apron.
“Finally,” I say, making my way across the field to her. My limp is pronounced, and I wince with every other step. Though the bleeding has stopped, I know damage has been done. The nuns worry I may never carry a child now. I am too grateful for my life to be terribly bothered by it.
News of Father’s passing reached us only days before, and our grief was softened with word that Mother will succeed him. Surely, she will send for us now that it is safe again.
Taking the letter into the sitting room, I poke at the fire as Petra reads.
My brave daughters,
It is with heavy heart that I write to you with news of our king’s passing. He went without much pain, peacefully in his bed. His decree that I take the throne has been honored—for now. It has been made plain to me that I must name your half-nephew Peter as my successor if I hope to remain regent. I suspect that as soon as I agree, my time will be quite short indeed.
I have arranged for you to travel to Holstein-Gottorp, to the land of my kinsmen, to be wed to two of the princes there. It is a small principality, but you will be safe from the reaches of those who will fear your heritage. Petra, my darling, you are to wed the handsome young Sir Charles Frederick, Duke of Holstein-Gottorp. He is a brave man and nephew to the king of Sweden.
Elizabeth, you will marry Charles’ cousin, Charles Augustus, Prince of Eutin. I’m told he is a wise leader and a fair-minded man. I have no doubt you will find safety and happiness in his court. I have sent a carriage and two of my most trusted ladies to accompany you, along with as many gowns and jewels as I could slip out unnoticed. There is also a chest that holds coins, enough to provide your dowries. I only wish I could do more.
Please, go to Germany immediately. I will delay the signing as long as possible, but for your own sakes, you must be beyond Russia’s borders when I do. I wish with all my heart that I might hold my children once more, but I fear it is not to be. If I am able, I will flee and join you there. If not, know that my love goes with you.
I will pray for your happiness, but above all, for your safety.
Catherine R
The parchment falls from Petra’s fingers, fluttering to the floor like a feather on the breeze. We are too stunned to speak, the weight of our mother’s words like stones on our chests.
Crawling across the floor, I put my hands on her knees. “Sister, are you certain it was Mother’s seal on the letter?”
She nods, her eyes peering into the fire like she can see nothing else.
“Then we must go,” I say, standing. Grabbing her arms, I tug her to her feet.
“We have to go to Mother,” she whimpers. “They will kill her. We have to help her.”
With a deep breath, I shake her roughly. “No. They will not. She is a queen. Protected by God. To harm her would be the greatest sin. We must do as we are told. Don’t you see? They will come for us.”
Petra blinks, her eyes watery with unshed tears. “But she’s our mother.”
“Our father is dead. Mother does what she can for us, but she is not here. It’s just you and me now. And if we ride into St Petersburg, they will use us as leverage against her. We go to Germany, we marry if we must, then we find allies—people loyal to Father. We can raise an army, one big enough to defend Mother and protect her.”
Her voice is soft, the tears finally breaking loose down her cheeks. “I’m afraid.”
“Then I will be brave for both of us. Now, go pack your things.”
The carriage ride is long and tedious. We stop often so I might stretch to ease my pains, and my lady Ivaonna forages for berries that help relax my tensions. We play cards, sew, and I help Petra practice her German. Pushka lays at my feet, warming them with his body when the nights grow cold. We do not dare stop to make camp for fear the council’s men will catch up with us.
By the time we arrive in Holstein-Gottorp, every bone in my body aches. We stop long enough to bathe in the cool Baltic waters before crossing the Schlei. There, we fix our hair and change our clothes for the impending arrival. When we pull to a stop outside the tiny castle, I force myself to exhale deeply before being helped from the carriage.
A handful of people wait to greet us. An older woman stands with a warm smile, her robes suggesting nobility—though worn and slightly out of fashion—with a small tiara tucked into her grey curls. Beside her is a younger woman with dark hair and suspicious eyes. She’s older than I am, though not by much, her face naturally falling into a dour frown. Three young men stand by her side. One taller, with ginger hair and matching beard. The second has a fuller build, though not quite as tall, and he’s cleanly shaven with short dark hair. He has the look of a general or some flavor of military at least. The third is behind the others, a bit younger perhaps, with dark shaggy hair and piercing green eyes.
The moment I’ve taken them all in, I can’t help but wonder to which of these men I’m to be sold away to, and an unfamiliar bitterness fills my belly. I stifle the feeling as soon as it comes, resolving to making the best of it.
For now.
Once Petra is at my side, we walk toward the ladies, Pushka close at my heels. When we reach the first lady, who steps forward and offers a deep curtsy, the shaggy beast barks once and launches off—quicker than I’ve ever seen him move—toward the men.
“Pushka,” I call, lifting my skirts to follow him. The last thing I need is for the silly creature to maul my suitor.
The older dark-haired man crouches, grabbing the scruffy dog and scratching him behind the ears.
“There, there, boy. We mean no harm to your mistress,” he offers cheerfully, earning him a quick lick on the hand before Pushka trots merrily back to where I’ve stopped short, stunned.
“My apologies, Your Grace. He’s run quite wild his entire life. I’ve only recently taken him as my own and begun to train him.” With a snap of my fingers, Pushka comes to a seat at my side. “A work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all?” he says, bowing before reaching out for my hand and pressing a soft kiss across my knuckles. “Your Imperial Highness, I’m glad for your safe arrival. I hope the trip wasn’t too strenuous.”
“Not at all,” I offer. “Though we are all glad to be welcomed to your home.”
He grins. “Ah, but where are my manners? I am Charles Augustus, Prince of Eutin.” He bows again, motioning to his compatriot with the beard. “And this is my cousin, Duke Charles Frederick, though we refer to him as Duke Karl to avoid any confusion. Welcome to Gottorf Castle, Your Highness.”
I look past him, feeling a stab of guilt at the relief I feel that my intended is so fair of face while Petra’s suitor is quite…rugged. The castle stretches three stories into the sky, a simple bell tower at its center. It’s quite plain for a royal residence, none of the lavish gardens or artistic columns so popular in St. Petersburg. But then, Holstein-Gottorp is not known for its luxury.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” I turn, motioning for Petra to join us from where she is already chatting with the ladies. “My sister, Her Imperial Highness, Princess Anna Petrovna.”
The men bow humbly.
“We do apologize for the informality of our greeting, Your Highnesses,” the older woman says, curtsying again. “Since we have severed ties with Sweden, we find ourselves quite short of staff to accommodate such noble visitors.”
Petra smiles. “It is no matter, Lady Lucretia. We have only just come from some weeks spent in prayerful contemplation in a humble abbey near Moscow. The experience has reminded us about the value of remaining penitent and humble despite our titles.”
“Your Highness, I am Lady Lucretia of Holstein-Gottorp, mistress of Gottorf Castle until my son weds. I welcome you both and embrace you as daughters.”
“Ah, and I am Duke Karl Frederick.” The ginger-haired man bows. “And this is our envoy from Denmark, Sergei Salkov.”
“I believe we are acquainted with your father. He served our late king as a member of his Privy Council, if memory serves.” I offer the boy my hand, which he accepts and kisses.
“Then Your Highness’ memory must be as acute as her beauty.”
“And you share your father’s charming tongue,” I say, eyeing him for a moment before returning my attentions to Lady Lucretia.
“And this is my daughter, Lady Penelope.”
The dark-haired girl bobs a quick curtsy. “Your Highnesses.”
Her mother seems to be waiting for the girl to say more, but she remains tight-lipped.
“Please,” Lady Lucretia offers after a moment. “We shall show you to your rooms.”
“There are some matters to be discussed,” Karl says, scratching at his beard. “Once you are recovered from your long journey.”
“Of course,” I say, turning to the valets Mother sent with us. “Please see the trunks to our rooms. And my ladies, if you would see to the kitchens, some tea would be most welcome.”
They curtsy, and Sergei motions for them to follow him inside.
The inside of the palace is as unremarkable as the out, a handful of dark portraits on the white walls, the dark wooden floors and banister seeming to eat the light streaming through the rows of tall windows. There is little color, and even less joy.
We follow Lucretia and Penelope up the stairs and to the south wing, where a set of wide doors open to adjoining suites.
Inside, the room is surprisingly lush, with pale cream fur rugs and wispy golden curtains draped from the ceiling to the floor. On the table is a massive vase of wildflowers, yellow, purple, and blue. Reaching out, I touch a petal as we walk inside.
“Prince Charles wanted to bring some color in for you,” Lucretia boasts. “He picked them himself.”
“They are lovely,” I admit.
“These rooms are yours until the wedding,” Penelope says. “Afterward, Your Highness, Elizabeth will remain in the north wing with the prince, and the duke shall return to his residence in Kiel.”
I exchange a glance with Petra.
“It is just across the bay,” Lucretia clarifies as though sensing our apprehension. “An hour’s ride is all.”
“Thank you, ladies. The rooms are quite acceptable, and your warmth is most welcome,” Petra says, motioning to the sleeping chambers across from the main chamber. “We are glad of your hospitality.”
Lucretia steps forward, her head hanging low, “If I may be so bold. Your father—our dear king—was a great man. He knew my son and nephew, and he was always good to us. The world is a darker place in his absence.”
“Thank you, Lady Lucretia.”
“We have some things to tend to before supper. Is there anything we can do to help you settle in?”
I shake my head, “No, thank you, my lady. We will just have some tea and rest until supper.”
“Of course.”
After they curtsy, they take their leave just as our ladies are returning with tea and a tray of fruit.
They sit while the valets bring in the trunks, then set themselves to tending the linens and arranging the room. Once I’m sure we aren’t being overheard, I lean forward, whispering to Petra.
“So, what do you think of Duke Karl?”
She shrugs. “I do not know him.”
“Well, you are sure to have fiery redheaded babies,” I tease.
“Do…do you think they have news of Mother? Do you think she’s all right?”
I sigh, my attempts to distract my stoic sister clearly failing. “I do not know, but I plan to find out.”
“Tonight at supper?”
I wave her off. “Oh, I do not plan to wait that long. You rest, sister. I will acquaint myself with our new surroundings.”
She warily exhales. “Do not set about making trouble, Lizzie. This bleak castle may be our last refuge in all the world.”
Taking her hands in mine, I smile. “Do not worry so. I will be cautious.”
There’s no relief in her at all when she withdraws from me, heading to her own rooms.
After checking my reflection quickly, I sneak out the door and make my way down the long, empty hall with Pushka at my heels.
While descending the stairs to the main floor, two young boys pass me, their tiny cheeks flushed, their hands black. No doubt tending the fires in the kitchens. They freeze when they see me, then fall into deep bows.
I motion for them to rise, and they grin. “Your Highness,” one says boldly. “Are you to be our new mistress?”
“I am,” I say, offering them a sly smile. “And what are two capable lads such as yourselves doing running about?”
“We work in the kitchens, Your Highness.”
“Good, strong boys. Tell me, what is the way to His Grace’s office? I am to meet him there, and I seem to be quite turned around.”
The bold one points behind them. “It is the door at the end of that hall, ma’am.”
“Thank you for your assistance. Tell me, would you be so kind as to find a bone for my sweet Pushka? He is famished from our long journey. And he might like a bit of sunshine as well.”
“I can, ma’am. I’d be happy to.”
“I know where the cook keeps the stock bones. We can pinch him one for sure.”
“Thank you so much. Kindness is never forgotten,” I promise, circling around them. Kneeling, I rub Pushka behind the ear. “You go with these fine lads now. I’ll fetch you in a bit.”
Behind me, I hear giggles as the boys run off again, this time with furry paws dogging their steps. When I reach the door at the end of the hall, I knock sharply.
No response.
Pushing the door open, I step inside.
It looks not unlike Father’s office. A large table surrounded by chairs. Maps, ink and paper, wax for sealing, and candles burnt beyond the second nail. A pile of papers sits atop the map, and I begin to rummage through it.
A voice behind me gives me a fright, and the papers fall to the floor as I spin to face it.
“Your Highness, is there something I can assist you with?”
I exhale, relieved to see the friendly smirk on Prince Charles’ face.
“Forgive the intrusion,” I offer. “My dog has run off, and I got turned around while searching for him.”
“Is that so? I happened to see two kitchen boys sneaking him bones only minutes ago.”
Touching my chest, I draw his eyes down to avoid the guilty flush that hits my cheeks. “Well then, I must go fetch him.”
I move to leave, but Charles steps in my path, blocking my retreat.
“Or perhaps we might be honest with one another,” he says, his eyes firmly locked on my own.
For a moment, I hesitate, chewing at my bottom lip before finally speaking. “I have questions,” I say finally.
“Good,” he says with a nod, motioning me to take a chair. “I have a few myself.”
With no way to escape the room without appearing to be a petulant child—or worse—I take a seat. He does the same.
“I wonder if you have news of my mother. My sister fears the worst. Should her fears have basis, I would like to speak to her about it privately, lest she be caught off guard and become overwhelmed with grief.”
“Have you no fear of being overwhelmed yourself?” he asks, his face serious.
“You will find I am not so easily taken leave of my emotions as others of my sex.”
Now he laughs, his dark eyes playful. I glare in return.
Holding up a hand, he apologizes. “No, I mean no disrespect. As far as we are informed, your mother is well, though last she wrote was to send us the formal marriage documents. She has named your young nephew as her heir, however.”
I frown. “Then her time as regent is short. Would it be possible to hold the weddings in St. Petersburg so that we may see her?”
Sitting back, he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m afraid that would be unwise. Until the wedding, you and your sister are still potential targets for anyone who might challenge the authority of the council.” He hesitates only a moment. “Make no mistake, it is they who are overseeing the nation now. Your mother is but a figurehead.”
“Yes, I assumed as much.”
“May I ask you a question?”
“It seems only fair,” I say, unable to cease the worry in my head.
“You are Russian—born to be a queen. Yet you find yourself here now, in this tiny, poor Dutchy, bound to wed a prince you do not know in a country not your own. Do you imagine that, in time, you might be satisfied with that? That you might find happiness here?”
“That is an odd question indeed.”
“Humor me, please.”
“Honestly, I do not know. If it were just me, it would not be an issue, as I am not much bothered with finery and wealth. But as for my nation, it is as much a part of me as my own beating heart. How can I be content if she is in turmoil?”
He licks his lips. “An honest answer, and it is appreciated. Understand that my father and mother…their marriage was arranged much in this same way, for political safety. And from the time I was old enough to hear it, these halls were filled with regret, vitriol, and disrespect. They were never a match. My mother, who came from much greater means, never let my father forget it. I know your rank is much greater than my own, and we do not know each other yet, but I would be a good and faithful husband if you think that you might come to care for me. I would never have such hostility in my home again—if it can be helped.”
His candor surprises me. Yet, at the same time, part of my heart is warmed by it. He is a good man, more honest than most, and there is a kindness to him that puts me at ease.
“My Prince, you honor me with your candor. I, too, would avoid such an unhappy life, and I am sorry you had to suffer it. I cannot know what the future will bring, but know I do not forget the great kindness you have done me by accepting this proposal, especially when you have so little to gain from it.”
He nods, his lips turning to a frown.
“Then there is one thing you must know. The marriage contracts have a specific clause. By signing them, you and your sister renounce all rights and claims to the throne—both for yourselves and your progeny. By signing, you are no longer princesses, and as such, are no longer Russian. My cousin and I, however, are made lieutenant colonels of the Preobrazhensky Regiment and are given seats on the Supreme Privy Council.”
I sit back in my seat, feeling as if I’ve been slapped. No, it wouldn’t be enough to remove us from the country, to marry us off to pauper royals. We are to suffer this indignity as well.
“May I see the documents?”
Standing, he reaches atop a high shelf, tapping the scroll on the desk before placing it in my outstretched hand.
“I am so sorry, Your Highness. We did not seek these addendums. I believe they were insisted upon by the council—in exchange for letting your mother live.”
Unrolling the papers, I read over them carefully. When I finally see it, I can hardly believe my eyes. Leave it to my mother to add a clause of her own, something certain to be overlooked by others. A clause that allows the emperor—on in her case, empress—to name a successor out of any sons from the marriage. So while her daughters may never rule Russia, our sons, should we be so blessed, may.
Rolling it back up, I hold it out for him.
“These terms are acceptable to us, and I appreciate your honesty in showing them to me now. I will write my mother to let her know of our arrival.” Before I move to leave, I add, “I believe you to be a good man, Charles. And the Privy Council needs more good men in its ranks. I beg you to serve Russia well in my stead.”
When I stand, he bows as I take my leave.
I’m all the way back to my room before my legs finally give out and I fall onto the settee, holding back gasps of tears.
Two weeks later, my sister is married. Petra, in her golden gown, opted for a simple circlet of gold and pearls rather than a crown. As she and Karl kneel on the altar to sign the contract, I sit beside Charles, who smiles warmly at me.
Duke Karl’s family has spared no expense, using nearly the entirety of Petra’s dowry on the event. The tables were set with all sorts of delicacies, including enormous pies that, when the orchestra began to play, erupt with dwarves who begin to dance on the tables. Each toast was accompanied by cannon fire from a nearby yacht, and the whole of Holstein-Gottorp dances through the night and into the next day.
My ladies and I are the ones who see Petra to her wedding bed. Karl, while rugged in exterior, seems a decent man. He drinks too much and speaks too loudly, but he is soft with my sister, kind even. For that alone, I am grateful. He seems eager to begin his stay in St. Petersburg, and I am just as eager to have him gone. Of Charles, I cannot say the same.
Mother could not attend, as she struggles to retain her precarious position. The council has put her marriage to Father under investigation, and have witnesses lining up to earn coin by claiming the ceremony had never taken place at all.
For his part, Charles tries to keep me distracted with daily horseback rides, picnics, and archery practice. He is quite an accomplished artist. I sit for him for many hours while I quietly contemplate my next move.
Reaching out to once-loyal lords has come to nothing. They congratulated me on my upcoming nuptials. Even sent lavish gifts. But they made no offer of support—to myself or my mother.
“More wine, Your Highness?” a familiar voice asks, drawing me from my bleak thoughts as we dine.
“Sergei,” I chastise playfully. “The sun has risen. Should one be indulging too greatly at this hour?”
With a laugh, he fills my chalice. “It is a wedding, Your Highness. If that is not cause enough for riotous celebration, then what in life is?”
“And what will you do with yourself now? I’m told you are to leave with the duke?”
He nods. “I am to accompany him to St. Petersburg, where I will take my father’s place for a time. He is weary of court and longs to return home.”
“I shall miss you,” I offer earnestly. “You have been the most pleasant distraction in these dark days.”
“You just like watching Charles whip me at cards,” he teases, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
“Perhaps,” I admit with a chuckle.
“There now, are you bothering my future bride?”
Charles saunters over, having taken his cousin to the wedding chamber as well.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Sergei says, holding up one hand. “But if you will excuse me, I have some lovely hearts to break.” He motions to a group of dancing ladies, then offers me a wink before sauntering off to his conquests.
Settling in next to me, Charles holds out his hand. When I lay mine in his, he kisses it reverently, his cheeks flushed with the drink and dancing.
“My love, are you well? You’ve seemed distracted this day.”
I smile, warmth filling me. Though we’ve known each other such a short time, he has already cracked me open, knowing me through and through. He’s so different from the boy king I once knew, kind, patient, and honest. Everything a woman might want in a man. Yet, I fear his upcoming time at court. I fear he is too good to survive there, and it fills me with dread.
When I don’t answer, he presses. “Is it our own wedding plans? Have no worries, we shall have such a ceremony that this one will seem a pale comparison.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he silences me with an upheld hand. “No, I know the pageantry isn’t of much import to you. But I want all of Europe to know how proud I am to have you as my wife.”
Had we been in private, I might have kissed him for that alone. I have kissed him only once, and it was a secret, stolen moment during a walk through the woods. The simple kiss had ignited a spark inside me like nothing ever has. The woman in me longs for more.
But the princess in me has other needs.
“The Menshikovs will not attend,” I say flatly. “Nor will the Dolgorukovs. Any supporters we may have had are lost to us now.”
“Is it the slight that upsets you or the lack of authority?” he asks thoughtfully.
I wave a hand. “I am not planning a coup, if that is your fear. My only wish is to have at least one loyal ally in St. Petersburg protecting what is left of my family.”
With that, he seizes my hand once more, this time with a gentle squeeze. “Once we are wed, you will travel with me to St. Petersburg. I know you cannot remain there with me as I begin my service, but perhaps long enough to see your mother, at the least.”
I feel the tears well in my eyes before I speak. “Truly? You think we will be safe?”
He nods. “I am required. Surely no one will begrudge me for bringing my new wife along for the journey.”
The next morning is gloomy. Rain falls across the land, tapping at my window and chilling the air. Ominous weather, I think. Tossing in my sheets, I struggle to calm my mind, to find solace in sleep. My eyes have only just closed when my door is flung open, my maid rushing in.
“A letter has arrived for you, Your Highness. The rider says it is urgent.” Her voice is tight, her cheeks pink.
Throwing off my blankets, I stand. “Help me dress. Quickly.”
By the time I race down to Charles’ office, Petra and Karl are already there, as is Sergei and a handful of Charles’ men.
“It is from the Supreme Privy Council,” Charles says softly, motioning for me to sit.
When I shake my head silently, he continues.
“A declaration this day is made by His Serene Highness Prince Menshov upon the passing of Her Imperial Majesty, that, in accordance with the laws of rightful succession, Prince Peter Alexeyevich is ascended to the throne this day, in the year of our Lord 1725. Being crowned and anointed at the Cathedral of the Archangel, we, the Supreme Privy Council, hereby swear an oath of loyalty to his Imperial Majesty and offer prayers of long life and good health to our new king.”
The blow comes quickly, the air forced from my lungs, leaving me gasping for breath. I fight to remain still—composed. Charles continues reading, but there is a bell ringing in my ears that I cannot force aside.
“Crowned, engaged, and removed from the capital all in one day. This Menshov wastes no time. And betrothing the king to his own daughter, no less. I have never seen such plain ambition,” Karl remarks.
Charles moves toward me, but I’m no longer in control of my own body. My feet run, out the door and down the hall, spilling into the garden and the rain. My gown goes heavy, soaked and clinging to me, mud licking up the hem of my skirts.
Still, I run. I run until I can’t see, can’t breathe, into the trees, through the forest. Until my trembling legs finally give out and I fall onto a bed of moss, my fingers digging into the blanket of damp greenery to find earth below.
In the same moment that a scream erupts from me, a pair of strong arms encircles me from behind. Charles pulls me close, into his lap, and rocks me as I cry. In the distance, I hear Pushka wail, a howl of grief that echoes my own.
“I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispers, pressing kisses into my wet hair.
I scream again. Raging against God, against my country, against the men whose hands carry the blood of my mother.
“You are not alone, my love. I am here.”
“They killed her, Charles,” I sob.
“You don’t know that,” he offers gently. “People die every moment.”
I struggle to free myself from him, but he holds me fast. “They murdered her because she was a woman and a peasant. She wasn’t worthy in their eyes. Even Petra feared they might, but now they have done it, I know not how to face this world without her. How can I?”
“Perhaps, my love, but you are safe. Petra is safe. I will keep you both safe, I swear it.”
Calming, I turn to face him, “Am I cursed? Is this my punishment for my sins? That those I love—my family—should be taken from me?”
“You are not cursed, my love. I know it feels dark now, but the light will shine on you again. And when it does, we will face it together.”
His words are a balm. In the rain, I let him hold me until the sobbing ends and I can finally find my breath again. Only then does he lift me gently and carry me back to my rooms.
I do not take supper that night or the next. Pushka does not leave my side, preferring to worry over me from his spot curled at my feet. My grief is heavy, and so is my shame. I cannot think how disappointed my father must be as he watches me from heaven, seeing how weak I’ve become. Petra stays with me, and we pray. She bathes me and plaits my hair, telling me of her husband with a smile on her lips. Only sometimes does she seem sad—only sometimes do I catch her with a melancholy expression. On the third day, she crawls into bed beside me and whispers.
“Please, Lizzy. You are all I have now. You must not desert me.”
And for the first time, I realize that it is left to me now. Petra is wed, her title and prospects signed away with the stroke of a quill. I am the last Romanov princess, the last branch in a tree over-pruned nearly to ruin.
“I will have justice,” I promise her. “For our mother and for us. I swear it.”
The next day, I wake restored. My maids seem relieved as they dress me with vigor, gossiping idly and sharing details of the wedding plans with me. Charles wants it kept a surprise—of course. But secrets are difficult to keep in such a small estate.
Once I’m dressed and fed, I make my way to the office. I know I must write in support of my nephew. It is the only way to keep their eyes off me, the only way to assure I do not seem a threat in their eyes. Though I do not know how, I’m convinced Menshov is behind the death of my mother, and I have only to bide my time. Once I’m back in St. Petersburg, I will find a way to deal with him and his lot.
The office is not empty, however. Sergei sits at the desk, reading over the day’s letters.
“Sergei,” I say, taken aback. “What are you doing here? Where is Charles?”
His head snaps up, his eyes bleary. “He is…uh…indisposed.”
“Indisposed?”
He nods, then glances away.
“You are a terrible liar, Sergei,” I tease. “I fear court life will not suit you at all.”
Sighing heavily, he eyes me. “Charles isn’t feeling well. The doctor is in with him now.”
My mouth twitches even as my mind processes his words.
“He didn’t want anyone to tell you. You’ve been so grief stricken, and he did not want to add to your worries,” Sergei insists. “And it is not so terrible.”
Backing away, I nod. “Then perhaps I shall go visit him, speak to the doctor myself.”
I make to leave, but Sergei closes in quickly, sidestepping and blocking my way. “Perhaps you should wait until he is well. It would not do for the bride to be ill on her wedding day.”
“Don’t be silly.” I brush past him. “The wedding in in a week. We shall surely have to postpone if he is unwell.”
Sergei follows me to Charles’ door, where Pushka sits, his tail wagging. I pause to give him a loving pat. “How do you always seem to be exactly where I need you to be?” I whisper to the beast before motioning for the footman to announce me.
There are voices inside, but I do not wait for an invitation. When I step inside, the doctor is packing his case. He turns to me with a grave expression, pulling me to a stop.
“What is it?” I demand with all the authority and strength I can muster.
“Fever, Your Highness. We are ready to bleed him.”
“I would see him first,” I say, and he bows.
Once in Charles’ chamber, I see it is much more than fever. Charles is pale, his cheeks gaunt. When he coughs, it is a sticky, wet sound. I rush toward him, but he holds up a hand.
“Not too close,” he begs, his voice hoarse.
“My love, why did you not summon me when you first fell ill?”
He waves his hand weakly. “It is nothing. A small fever. I shall be fine.”
“Should we postpone the wedding?” I ask.
“Of course not. I will be on my feet tomorrow, I’m sure.”
Despite his warning, I go to him, sitting at his bedside.
He coughs again, covering his mouth with a bit of cloth. Once he’s settled, he shows it to me, grinning. “See? No blood. It is only a passing chill.”
“Don’t you dare leave me, Charles. You promised.” I fight to keep my tone light, but there is a tightness in my chest I cannot ignore. “I need you.”
He smiles again, reaching up to trace my face with the tips of his fingers, “My love, you do not need anyone. You are a storm wrapped in skin. I am just glad to stand in your wake.”
Lowering myself over him, I kiss him softly on the forehead. The doctor is right. There is fever there, enough to instantly warm my lips.
The days and nights pass slowly. I try to busy myself with wedding preparations, with assisting Sergei and Karl as they tend to the needs of the principality. Most nights, I spend in a chair at Charles’ side, reading him verses from his favorite books or keeping him informed of the goings-on.
“Karl,” I begin after a particularly quiet evening leaves me with a deep feeling of dread I cannot explain. “I think you should leave for St. Petersburg immediately.”
He studies me quizzically, his red eyebrows knitted together. “What makes you say that?”
I tap my fingers anxiously on the table between us. “The wedding is in two days—Charles will not postpone. And I will marry him at his bedside if I must, but I fear… If he does not recover soon, postponement may be our only option. I would not like to give Menshov opportunity to see threat in the delay. If you were there, in council, attesting to the truth of our postponement, perhaps they will believe.”
“If it is your will, Your Highness, I will go immediately,” he agrees, taking a long drink of ale. “I shall bid Petra remain here with you until the wedding, but then she must go to Kiel.”
“I agree,” I say, unable to keep the sadness from my voice. “Petra is all I have now—my only family. Promise me you will care for her—always.”
He jerks his head sternly. “Of course, Your Highness.”
When I leave dinner that night to visit with Charles, I’m surprised to find him sitting up in bed. His complexion is still waxy and sallow, but his eyes are gleaming as he scribbles on a stack of papers atop a lap desk that covers his legs.
“Peacocks,” he says as I walk in.
“Geese,” I say in return, and he gives me a puzzled look.
“I thought perhaps we were just naming foul,” I tease. “Or are you requesting a meal of the poor bird?”
He grins. “At the wedding. We should have peacocks roaming the grounds.”
“And they can be on golden cords,” I add.
“Why not?”
Sighing, I sit beside him. “Firstly, my love, because we have already spent all the dowry on jugglers, fire dancers, and golden tapestries to adorn the walls. There is nothing left.”
He shrugs. “We will dip into the royal coffers.”
“And let your people go without the grain you’re going to need to buy from France once winter sets in? Besides, there is a bridge that must be repaired, along with the threat of sweating sickness from Russia. I think the royal funds are best put to more pragmatic uses,” I say firmly. “So, no, my love. No peacocks.”
He frowns playfully, and I cannot help but laugh.
“I am glad to see you in such good spirits.”
Reaching out, I touch his cheek, which is still blazing. He seizes my hand, pressing a fever-hot kiss into my palm.
“And I am glad to have such a clever wife to tend to the kingdom in my absence,” he says, taking a deep breath before launching into a fit of wet coughs.
“Oh, Charles, please let’s postpone. Or if you will not, I will bring the cardinal right now and be wed by your bedside.”
He bristles. “No. I’ll not hear of it. I’m much recovered, my love. I will stand beside you, under the light of God, and make you my wife in two days’ time, and that is the end of it.”
I chew on my lip, and he pulls it free with his thumb. “Elizabeth, I will not abandon you.”
I want to believe him. With all my heart, I do. But I’ve heard the same promises before.
“Rest my love, I will see you on the morning.”
Kissing him once more, I slip back to the hall where the physician stands. “We must bleed him again, Your Highness. Draw the sickness from his body.”
“Of course, do whatever will bring him back to me,” I instruct.
My bones are weary as I trudge to my room, only to be intercepted at the door by Lady Lucretia.
“Your Highness,” she says with a quick dip. “May I speak with you?”
Forcing a pleasant smile, I turn to her. “Of course, shall we walk? Or would you like to come in and sit?”
She wears only a light robe over her nightgown, and she wrings her hands in front of herself. “Perhaps walking would calm my nerves.”
I lead the way, motioning for her to join me. “What troubles you, my lady?”
“It’s Charles,” she says in a rush of words. “I’ve been praying for him, and for you.”
“Your prayers are appreciated,” I acknowledge.
“But I must be blunt, Your Highness. There is a chill in me I cannot warm. I fear my son is dying.”
Stopping mid-step, I pivot toward her. “You must not think such things. Charles is strong. He will come back to us.”
She shakes her head, one grey curl falling from her head. “No, he will not. And should he pass before you are wed, all the lands and titles go to my daughter Penelope.”
“I have not seen Lady Penelope in weeks. I thought she was away on travels. And that she did not so much appreciate my presence here,” I say.
Truthfully, her presence is like a dark cloud when she’s here. Penelope is a sullen girl who often balks at Charles’ attempts to find her suitors. It wasn’t until I’d discovered her in the company of one of my maids that I understood why.
The next day, she was gone. I have told no one, and I will not, but she hasn’t given me the chance to tell her so. She simply left to visit her aunt’s estate in Latvia.
“Penelope can be a temperamental girl, but she loves this land and its people. Should it come to a debate, she would have the people on her side,” Lucretia nudges, splaying her hands.
“Be plain, my lady. What have you come to say?”
She hesitates, then takes a deep breath and comes out with it. “My son will die. I feel it in my marrow. He will not live to be wed. And I know he has only yesterday signed a document naming you as his heir. But should you accept, this small nation will tear itself apart. We cannot have a disgraced former princess lording over Holstein-Gottorp.”
Her words are like a slap, and I take a step back from the shock of her cruel candor.
“Then perhaps you should stop wishing your only son dead and spend your energy nursing him well instead,” I demand, turning to my room.
When I finally dress and climb into bed, it’s cold, and I wish more than anything I didn’t share Lucretia’s dread—or see the wisdom in her plea.
The next morning comes too soon, and I’m sewing with my ladies when Sergei comes to my chamber door.
“Your Highness,” he begins, sounding breathless. “He’s calling for you.”
Leaping to my feet, I rush out the door and down the hall as fast as my legs will carry me. When I approach, Lucretia is outside the door, sobbing into a handkerchief, the doctor soothing her. I do not speak to either, bursting into the room and rushing to Charles’ bed.
Sitting at his side, I lay a hand on his chest, searching for its rise and fall.
It does not come.
Outside, the bells in the steeple chime, the sound drowning out my cries as I slip to the floor. Sergei stands beside me, but he does not move to touch me. Instead, he slides down next to me, inches away.
“I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” he says through his own tears. “I know you loved him, and he you.”
My cheeks still wet, I face him. “If he loved me, he would have stayed. If he loved me, he would have kept his promise,” I challenge, grief heating to an angry boil.
“That is your grief speaking,” he says. “And you are not the only one he has been taken from.”
I look at him again, realizing for the first time they were not just friends—more like brothers. And he may be the only person in the world who will miss him as I will. His own face is pale, his eyes rimmed in red, and his cheeks wet with tears. There is an ache in him as there is in me. In a way, it binds us.
“You are right,” I say softly. “It is only that he was not only my love, but he was also my safety. I am lost and vulnerable without him.”
Sergei shakes his head. “No. He had me draft a proclamation before he passed. He has named you his heir and successor. You will stay here. You will be safe.”
I sit back, thinking not only on Lucretia’s fears, but also about how such a thing would look to those who fear my name.
“No, I cannot accept. No one else knows of this?”
He shakes his head, appearing confused.
“The people do not want a foreign ruler—a woman not even wed to their sovereign. And to Russia, it will seem as though I’m seizing power to reclaim my father’s throne. No, we must destroy it. Sergei, can I trust you to see it done?”
His expression is surprised, but gentle. “I will, Your Highness. But where will you go? Lady Penelope will not want you to stay. You could go to Kiel with Petra.”
Forcing myself to my feet, I lean over Charles one last time, kissing his forehead gently before straightening and wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my gown.
“No. I am unwed. Therefore, I have not forsworn my claim to the throne or renounced my title. I will go back to St. Petersburg. If the Supreme Council seeks my title, they will have to come and claim it. But I will be on my home soil once more.”
“You will be unprotected, Your Highness. I will offer myself to your guard.”
His offer is not a light one. I search his face for any hint of fear, any crack of doubt—and find none. Only the young, brave Sergei I have become so fond of. Holding his gaze, I nod once. “I accept your offer. You will be my general, Sergei Salkov. And, God willing, we will restore dignity and justice to the house of Romanov. Now, we must prepare for my return.”