My thanks for your mercy from the lightning storm.

Please accept this Imagination Box as a token of my appreciation.

-Nikolai "A token of appreciation. Right. It's probably full of snakes." Vika collapsed her hand into a fist, and the note followed suit and crumpled itself.

But wait. He'd signed his name. She opened her hand, and the sheet of paper smoothed itself out again.

"Nikolai," she whispered.

The combination of her voice and his name together for the first time whipped the wind outside. "His name is Nikolai."

She reached out toward the armoire. Through her shields, she could feel his magic, strong yet airy. Carefully, she touched her fingertips to the wood, and words began to carve themselves into the wardrobe's doors. It was the same script as on Nikolai's note.

Imagine, and it shall be.

There are no limits.

Imagine?

Nikolai's words faded from the doors, and in their place, the question Imagine? etched into the wood as if straight from Vika's thoughts.

"Are you reading my mind?" she said aloud.

The armoire changed again, and Are you reading my mind? appeared on its face.

Vika jumped back.

But snakes did not leap out of the armoire. Her fingers did not fall off her hand. Nikolai did not take over her brain.

She took one step, then two, back to the so-called Imagination Box. But she didn't touch it.

She did, however, begin to imagine something else: her dresser at home, the one her father had built with the carving of a snow-capped volcano on it. Vika's mother had studied volcanoes; in fact, that was how she'd died-she'd perished during an unexpected eruption while researching lava flows. When Vika was young, she liked to pretend that her mother had somehow survived and was living inside the volcano, just waiting for her daughter to be old enough and strong enough to visit. Which was why Vika had always been fond of that dresser.

But now, nothing happened. Are you reading my mind? remained on the wardrobe.

Huh. She must have to physically touch the door. The question was, was it wise to do so?

But Vika had never been the overly cautious sort, much to her father's chagrin, and now curiosity got the best of her. She reached for the armoire again, and as soon as she made contact, the doors wiped themselves clean and began to replicate the image she had in her head. It was a perfect copy, down to the way Sergei had gouged the curlicues of smoke deeper into the wood than the rest of the volcano.

Vika traced the lines of smoke, touching the smooth edges of the carving and the natural knots in the wood. If she closed her eyes, she could, for a second, imagine she was home in their cozy cottage, where Sergei tromped outside in the garden and she made buckwheat porridge at the stove.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that the scene on the armoire had changed yet again, this time to an etching of her kitchen, with a pot of steaming kasha on the burner and a bottle of milk and a bowl of raisins set to the side. Vika's mouth watered.

But then she forced her mind to go blank, and the doors to the Imagination Box followed suit. She tore her hands away from the wood.

As soon as she lost contact, her fingers stretched for the armoire again. Nikolai's magic. She wanted to be closer to it. Needed to be closer.

"Stop," she said aloud to herself. "He's the enemy, remember?" And she conjured a wall of ice in front of the Imagination Box so she couldn't touch it, no matter how much she yearned to.

The Game was not about friendship. After all, Nikolai had tried to kill her. Twice.

No, this Imagination Box-this "token of appreciation"-was not to be trusted. Nothing was. Vika couldn't even trust herself.

As soon as Vika walked in the front door, Ludmila pounced on her.

"Veee-kahhh! Where have you been? Oh my word, I have so much to tell you! The armoire, it won't fit! The prince, he says you must come! The pumpkin, oh, the lines! He was looking for you, on the island, I forgot to mention. . . ."

Vika hung her coat on a hook. "Slow down. I cannot keep up."

Ludmila waved a spatula, still dripping with whatever she'd been stirring in the kitchen a few seconds ago. "Oh, where to begin?"

"At the beginning?"

"Of time?"

"How about the beginning of today?"

"Oh, yes, today, that's a good place to start." Ludmila sniffed at the air. "But do you mind if we talk in the kitchen? I don't want the caramel to burn."

Ludmila led the way, weaving around a sofa and dodging the outstretched paw of a stuffed polar bear. The bear was wearing a fur hat and a saddle. But after experiencing the enchantments of the past few days, neither Ludmila nor Vika even registered anymore the peculiarity of the decorations in the apartment.

Once in the kitchen, Ludmila stirred the pot of caramel and recounted how well sales in the pumpkin kiosk had gone, and how word had spread so quickly, the tsesarevich came to call.

"The tsesarevich?"

"Yes! Can you believe it? And he was still searching for you."

Vika had been picking through a plate of broken shortbread, but now she dropped the cookie she'd been considering. "What do you mean, still searching?"

"You see, this is why I wanted to start my story before today. . . . A week ago, the tsesarevich came to Cinderella-the pumpkin on the island, not the kiosk here, of course-asking about a girl with hair like flame, only he was in disguise, so I didn't know it was him, and I was going to tell you the next time you came into the bakery, but it was around when you left the island to come here, so I never had a chance. But he seemed rather smitten, the first time around, and then today, he called to inquire about you again-and to buy a cream puff balloon, he liked that the best, probably because he had a feeling you had a hand in its creation-and anyway, his messenger came by the flat this afternoon and delivered-"

"The armoire?"

"Huh?" Ludmila paused in her stirring. "Oh, no, the armoire is a different story altogether. I'll get to that. No, the tsesarevich sent you an invitation to the ball!"

Vika frowned. "But why would he invite me?"

"Because he's smitten."

"I've never met him before."

"He seems to have met you. Or at least seen you from afar."

"But when would he have . . . Oh."

"Oh?"

Vika nodded. He had known to look for her on the island, which meant . . . he had been one of the boys. The day she'd succeeded in escaping her father's firestorm. The tsesarevich must have been one of the two boys she'd frozen before she fled the woods.

Oh, devil take her, she had frozen the tsesarevich.

Ludmila removed the caramel from the heat and wiped her sticky hands on a towel. Then she retrieved a card from her ap.r.o.n pocket and laid it on the counter. It was light blue and deckle-edged, with the gold double eagles of the tsar's coat of arms embossed on the top.

The pleasure of your presence is requested at A MASQUERADE BALL.

In honor of Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov, Tsesarevich of all Russia EIGHT O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING SAt.u.r.dAY, 22ND OF OCTOBER.

WINTER PALACE.

Vika blinked at the card. "This is real?"

"Quite real."

Then the tsesarevich could not have been too offended that Vika had frozen him. Unless he meant to arrest her at the ball. Would he do that? On his birthday?

"He's a sweet thing, that boy," Ludmila said as she began working on a.s.sembling macarons filled with pistachio curd and fig jam.

All right, so perhaps he wouldn't arrest her at the ball, if he was as sweet as Ludmila thought.

"And you would make an excellent princess."

Vika burst out laughing. "Me, a wild girl from the woods, a princess? And can you imagine Father, in his tunics and rough trousers, living in the halls of the Winter Palace? No, I don't think princess-hood, or whatever it's called, would suit me at all. Besides, I highly doubt that's what the tsesarevich is after."

"I'm willing to wager a hundred chocolate truffles that that is exactly what His Highness is after."

But Vika wasn't listening, since it occurred to her that perhaps the tsesarevich wanted to meet her because of the Game. Perhaps his father had informed him of it. And surely the tsar himself would be at the ball. Vika would need to be at her best.

"We'll have to decide on our costumes." Ludmila held two green macarons over her eyes.

Vika groaned. "Not that. You look like a murky-eyed frog."

"Then what will we wear?" She lowered the macarons. "Can you conjure costumes for us?"

"I could. . . ." Which was true. But Vika had never been any good at tailoring clothes. It was part of the reason why her dresses were not up to the standard of the gowns worn by Saint Petersburg girls. Perhaps it was because cloth was not a living thing, which made it more difficult for her to manipulate. Or perhaps it was because she had never much cared what she wore. She was very much like Sergei in that way. But no matter what the reason, Vika had only ever mastered making the simplest of clothes.

Yet there was another option: the armoire. a.s.suming it functioned like the one at Bissette & Sons, she and Ludmila could throw in old garments and voil! New costumes would appear. Vika had seen a woman at Bissette & Sons leave with a dress made of white swan feathers and a black-and-white mask to match. Another left with a gown that was red at the hem but orange and pink near the bodice, with a yellow veil for her face like the rising sun. It would be easy to use the armoire.

It would also mean trusting her opponent.

"What are you thinking about?" Ludmila asked.

"The armoire."

"It's still in the hall."

"I know."

"It wouldn't fit through the front door."

"That's because I have protections on the flat." Vika had cast double protections, actually, ever since the day Nikolai's Nevsky Prospect magic almost seeped in. "The armoire is enchanted. My charms wouldn't let it in."

"Ah . . . that makes so much sense. We measured and remeasured, and the dimensions seemed as if it ought to easily fit, so we couldn't figure out what was wrong." Ludmila finished a.s.sembling the last of the macarons. She offered one to Vika. Vika declined. "So the armoire from the other enchanter? What does it do?"

"If it is anything like the other one at the tailor shop down the street, you fill it with old clothes, and it changes them into something new. But not something ordinary. Something extravagant, for the masquerade."

Ludmila clapped her hands, and cookie crumbs sprinkled down from them. "So we should use it."

If only they could. If only Vika could give in and trust her opponent, enjoy his magic as a complement to her own. If only the Game did not exist. But no. She had allowed herself the pleasure of enjoying the wardrobe's wood carvings, but only with her shields intact. Using it to clothe themselves was a more intimate matter. A dangerous matter.

"No," she said to Ludmila. "We cannot use it."

"Why not? It would save you some work."

But that was another reason Vika couldn't allow herself to utilize the armoire. She didn't want to depend on the other enchanter. She didn't need his help.

This couldn't be explained adequately to Ludmila, though, without telling her about the Game.

Instead, she said, "I'm not the sort of girl who likes to be dressed by a man, as if I were his doll. I think it would be best if the costumes we wore were our own."

CHAPTER THIRTY.

At thirty minutes past eight on Sat.u.r.day evening, Nikolai arrived at the Winter Palace. He had enough pride not to arrive at the very beginning of the masquerade but also enough awareness that, despite being Pasha's friend, he was enough of a n.o.body to require appearing before the real n.o.bility arrived.

At the threshold of the ballroom, Nikolai adjusted his mask over his eyes. It had red and black diamonds in a harlequin pattern, which matched his waistcoat and also matched the jack-in-the-box outside in Palace Square. Other than this small splash of color, however, his clothing was unremarkable-a starched white shirt, a black cravat, charcoal trousers, white gloves, and a formal dress coat. He did not feel like being particularly visible. Besides, it would be lovely to blend in for once. Tonight, he didn't have to be Galina's "charitable project," the poor orphan she'd refined into a gentleman and paraded around at her friends' b.a.l.l.s. He could be anyone.

The majordomo announced his presence-simply "Harlequin," for at a masquerade there were no real names-and he smiled to himself as he proceeded down the carpeted steps.

The tsarina had had the ballroom decorated lavishly. The ceilings were draped with richly hued fabrics, deep burgundy and midnight blue, giving the effect of being inside a sumptuous tent. The chandeliers were adorned with wreaths of tiger lilies and red dahlias, and the walls were hung thickly with curtains and garlands of peac.o.c.k feathers. Divans with deep cushions sat around the edges of the room, a departure from the staid chairs that usually lined the perimeter, and one corner of the ballroom had been transformed into a miniature cafe, complete with quiches and pet.i.ts fours and coffee and tea from an army of copper samovars.

Many guests had already arrived, and a veritable menagerie whirled around the dance floor. A tuxedoed brown bear soared to the string ensemble with a b.u.t.terfly. A rhinoceros wearing a bowler hat waltzed with a bejeweled mouse. And a white tigress prowled the ballroom with a tottering dodo bird in tow. Nikolai shuddered at the memory of the tiger he'd had to slaughter.

Of course, Pasha and the rest of the imperial family had not yet appeared. They would wait until nine o'clock, or even later. Then again, it being a masquerade, they could very well be hidden among the guests. Nikolai scanned the room again. No, it was impossible that Yuliana or the tsar or tsarina would do such a thing. It was highly likely, however, that Pasha would.

Nikolai smirked. How easy would it be to pick Pasha out of the crowd?

The majordomo announced General Sergei Volkonsky, a hero of the Napoleonic Wars, and his wife, Maria. I did arrive just in time, Nikolai thought. Indeed, only seconds before the real n.o.bility.

Behind Nikolai, a man whispered, "I hear Volkonsky is not as loyal to the imperial family as the tsar believes. Some say he is in league with Pavel Pestel."

"Pestel?" another man said. "The agitator who has been calling for democracy?"