The edge of Nikolai's mouth turned up, a hint of a smile. "No need for violence. But I . . . I can't eat it. I shouldn't. Who knows what would happen if I ingested her magic?" Yet there was a warmth in the pit of his stomach, a visceral desire to taste Vika's magic even if it poisoned him. He picked up the baguette and took a bite of it to smother the yearning.

Renata pushed the swan farther away. "Nikolai . . . There is something I need to tell you. I read her leaves two days ago."

"You what?" He sat up on the edge of his bed and almost knocked over the entire tray. He tossed the rest of the baguette onto its plate. "When? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I haven't had a chance to. You've either been asleep or gone. Vika paid a visit to the pumpkin and asked me to."

"What did they say? Or . . . do I not want to know?"

Renata stared at the carpet. "Oh, Nikolai. There was a knife in the inner circle. Death is coming for one of you soon." She flung herself at him and buried her face against his neck. So much for not talking about dying.

He wrapped his arms around Renata to soothe her. But he looked at the slim drawer of his desk, where the knife Galina had given him rested, biding its time. The dagger that would not miss.

"I don't want either of you to die," Renata said into his collarbone, her breath hot right above his scar. "But especially not you." She held him tighter. "I love you."

Nikolai pulled back. Renata's bottom lip quivered as she held her arms out, not quite releasing their embrace even though he'd already broken away.

"I . . . Renata, you mean so much to me, but-"

"But what?"

"You shouldn't love me. It isn't wise."

"There's no wisdom in love." She watched him, her eyes rimmed with red. "But you love her, don't you?"

Nikolai said nothing.

"You've loved her since the first time you saw her."

"No." For that could not be true. Falling in love with Vika would mean a complete loss of control, and Nikolai did not lose control. It would also mean he'd given in to someone else, and he would not and could not trust someone else so entirely. It had always been himself, on his own; no one else was dependable. No one else would put his interests first. "Renata, you're one of my best friends." Nikolai reached for her. But she stood from the bed and backed away. "I'm sorry," he said.

She gathered his tray. "You don't need to apologize. It was silly of me to hope. I knew it all along."

"It's better for you not to love me. I'm doomed whether I live or die. You don't need to be a part of that."

"It doesn't matter, Nikolai. You're a part of me, whatever the outcome. If you die, a part of me dies. If you live but suffer over guilt from the Game, then I suffer as well."

"I am very sorry for that."

She shook her head. "I'm not." She took the tray of dirty dishes and strode to the door. "I don't regret loving you, Nikolai. It's always been in my leaves, and I wouldn't trade it for another cup." She opened the door and slipped out to the hall.

Nikolai looked after her long after she had gone. He did not relock his door.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR.

The tsarina had been unwell for quite some time. This Pasha knew, as he had heard his mother m.u.f.fling coughs into handkerchiefs at supper, seen her retire earlier and earlier from state functions, and watched her once-regal presence wilt into a near nonexistent one. Yuliana had commented on the tsarina's wan complexion as well, and Pasha himself had caught her once when she fainted during a stroll in the gardens.

Now Pasha strode into the small chamber his mother used for conducting business-the same room through which he'd sneaked the night of the ball-having been summoned by the tsarina in the middle of his meeting with the Spanish amba.s.sador.

"You wished to see me, Mother?" Pasha asked as he strode up to the tsarina's desk. He took her gloved hand and kissed it.

"Yes, darling." There was no one else in the room but some of her attendants, and she waved them out. "I apologize for interrupting your meeting. This may be the only moment I have free before I leave."

"No apology necessary. The Spanish amba.s.sador is a pompous bore, and Father had me meet with him only to keep the Spaniards out of his own hair. But did you say you're leaving? Where to? Are you sure you're fit to travel?" Pasha dragged a chair from the opposite side of the desk and set it next to his mother's. When he sat down, he took her hands and clasped them in his lap.

"The doctor has deemed it advisable to move me to warmer weather, now that October is ending and the chill has arrived. Your father and I shall depart for the South in two days' time."

"Forty-eight hours' notice? Why the rush?"

She frowned. "Your father has urgent business to which he must attend in the Crimea."

"Trouble with the Ottoman Empire."

"Yes, the situation is worsening." The wrinkles on her forehead pinched, making her look even more worn down. "He wants to see it for himself. You'll take care of the city and your sister while we're gone, will you not?"

"Yuliana does not need taking care of."

The tsarina laughed then, and her wrinkles unpinched. But her laughter was punctuated with hacking coughs.

Pasha winced.

She waved off his concern with her handkerchief. "I shall see you soon, all right?"

"All right." Pasha kissed his mother's hand again. For what could he say? She was his mother, but she was also the tsarina, and other than the tsar, the tsarina had the final word.

"Now if you will help me up, I need to check on how the staff is handling my luggage."

He stood and pulled her up. She needed a second to steady herself, and then he led her out of the room, into the hall. She clung to him for support the entire way to her rooms.

Pasha rowed toward the island with long, even strokes. It was not hard to know where to go; the island was lit with twinkling lanterns, luminescent against the black sky. He had been back to the island only once-the tsar had been trying his hardest to keep Pasha occupied-but unlike the first time, Pasha's second visit had been crowded, since the new dock allowed the rest of Saint Petersburg access.

And everyone had known he was the tsesarevich, for his Guard had accompanied him. It was impossible to enjoy the Dream Benches when he knew everyone would watch him, and besides that, Gavriil had refused to allow the tsesarevich to "fall under the influence of hallucinatory drugs." Pasha shook his head. As if the benches could be explained so simply! But the people of Saint Petersburg had convinced themselves that the colorful mists surrounding each bench were hallucinogens, and then they'd shown a surprising willingness to throw themselves into the experience anyway. That in itself, thought Pasha, could be construed as magic. He laughed aloud at the memory of the crowds of ordinarily staid Petersburgers, packing themselves ten people to a bench.

But at least now, in the middle of the night, Pasha would have the island to himself.

Or so he thought. When he rowed up to the dock, there was something else tied to the pier. It was not a boat, per se. But rather, a leaf. A yellow birch leaf with its edges turned up, enlarged to the size of a small boat.

"Vika," he whispered.

He leaped out of his own skiff and secured it to the pier. Of course, it could be the other enchanter who was here, but Pasha had a feeling it was Vika. It was a birch leaf at the dock, and Vika came from an island covered in birches. It had to be her.

He ran toward the main path, leaving his dignity at the dock, the gravel crunching under his boots as he approached the promenade. The lanterns appeared to dance with the leaves in the breeze, the moonlight somehow not detracting from their brilliance, but adding to it. Pasha emerged from the trees to the center of the island, and it was there that he stopped short, on the walkway lined with benches.

Vika sat on the bench for Ovchinin Island.

Pasha slowed as he walked toward her so that he would not startle her with his presence. But she didn't look up, even though his boots seemed to pound on the path no matter how lightly he tried to tread, and he knew she must be immersed in a dream.

He hovered. He could sit next to her, and perhaps join her. He didn't know if each person had their own separate dream, or if you shared the same vision on the same bench. Of course, if he sat down, it might surprise her, and he had been attempting to avoid that all along.

"It's a tad eerie of you to stand there and watch me sleep," Vika said, her eyes still closed.

Pasha jumped. Ironic that he had been the one trying not to startle her.

She opened her eyes and smiled.

Pasha recovered himself and bowed. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Vika."

"And you as well, Pasha."

He straightened. "How did you know I was here?"

"I have a knack for sensing anomalies in my magic."

"Ah. So I am an anomaly. And the benches are yours, not the other enchanter's."

She laughed. "Oh, goodness, no to both. You're an anomaly only to the extent that you are not my magic, and thus, I can feel when you-or anyone-is there, if I so choose. And the benches are not mine. The island, yes. But the benches . . . I couldn't create something so magnificent."

"I would venture to say the island itself is quite magnificent."

"Thank you." Vika stood and straightened her skirt. "I'm rather pleased with it myself."

"Is that your leaf at the dock?" Pasha pointed in the direction from which he'd come.

"Yes, I've been experimenting with different modes of transportation. Do you like it?"

"Very much."

"I could make one for you."

"I think Gavriil would die of fright."

Vika tilted her head. "Gavriil?"

"The captain of my Guard. He doesn't like it when I try new things. A boat made of a leaf, I think, may push him to the limits of his tolerance."

"You may a.s.sure him it is entirely safe."

"I have no doubt. Perhaps I ought to send him out on the leaf first, to prove its st.u.r.diness."

Vika laughed, and Pasha did, too. She sparkled like the lanterns under the moonlight.

"Have you tried the benches?" she asked.

"No. Gavriil wouldn't let me when so many people were around during the day. Have you been through all the dreams?"

"Yes, and some more than once. They are all astounding."

Pasha glanced over his shoulder at the benches he had pa.s.sed on his way to Vika. "Which is your favorite? Besides the obvious?" He dipped his head toward the Ovchinin Island bench on which she sat.

"The steppe," she said without pause.

"Interesting. I have a friend who is originally from the steppe. You met him, actually, at the ball. Nikolai. He was the harlequin."

Vika paused, and for a moment she seemed as frozen as her dress had been that night. But then she was herself again. "Right. The harlequin. I think I remember him. Remarkable dancer."

"Indeed. He is always popular with the girls at b.a.l.l.s." Pasha watched her closely for her reaction.

"Is he?" Vika's expression remained even and bland. It was as if she were neither impressed nor unimpressed, as if Nikolai wasn't memorable to her at all. Pasha exhaled.

"But enough about Nikolai. Could we sit on the bench with the steppe dream? Would you show me around?"

Vika furrowed her brow. "Actually . . . if you don't mind, I was rather fancying a walk. I've been sitting here for a while. Or if you'd rather have some time alone with the benches-"

"No. A walk sounds perfect." Pasha offered her his arm, and she linked hers through his.

They strolled down the rest of the promenade, past the last bench, the one that contained the dream of the steppe, and turned left onto another path.

"Why did you come to the island in the middle of the night?" Vika asked. "To experience it without Gavriil watching? And how did you escape his watch? I would think a tsesarevich would be closely guarded."

"They try, but I know secret pa.s.sageways in and out of the palace of which they are unaware. In general, they don't report my absences, for at best they would appear to be fools, and at worst they would be disgraced and lose their positions. So in exchange for them 'forgetting' on many occasions to inform my father when they lose track of me, I return unscathed each time."

"A risky bargain, but I suppose I understand. You haven't answered my other question, though. Why are you here?"

"I may ask the same of you."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Nor could I."

They walked on for a while without speaking. Vika looked up at the lanterns, while Pasha took pleasure in the weight of her arm against his. There were many layers of cloth that separated them, but he swore his skin tingled at her touch anyway. His pulse definitely thrummed faster. It was a welcome distraction from worrying about his mother.

When they turned onto another path-this one, Pasha recalled, led to a grove of maple trees-Vika said, "You have a great deal on your mind."

Pasha started. It was the second time she had surprised him in half an hour. "Are you also a mind reader?"

"No. I hate to tell you, but your face gives everything away. There's so much tension in your jaw, and you have a groove chiseled into your forehead. Not to mention your hair. Do you always pull it when you worry?"

Pasha shook his head. "You are remarkable."

"Merely observant."