Inside the pumpkin, Ludmila and a dark-haired girl were already curtseying. Had they been in that position since he was announced when the carriage arrived? He hoped not. That had been fifteen minutes ago.

"Bonjour, mesdames," he said, remembering how he had greeted the women in the island bakery not too long ago. "Please rise."

Ludmila perked up immediately at the sound of his voice, and when she stood, her face exploded in a gap-toothed grin. "It's you!" But just as quickly, her mouth contorted. "Oh, heaven forgive me, Your Imperial Highness, the things I said the last time . . . I didn't know . . . your appearance was so different . . . I-"

"Madame Fanina, I take no offense," Pasha said in Russian. He reached across the counter and patted her hand. "It is I who deceived you. You are not at all to blame."

The other girl in the pumpkin gaped at Pasha. He turned to her. She seemed familiar. "Are you one of the girls who works in the Zakrevsky household?" Pasha glanced down the street, where he could just make out the corner of the building in which Nikolai lived.

"Yes, Your Imperial Highness. My name is Renata Galygina." She looked at her feet as she spoke. "When I saw Madame Fanina's kiosk here, I, um, thought I could earn some additional wages. I have some free time, as Countess Zakrevskaya is away, and my services are not in high demand."

Pasha nodded. This, he knew. Countess Zakrevskaya had declared a sudden trip abroad, and no one knew when she would return. It was not at all out of character, for she was rather . . . eccentric, to put it politely. Pasha hoped, for Nikolai's sake, that the countess was gone a very long while.

"Well, it's a lovely surprise to see you here," Pasha said to Renata.

She curtsied.

"What may I get Your Imperial Highness this morning?" Ludmila asked.

"I liked it better when you called me Frenchie."

"I will do no such thing, Your French Highness." She winked.

Pasha laughed.

"You may have anything you see." Ludmila spread her arms wide, showcasing not only the Russian staples-honey poppy-seed rolls, Tula gingerbread, walnut-shaped oreshki cookies filled with caramel-but also a special gla.s.s case behind her.

"You've outdone yourself, Madame Fanina."

She curtsied, although it appeared more like an amiable bear bobbing than a proper curtsy. "I admit I had some help from another girl," she said. "I made all the components, but the a.s.sembly . . . let's say that girl has a magic touch."

Pasha stood taller. "Magic touch, you say? Show me everything you have."

Renata scooted out of the way, and Ludmila began to describe the confections on each shelf. "Here," she said, pointing at the bottom row, "we have chocolate truffles filled not with ganache, but with steaming-hot cocoa that doesn't cool until it touches your tongue."

"Incredible."

She dipped her head in grat.i.tude. "Next, we have a pear pie, but as you can see, it's no ordinary pie, for the pastry is shaped like the fruit itself."

"Exquisite." The pie was not merely shaped with pear-like curved edges. It looked truly like a three-dimensional pear, round and tall and narrowing at the stem, the kind you could pick off a tree and bite into. The large crystals of sugar on its "peel" even approximated morning dew. Magic, indeed. The laws of gravity would not allow such a pie to bake without falling.

"And finally"-Ludmila pointed at the top shelf-"we have cream puffs light as air."

Pasha gasped because they were indeed as light as air, or even lighter, for the puffs floated and had to be tied to the shelf with colorful strings, like mini pte choux balloons.

"If I may, I would like one of those," Pasha said. Ludmila nodded so emphatically, all her chins wobbled. Renata opened the gla.s.s case and retrieved one on a violet ribbon and pa.s.sed it to Pasha. He couldn't stop smiling as he held the tiny balloon's string between his fingers.

"Would Your Imperial Highness like something else?"

Pasha glanced at his guards, who stood at attention nearby, and at the line behind him. "I would like to buy something for every man, woman, and child here." He motioned to Gavriil, who retrieved a stack of ruble notes from a hidden pocket and quietly pa.s.sed it over the counter to Ludmila.

"You are too generous, Your Imperial Highness."

"Well, I would like to ask another favor as well."

"Anything."

"There is to be a ball tomorrow evening in my honor. A masquerade, because, as you know, I'm rather fond of disguises. Invitations have been sent to all n.o.blewomen in Saint Petersburg, but the problem is, I cannot seem to locate the one girl I wish to have attend. I thought you might be able to a.s.sist me in that endeavor."

Ludmila touched her heart. "You're still searching for Vika."

"Yes."

Renata's eyes grew even wider than when Pasha had first made his appearance at the kiosk. Does she know about Vika? he thought. Has Nikolai talked about her?

Ludmila ushered her to take pastry orders from the tsesarevich's guards. Renata hurried out of the pumpkin.

"In the excitement of my arrival in the city," Ludmila said to Pasha, "I'd forgotten all about telling Vika that a mysterious, handsome Frenchie was inquiring after her."

"So you could deliver my invitation to her?"

"Absolutely. I'm staying in her flat on Nevsky Prospect."

"She's here?" No wonder his messenger had returned from Ovchinin Island with Vika's invitation, undeliverable.

He turned to Gavriil, who was stuffing his face with a pear-shaped pie. "See to it that the invitation for Vika . . ."

"Andreyeva," Ludmila said. "Vika Andreyeva. Her father is Baron Sergei Andreyev."

"Is that so?" Pasha brightened even more than his usual self. So Vika was n.o.bility. There, at least, was one of Nikolai's objections struck down. It was not in violation of his mother's rules for Pasha to dance with an unbetrothed girl who belonged to the aristocracy.

He pivoted back to Gavriil, who had, in the meantime, wiped clean the pear smudges from his mouth. "See to it that the invitation for Mademoiselle Andreyeva is delivered this afternoon. Madame Fanina will ensure its conveyance to its recipient."

"Yes, Your Imperial Highness," Gavriil and Ludmila said at the same time.

Pasha looked at the cream puff in his hand once more. "Absolutely stunning," he said, then popped it into his mouth. The pastry and vanilla cream burst as if the little balloon had been punctured with a needle.

"I will hold that compliment dearly for the rest of my humble life," Ludmila said. "How else may I be of service?"

"You have done more than most. I hope I will see you soon, perhaps as Mademoiselle Andreyeva's escort to the ball?" He smiled, in a way that he knew was both infectious and persuasive.

Ludmila grinned and nodded. Her chins waggled again.

"Good." With Ludmila by Vika's side, it would be much easier for Pasha to identify her. He had not quite thought it through when he informed his mother that the ball would be a masquerade. Only after the invitations had gone out had he realized it would be that much more difficult to identify any girl when she was in costume, but especially an enchantress, who could surely put to shame any other attendee's disguise.

"Thank you again, Madame Fanina. I will see you very soon."

She curtsied. It was a wonder she didn't knock over her trays of tarts and cookies in the process. In fact, it seemed to Pasha that she did tip over one pan much too far, but against all laws of physics, it righted itself before any cookies fell.

Vika. Her magic wasn't only in the pastries.

Pasha smiled and turned to leave. His guards fell into formation and awaited his command. But he paused by the ca.n.a.l. Perhaps he would stop by Nikolai's to boast of his victory in inviting the lightning girl. After all, Nikolai lived only a five minutes' walk away.

But what if Vika decided not to attend? It was unlikely, given that Pasha had personally invited her (well, personally through Ludmila). But if any girl in the empire was bold enough to decline an invitation from the tsesarevich, it would likely be the lightning girl.

No, Pasha thought, better to wait until the ball itself to gloat. I'll just have to make sure that Nikolai shows.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

Nikolai was sitting in the center of the carpet in his bedroom, staring at a blood spot on the ceiling-left over from the slaughter of the poisonous lorises-when Renata yelled at him through his door.

"Nikolai? Let me in!"

He shook his bleak musings out of his head. Had Renata discovered something at the pumpkin bakery? He'd sent her there for information. Nikolai leaped to his feet and flicked his fingers to unlock the dead bolts. The handle to the door turned itself.

Renata tumbled into his room. He grabbed her by both arms to steady her. "What happened? Are you all right?"

"I . . . I'm fine." She stopped to catch her breath. "I'm fine. But the tsesarevich. He invited her to the ball."

Oh. Was that all? Nikolai released Renata's arms.

"Did you hear me?" she said.

"Yes." Nikolai dropped down into the center of his carpet again. "But I already knew."

"How could you? It happened just now. He didn't stop here at the house. I watched him leave in his carriage. We are talking about the same thing, aren't we? The tsesarevich invited Vika to his birthday ball."

"Mm-hmm." Nikolai refocused on the bloodstain on the ceiling. "Pasha said he was going to, so I knew he would, despite my attempts to convince him otherwise."

Renata collapsed into Nikolai's desk chair and caught her breath. "Then you will not go to the ball, will you?"

"Pasha invited me. I must. He's the tsesarevich."

"But it could be dangerous."

"Even if Pasha weren't the crown prince, I would go. He's my friend. I won't leave him alone with her."

"But you could die." Renata's voice was strained thin. "Nikolai, please. Don't go."

He tore his gaze away from the ceiling and looked at Renata, although it was more like he looked straight through her. "Thank you for the news of my friend's ill-advised infatuation. Now if you'll kindly leave me, I have some work to do."

That evening, two ma.s.sive oak armoires were delivered to different parts of the city. The first went to Bissette & Sons, Fine Tailors. A note accompanying the armoire read: Masquerade Box. Insert the article of clothing you wish to exchange, shut the doors, and a new one shall appear in its place. Twenty-four hours only.

The second armoire went to a third-floor flat on Nevsky Prospect, registered to a certain V. Andreyeva. A portly woman answered the door, and the movers attempted to wheel the armoire inside, but it did not seem to fit through the entryway, despite all three of them taking measurements of the chest and finding it significantly smaller than the door frame.

Finally, the woman instructed them to leave the armoire in the hall. The movers pointed out that she would have difficulty moving it if (1) it would not fit through the door, and (2) she did not have the wheeled platform-which they would have to take when they left-for the armoire was incredibly heavy. It felt as if it contained an entire elephant.

But the woman shrugged, and she signed the invoice and dismissed the movers. And they left the strange chest in the middle of the third-floor hallway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

There was a long queue outside Bissette & Sons, Fine Tailors, full of the types of women who did not usually frequent queues but, rather, sent their servants to wait in their stead.

"Pardon me," Vika said to a woman in a fuchsia dress and matching hat. "What is the line for?"

"The Masquerade Box. You stuff in your old hats and gowns and shoes, shut the door, and a few minutes later, you reopen the door, and a new outfit appears. But not just any clothes-a costume for the tsesarevich's ball."

"Oh. How . . . fascinating." Vika craned her neck. "Uh, do you know how it works?"

"Rumor is there's a hidden compartment in the bottom of the armoire. When you put in your unfashionable rags, they're retrieved by the tsar's men in the bas.e.m.e.nt and replaced with the new costume."

The woman in line behind her-this one dressed in a gown the color of brick-leaned in and added, "I hear it's because the tsarina is looking to find a wife for the tsesarevich. This way, all the eligible ladies will be impressively attired. I'm hoping for a particularly stunning costume for my daughter." She looked toward the front of the queue to gauge how much longer she would have to wait.

"Ah, I see. Thank you," Vika said. She left, shaking her head. People would go through such incredible mental gymnastics to explain away the existence of magic.

She was still laughing at the nonbelievers when she stepped into her apartment building and climbed up all three flights of stairs, and because of that distraction, she didn't recognize there was other magic nearby. She felt it, but she thought it was the remnants of the Nevsky Prospect charm following her in from outside. That is, until she turned the corner into her hall and almost walked straight into an armoire, a near duplicate of the Masquerade Box at Bissette & Sons.

Vika gasped and frantically cast a shield around herself. Her heart pounded like a tympani, rattling her bones.

Inside the flat, Ludmila banged pots and pans, singing a song from her favorite opera, Magician, Fortune-Teller, and Match-Maker. Vika shook herself out of her stupor and reinforced the protections she'd cast on their front door.

She tiptoed around the armoire, inspecting it for traps. Like the chest at Bissette & Sons, it was made of oak, with two large doors that would open outward if she tugged on the handles. However, unlike the one at Bissette & Sons, which had a carving of a masquerade ball etched onto its panels, this one was very plain.

There was nothing obviously wicked about it. If Vika hadn't seen the other armoire at the tailors', and if she weren't on guard because she was in the middle of a magical duel, she might have thought it a rather ordinary closet.

After she had circled the chest several times, an envelope revealed itself, materializing in front of her.

She shrank away from it. "As if I would touch that."

But she didn't need to. Her opponent had predicted her caution and had taken the liberty of charming the envelope for her. It opened, and a heavy sheet of cream paper slipped out from within. It unfolded itself in the air.

The handwriting was neat, the angles of the letters precisely aligned. The loops in the cursive were modest but still bold. The tail of each word ended in a flourish.