“You’re muttering to yourself again.” She tapped her sharp fingernails on the door frame. Yuliana was two years younger than Pasha, but most of the time, she seemed to think herself twice his age. “The servants could hear. You don’t want them thinking the tsesarevich is a madman.” Pasha sighed. “I think they’re rather accustomed to my mannerisms by now. If they don’t already think me mad, they will not think it because of today.”
