“Pavel Alexandrovich.” “Don’t call me that.” “Fine, then. Pasha.” “What?” “You can’t.” “Can’t what?” “Invite her. Dance with her. You’re . . .” Nikolai lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’re the tsesarevich of the Russian Empire.” “So?” Pasha threw up his arms. “Doesn’t that mean I can do whatever I please?” “You know it doesn’t. Your mother has rules about whom you can even flirt with, let alone dance with.” “Guidelines.”
