The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)

by Evelyn Skye

She had to suspect the worst. As much as she’d wanted to believe that her opponent had laid down an amicable move, that someone as elegant as he wouldn’t resort to violence, the Game would in fact end upon one of their deaths. And there was something about the way he carried himself, she thought. Mesmerizing, but subtly perilous. Perhaps the stone birds were enchanted to attack as soon as Vika appeared on the street. But would they be able to do that if her opponent didn’t know who she was? She’d kept up her shroud diligently all the way home from Bolshebnoie Duplo. And Vika certainly wouldn’t be able to charm something into tracking an unknown person.

“Come now,” Vika said to the other enchanter’s birds. “Isn’t it tempting, seeing my flock lined up neatly, like targets waiting for you to knock them down?” The stone sparrows seemed to come to the same conclusion as Vika taunted them. With shrieks as bloodcurdling as a thousand fingernails raking against blackboards, the gargoyle warriors plummeted as one, like a battering ram careening toward Vika’s real birds. Her army squawked as the monolith of stone came at them. But they held their positions. Then, at the last second, they darted aside. Vika also rolled out of the way. The rock sparrows smashed into the ground and shattered into gravel and sand. And then it was over, almost as quickly as the assault had begun. Death littered Nevsky Prospect, stone and feathered bodies, demolished. Vika’s eyes watered. But she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She summoned the wind instead and whisked away all the evidence of life—or lack thereof—so quickly that the early morning street sweeper who’d been gawking along the road suddenly questioned his own memory—or sanity, at having imagined such an improbably gruesome scene at all. Only Vika knew for certain that it had been true. And she would get her revenge.

Merde! Nikolai winced at the bloody, rocky battle that ensued. “I’m sorry,” he said to the sparrow, as if a statue could feel grief for his shattered friends. Or perhaps Nikolai was saying it for the actual birds who’d died. Or the girl herself. Regardless, he stroked the sparrow’s stone wings. It cooed, then flapped away, as light as if it were made of the breeze. Nikolai returned his gaze to the canals and barges floating by, although he might as well have been seeing the stone bird’s images replaying again and again. Nikolai sagged against the steps and exhaled. The girl still lived. The Game continued. But at least he wasn’t a murderer today.

After Vika had waited an hour, the other enchanter appeared. And despite wanting to hate him, she tingled at his presence. He was still some distance off, but it was unmistakably him. It was in the way his top hat was cocked on his head, jaunty and taunting at the same time, impossibly balanced by magic. The elegant yet razor-edged manner with which he slid through the crowd, cutting through but never jostling, and always, always smooth. And it was also the memory of his hand on her arm at Bolshebnoie Duplo and the flash of his angular face. . . . No. Stop. Focus. He tried to kill me. I have to get my turn underway before he draws too near.

The other enchanter stood close to the river’s edge. Perfectly close for Vika’s purposes. Too close for his own. Just where I want you. She made a slithering motion in the air, and a stream of water climbed up the embankment and puddled around the enchanter’s feet. It swirled around his right ankle and tightened itself like liquid rope. As he realized what was happening, she flicked her wrist, and the water yanked him into the Neva. “Prekrasno,” she said again as she grinned to herself. A woman in the crowd screamed. “Someone’s fallen into the river!” a man yelled. But the other enchanter didn’t resurface. Vika turned away from the water, even as she continued to direct it to hold her opponent down. Suddenly, she couldn’t watch. But drowning him was a necessity, a part of the Game. If she didn’t kill him, he’d kill her. And she wanted to be Imperial Enchanter; she’d wanted it all her life, to use her magic for the tsar. And then there was Father . . . she had to see him again. If she lost the Game, she never would. It didn’t make what she was doing any easier. But it made it possible. Unavoidable. Vika held on to the watery rope as long as she could, and then she collapsed against the boulder at the base of the bronze statue. People were still leaning over the embankment, searching for the drowned boy. Vika gasped for air, as badly as if she were the one underwater. Something inside her felt like it had drowned, too. And then, behind her, shouts erupted. “There he is!” “He...

out onto the Neva. Sure enough, out in the river, the enchanter floated on what looked like a raft of sea foam. He reached the shores of Vasilyevsky Island, on the other side of the Neva, before Vika could use the water to reel him back in. Not that she had the stomach to do it again. Her conscience was still waterlogged from the first attempt to drown him. The crowd along shore realized the boy was all right and that the waterworks show was over. As they dispersed, they murmured their approval that the festivities for the tsesarevich were beginning ahead of schedule. They bounced as they walked, anticipating what other surprises the tsar had in store. And they wondered if the Neva Fountain would turn on again. The Neva Fountain, eh? How nice that they’ve already given it a name. Vika smiled despite her morally dubious insides. Or perhaps she smiled because of them. She did not want to know which. She looked again across the Neva to the other enchanter. He seemed to be staring straight back at her. And then he tipped his top hat, as if saying, Nice try. Thank you for the amusement. Have a wonderful day. Why, that arrogant, insufferable . . . argh! “It’s not like you managed to kill me either,” Vika said, even though he couldn’t hear her. All right. So the other enchanter had survived. Vika had created the Neva Fountain, which, enchanted once, would now retain the charms in the water and be able to replicate the show on its own, every hour. But she’d set out to far better t...

green. Sapphire blue, violet amethyst, then back to red to start the rainbow again. Even though the other enchanter had painted Nevsky Prospect first, Vika’s colors were so vivid, it was as if his palette of pastels were merely a faded reflection of hers. The canals were a jewel-toned taunt, really, at his move. Vika finished charming the waterways enough to cycle through the colors on their own, then sank to the ground. The base of Peter the Great’s statue was the only thing propp...

“Nursultan is clearing the table,” he said to Pasha. “I feel rotten every time this happens, when he has to evict whoever is already sitting there.” “Don’t feel bad. You’re the shining future of Russia.” Pasha half smiled and half grimaced. “That’s precisely why I feel bad.” Nikolai shrugged. They had had this conversation in many different variations before. But the fact of the matter was, there was no other way for Pasha to patronize a place like this. Besides, if the men at the table knew it was the tsesarevich who was usurping their table, they would gladly relocate. That line of logic, however, had never appeased Pasha’s guilt.

No, it’s more than that, Nikolai thought. Isn’t it? “Are you coming?” Pasha asked, practically bounding in the direction of the table. He might as well have had springs in the soles of his boots. “Not if you’re going to call attention to yourself like that.” Pasha threw his arm around Nikolai’s shoulder and winked, but the springs in his feet retracted. “Good point. I would be completely ungrounded without you.” And as easily as that, Nikolai’s doubts about their friendship receded. For now.

“So are you going to tell me why you dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night?” Nikolai asked as he piled smoked sturgeon onto a slice of bread. “You weren’t sleeping.” “Perhaps I was.” “Not unless you sleep in a starched shirt, cravat, and waistcoat. I could see your clothes full well from the street.” “Damn you and your observations.”

He had actually considered confiding in Pasha many times before—both about his magical abilities and the related indignities heaped upon him by Galina—but he had always stopped short of confessing. For one, Nikolai knew Pasha looked up to him, as backward as it might be for the tsesarevich to admire a nobody from the steppe, and Nikolai was loath to have yet another thing that set him apart, for he wished to fit in with his friend, not stand out. On the flip side of that, Nikolai might work for Pasha someday, and he wanted to enjoy their friendship as it was for as long as possible, before that dynamic in their relationship shifted. And third, Nikolai did not want to tell Pasha about his abilities, when his magic was eventually going to be used to kill someone. Not that it wouldn’t be revealed at some

point, should Nikolai survive the Game. But he didn’t want to think about that. That was a problem for the future, if that future existed. Honesty, sometimes, was the worst policy.

All these years, Nikolai had been alone, with only Galina’s minor magic keeping company with his own. But now there was suddenly another enchanter in his life, and he felt a paradoxical kinship with her. It dissolved the edges of his loneliness, like finding the path home after years of wandering the wilderness on his own. And although it was arrogant how she’d changed the colors in the canals just to taunt him, Nikolai also admired that she wasn’t afraid to do so. Which made the girl all the more dangerous. She was the enemy. Nikolai could not afford to be drawn in. He was also afraid that Pasha would fall for her, seeing as he had already gone far out of his way to track down her details on Ovchinin Island. How could Nikolai kill the girl if his best friend became infatuated with her?

“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.”

“What?” “Whom I can flirt with. They’re guidelines, not rules.” “Pasha.”

“We know nothing about her.” “Her name is Vika.” Nikolai’s scar burned at the same time that the knot in his chest—that foreboding sense of kismet that had begun when he saw the Canal of Colors—tightened. “‘Though she be but little, she is fierce.’” “Quoting Shakespeare won’t sway me, Nikolai.” “Then what can I do to dissuade you from searching for the girl again or inviting her to the ball?” Pasha topped off their glasses. “You can’t.” Then he lifted his glass and toasted, “To the lightning girl. And all else that may come.”

Galina smirked and stalked over to the kitchen table. It had originally been constructed of coarse logs, but Galina had changed it into Italian marble. “You haven’t grown too attached to the girl, I hope? Have you even told her you aren’t her real father?” Sergei furrowed his brow. “What are you implying?” He’d thought everyone believed she was his daughter. He certainly thought his sister, whom he hadn’t seen in decades, would think so. Galina conjured up a cup of steaming tea. “Honestly, Sergei, she looks nothing like you. And even though you did not care to check on me in Saint Petersburg all those years, I did check on you—actually, I paid someone to do it from time to time, because that sort of work is beneath me—and I know for a fact that you never married or had even a mistress. But it’s fine if you want to pretend Vika is your daughter. It’s . . . sweet, even.” Galina’s mouth puckered. “All right, cloying is more accurate. But that’s your choice. All I want to know is, where did you find her?” “I—I didn’t—” “Sergei.” “Fine.” He knew if he didn’t answer, she’d keep pestering him, and seeing as they were trapped in this cabin together, it was far less painful to relent now than to continue taking her abuse. Galina already knew the crux of the truth anyway. “I found Vika on the side of a volcano on the Kamchatka Peninsula, when I was there on a research mission studying winter herbs. Her mother, a volcano nymph, had abandoned her.” Galina sat back in her chair. “I tho...

“Blood determines nothing. Vika is my daughter, no matter what you say.” “For someone as surly-looking as you, you’re disgustingly soft.” “It’s better than being surly on both the outside and the inside like someone else in this room.” Sergei reached over and helped himself to Galina’s tea, ignoring her scowl. “I suppose you’ve remained cold and distant from your student, haven’t you? You are so very talented at alienating people.” “Why would I form an attachment to a half-breed orphan from the steppe?” Galina scoffed. “I trained him because it was my duty to do so, and because I want to see my enchanter demolish yours. I like winning, you know.” Oh, yes, Sergei knew. Although more accurately, Galina should have said she liked winning against him. It had always been about beating him, beginning when they were small children and she wanted more of their father’s attention. She’d never outgrown her insecurity at being born a girl, even though their parents hadn’t played favorites between them. “It’s a pity raising Nikolai didn’t stir any maternal instinct in you. It would have been nice if Vika had grown up with a friend in the family to play with.” Galina plucked her teacup out of Sergei’s hands. “Maternal instinct? Ha! You can’t stir something that doesn’t exist, thank goodness. And as for Vika having a friend, that is ridiculous, and you know it. They are enchanters, Sergei. They were always going to have to fight each other and die. They couldn’t know who the other encha...

boy?” Galina smiled, and her teeth gleamed at the points, as if she filed and polished them to appear that way. Except Sergei knew she’d always looked like that. She had always been a wolf. “Every beat of my heart belongs to myself, mon frère. You’d do better if you kept yours to yourself, as well. We did our jobs as mentors, and that’s that. No need for us to hurt unnecessarily when one of them dies, but that’s exactly what will happen if you insist on remaining attached to your student.” Sergei snorted. As if he could so easily discard every memory of Vika—from watching her go from crawling to walking to leaping through trees, from teaching her the alphabet to how to conjure a doll to how to summon rain from a barren sky, from telling her she could grow up to be Imperial Enchanter to finally leading her to her fate at Bolshebnoie Duplo. No, it was impossible to extricate Vika’s life from his; he wouldn’t be who he was now without her.

“Where is my child?” she asked Damira, who in her fifties was the eldest of the women. Damira stared at her with unblinking eyes. Perhaps it was at how Aizhana looked. Her face was skeletal, with yellow-gray skin stretched taut in places and sagging in others. Her hair was missing in patches, and what she did possess hung limp and dirty like decaying fishing nets. Or perhaps it was how Aizhana smelled, as she had been dead for nearly two decades, and simply infusing a decaying body with new energy would not undo that unfortunate fact. “Wh-what are you?” Damira asked. “What do you want?” “I want my baby.” “I don’t know who—” “You don’t recognize me?” Aizhana bared her yellowed teeth.

“No. Were you not listening? I was never dead. I was merely not living. But I have returned, and I want my boy. Where is he? Is he out shepherding or hunting with the men?” “He . . .” “Is he out shepherding or hunting with the men?” Aizhana asked again, the screech of her voice rising. Damira’s eyes widened. “I . . . We haven’t seen him in eleven years. He left the village.” Aizhana scraped her fingernails against her papery temple. They rasped like claws against molted snakeskin. “He could not have left on his own at age seven. What did you do?” Damira sniveled. The other women held one another, as if something so simple would protect them. “Where is he? What did you do?” Aizhana snarled. “A Russian aristocrat came. She wanted him. You have to understand, he was too much for us. We didn’t know what to do with his power—” “You lived with me among you all those years. How could a boy be any different?” “He was. He was different!” Damira said. “You were a healer. You made people better. You were a force of good. He was . . .” “Like a demon,” another woman, Tazagul, said. Her face glowed in the light of the fire. “He had too much power. It came from somewhere other than the people who needed to be healed. He wasn’t like you.” “My son is not a demon!” Aizhana howled, and her shriek nearly drew blood from the women’s ears. But if he wasn’t a healer, then what was he? Could he be an enchanter? It would make sense, the way Damira and Tazagul described him. Healers utilized small ...

Damira said. “And the Russian woman offered two horses and two sheep to take him away to train—” “You sold my son? For four animals?” “No, we—” But that was all Damira got out before Aizhana pounced on her and slashed her throat with her wicked nails. Thick, hot red spurted everywhere. Aizhana grinned. Then she siphoned off the energy as Damira’s life left her body. “What have you done?” Tazagul said, trembling. She and the other women still kneeled on the ground, too paralyzed to flee. They gaped at their dead kinswoman. “Even if I was disgraced, my son was innocent, and you were supposed to mother him in my stead,” Aizhana said, her voice now a low growl. “That is how a village works. But you left him without a mother, and now I will leave all your children without theirs.” She lunged at the women. She shredded them with her nails, ten merciless blades compelled by vengeance. And as she killed them, she absorbed their energy, just as she’d done to the worms and the maggots in the ground. She was now so full of both life and death that it would take more than a mere bullet to kill her. And her left foot seemed almost awake. Which was good. For apparently she had a long journey ahead. Nikolai, she thought. I am coming for you.

Vika smiled. “Yes, the tsar’s city planners and engineers are quite talented.” “Oh, no, it isn’t engineers who managed that river fountain. It’s real magic. I know. And so do you and your father.” Ludmila winked. Vika’s smile faded away. “Don’t worry, dear, I haven’t told a soul. I may be the island gossip, but I know when it’s wise to keep my mouth shut. Not everyone would think so kindly of your abilities. It’s the reason Sergei taught you to hide them.” “I . . . But . . . How do you know?” “I grew up in a circus, my dear.” “You did?” Vika perked up in her chair. When she was younger, she’d longed to be part of a circus, moving from place to place and seeing the country. It seemed to be a place where the performers could be themselves in front of entire audiences, no matter how outlandish their talents might be. They had no need to hide in remote island forests. “Indeed,” Ludmila said. “And when you grow up in a circus, you learn early on how to distinguish what is real and what is made of smoke and mirrors. I’ll tell you that most feats in the circus are pure trickery. But you and your father have something about you that cannot be hidden from those who know there is more to this world than what we see.” Incredible. Vika shook her head. She’d gone her entire life concealing who she and her father were, when right in front of her, every single day, someone else had known. She and Father hadn’t even bothered to cast shields around themselves when they weren’t actively usi...

Ludmila crossed the kitchen and wrapped Vika in her arms. “I know it’s quite a lot to take in, dear. And I’m sorry I said nothing earlier, but I didn’t think you or Sergei wanted your true natures known. Now, however . . . well, you’ve decided to put your magic on display for all to see. And with Sergei absent, wherever it is he’s gone, I thought you might need a mother. Or a friend.” Ludmila kissed the top of Vika’s hair. “I am lucky to have you, sunshine.” But Vika only patted Ludmila on the back. Maternal affection was unfamiliar territory. After a minute, Ludmila released her, smiling from icing-covered ear to icing-covered ear. She hadn’t seemed to notice that Vika had been hesitant to return her embrace. “The facades on the buildings outside are lovely,” Ludmila said. Vika laughed. She loved that her magic was being seen by others, but she couldn’t take credit for something that wasn’t hers. “It’s true that I’m an enchantress. But the paint on Nevsky Prospect is not my doing.” Ludmila tapped her spoon against her chin, leaving sticky jam prints on her skin. “Really? There is yet another . . . what did you call yourself? Enchanter? How fascinating.” Vika nodded, and now she wanted to hug Ludmila. What a gift it was to have someone else know what Vika was, and what she could do. And then it occurred to her: she could tell Ludmila about the Crown’s Game. She would not have to bear it on her own. But no. One glance at the baker’s jolly mood and she dismissed the idea. Vi...

“You know I’m going, with or without you, don’t you?” “Well, if you put it like that . . .” There was no way Vika would let Ludmila around the other enchanter without her. Besides, Vika refused to be the type of girl who hid from danger. And she needed to see what her opponent’s move was, so she could best him again. Because if he didn’t kill her outright, the tsar always could. Her death sentence was as simple as the tsar declaring her opponent the victor. It didn’t matter that she technically still had four turns. Vika walked over to wipe the smudges of frosting from Ludmila’s face. Then she tossed the rat one more scrap of pastry before she grabbed her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders, casting a shield around herself and Ludmila at the same time. “All right.” “Hurrah, an adventure!” Ludmila said as she launched herself through the apartment’s front door. Yes, an adventure. But hopefully not a fatal one.

A melody pealed out from the purple box again, this time for a pas de deux. The Jack led the ballerina to the center of their cobblestone stage, where they bowed once again to each other. Then he set his hands gently about her waist, and she lifted onto the points of her shoe, both arms arched overhead, and spun as ethereally as a fairy. They danced as the music played. The ballerina spun. The Jack leaped. And when together, he lifted her, light as the doll that she was. Then the music began to soar, and their dancing did as well, with the ballerina and the Jack whirling together so quickly they began to levitate into the sky. “How are they doing that?” someone behind Vika asked, as if he had forgotten they were not real people. “There must be strings,” another person said. But next to Vika, Ludmila said, “They’re like puppets manipulated by masters they cannot see.” Too true. Vika knew the ballerina represented her, and the Jack the other enchanter. Like the puppets, she and her opponent had never had a choice: their destiny was a pas de deux, a splendor and a torment fated for the two of them. And yet, there was something about the other enchanter, about the magic he chose, that drew her to him, as if the bond between them was not an altogether evil thing. It was more like a tenuous thread attempting to reconnect two halves of a whole. And although Vika hated to admit it, she’d dreamed of him more than once. Each time, he would appear as a shadow boy, but each morning, j...

The crack blew all sound out of his ears, and he was thrown to the ground as the lightning shattered the invisible layer protecting him. The palace was still too far. It was Nikolai against the weather now. The sky crackled and popped again. Recharging, readying for attack. He remembered the girl rising out of the fire on Ovchinin Island. He didn’t think he could fight that. Not without a shield. But if Nikolai was going to die, he was going to do it with dignity. He reached for his top hat, which had skittered away on the cobblestones and finally gotten wet. He brushed it off and rose to his feet. Then he turned to face the ballerina’s purple box in the center of the square. He wasn’t sure where the girl was, but he could address the puppet he’d created in her stead. He took a deep breath and stood as still and as serenely as he could, given the circumstances of thunder bellowing all around him. Electricity buzzed in the air. Nikolai tried to conjure another shield, but it sputtered out. “I don’t blame you.” He tipped his hat in the ballerina’s direction, but unlike the time he did so after the other enchanter had tried to drown him, there was nothing mocking in his gesture now. “I don’t blame you if this is the end.” Then the sparks in the sky extinguished themselves, and the gray clouds blew away with a hiss. Not a trace of violence—or even rain—remained. And the scar at Nikolai’s collarbone warmed. She’d ended her turn. Nikolai exhaled. She had spared his life. He let ...

“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 glass 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 assembly . . . let’s say that girl has a magic touch.” Pasha stood taller. “Magic touch, you say? Show me everything

you have.”

“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 noblewomen 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 assist 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 nobility. There, at least, was one of Nikolai’s objections struck down. It was not in violation of his mother’s ru...

“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.”

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 basement 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.

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.

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.

“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 firestor...

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 assembling 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.

“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.”

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’ balls. He could be anyone.

“What are you doing?” she asked, but her voice was steady, her eyes large and curious rather than afraid. Nikolai untied a peacock feather from one of the garlands and gave it to Renata. “Hold this.” She clutched it to her chest, and he pointed his fingertips at it, then lifted his right hand up and pressed his left, down, as if stretching the feather to Renata’s full length. “If you are going to be here at the ball, you might as well enjoy it,” he said. Renata looked down. “Oh, Nikolai!” Her plain tunic had metamorphosed into a green lace bodice and a skirt composed entirely of peacock feathers. Her shoes were patterned to match. “And of course you’ll need gloves and a mask.” He clasped his hands, and when they opened, white gloves and a mask of green, gold, and blue glitter appeared. She picked them up as if they would vanish if she handled them too roughly. She slipped on the gloves, and Nikolai helped her fit the mask on her face. He bowed and offered her his arm. “May I have the honor of dancing with you?” “I—I don’t know how.” “I will show you.” The shroud covering them faded away, and the harlequin led the peacock to the center of the ballroom, where the floor manager was filling the next set of dancers for a waltz. They took their places, and Nikolai rested Renata’s left hand on his right shoulder and wrapped his arm around her. With his other hand, he clasped hers and pulled her close. She held her breath. “The beat is one-two-three,” he said quietly. “But don’t w...

and across the room, he dropped the count. “You’re dancing beautifully.” Renata blushed. They rose and fell with the music, whirling up and down and all around, and when the song ended, Renata asked, “Can we do that again?” Nikolai shook his head. “Not immediately. It would be terrible etiquette if I monopolized your attention.” “Besides,” a boy’s voice said behind him, “I would like a turn with the beautiful peacock.” Ah, there he was. Nikolai knew it was Pasha without even looking. For all of Pasha’s claims that he wasn’t any good at planning ahead, he was masterful at it when it involved sneaking out, or, in this case, sneaking in. “I knew you would come early,” Nikolai said. “I had to, before you stole the hearts of all the pretty girls.” Renata blushed again. Pasha stepped up from behind Nikolai to join them. He was an angel—white dress coat, white waistcoat, white shirt, white cravat, white trousers, white shoes, white gloves, white mask. The only things not white were his silver wings and the gold halo nestled in his hair. “Renata, may I introduce—” “Dmitri,” Pasha said. He winked at Nikolai. “Dmitri Petrov.” Nikolai tilted his head in a question. But then again, why not? It was a masquerade, after all, and tonight was the one night Pasha could truly get away with being someone else. Just like Renata could be more than a servant girl. Dmitri the Angel bowed, offered her his arm, and whisked her back to the dance floor. Nikolai watched them go. Then he retreated back...

“You do realize how inappropriate your actions are, do you not?” The volume of the tsar’s voice remained low and steady, but the tone had picked up a bitingly sharp edge. “Yes, Father.” “Even the lowest-ranking nobility must be announced.”

“Yes, Father.” “There are rules governing with whom you interact and how. Your sister has never had a problem comprehending this. And yet, after seventeen years, it has somehow still not been impressed upon you that the conventions and ceremony of the tsardom matter. You are the tsesarevich of all Russia. I suggest you start acting like it.” “Yes, Father.” “Now go upstairs and change.” Pasha looked up from the carpet. “What? Why?” “For a multitude of reasons, the foremost being that you have already been seen in that ridiculous costume, so if you march in as an angel now, the whole of Saint Petersburg’s nobility will know that you had previously slunk among them, unannounced, like a gutter rat. And also, your costume is unbecoming for a man of your station.” “But it’s a masquerade. . . .” Pasha’s voice wilted. There was no fighting the will of the tsar, and he knew it. He had always known it, which was why he tried to live so much of his life when his father was not looking. “It is a masquerade for all of them.” The tsar flung his hand in the direction of the ballroom doors. “But it is an imperial state function for you.”

“Do you think she’ll come?” Renata asked, her eyes on the placement of Nikolai’s hand on his scar. He dropped it down to his side. “I don’t know.” She wrinkled her forehead, studying him. “Do you want her to come?” Nikolai charmed his face to smooth out the emotion so Renata couldn’t read him. “I don’t know that, either.” But it didn’t matter what he wanted or how he felt, for in the same heartbeat as Nikolai uttered those words, Vika appeared in the entry. A hush blew through the ballroom until even the couple bowing to Pasha rose to see the cause of the quiet. Pasha turned. All eyes were on the girl on the stairs. Her ordinarily red hair was pale blue tonight, and the black streak had been transformed to silver, like a sliver of mercury. On her face, she wore a mask made of birch wood, rough white with flecks of gray. But it was the gown that had triggered the silence, for it was unlike anything the guests had ever seen. The bodice appeared to be carved from white ice, reflecting the light from the chandeliers on its polished surface, and yet it hugged the curves of her frame and moved with her as if made of water. The skirt was similarly frosty, an endless eddy of snowflakes, like a blizzard erupting from the ice above. Even the air seemed to chill around her. This was not from Nikolai’s Masquerade Box. This was far beyond his tailoring and imagination. She was a diamond in a quarry full of quartz. Even the majordomo stood agog. It was a good minute before he gathered h...

and it was arguable whether he had announced the tsesarevich or Vika with more reverence. “Good gracious.” Renata trembled beside Nikolai. “No wonder you feared her the first time you saw her.” But fear no longer described how Nikolai felt. As soon as Vika floated into the ballroom, he’d felt her pull. She was the sun, and he was a mere rock, drawn in by her gravity. He needed to be closer, to feel her magic, to touch . . . her. He trembled at the thought. And he took a step in her direction. Renata reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Be careful. . . .” And then she let go. For even she knew there was only so much one could do to protect a winter moth drawn to an icy flame.

“That is an impressive gown,” the tsarina said when Vika had risen. “The shimmering fabric gives the illusion of the snowstorm being real. Wherever did you have it made?” “I tailored it myself, Your Imperial Majesty. I am very grateful that it pleases you.” Vika cringed at her own words. She sounded like such a sycophant. But what was the appropriate thing to say when the tsarina complimented your magic, without knowing it was magic? There was certainly no etiquette manual to cover that. “Take care not to become too enamored of the tsesarevich,” the tsar said. “It will require more than a showy gown to be worthy.” Vika’s hand fluttered to her collarbone. She had charmed her scar to be invisible tonight, but it still burned. And even though the tsar was commenting ostensibly on her dress, his warning was clear: he was not impressed by the enchantments recently cast over the city by her and the other enchanter, Nikolai. They would have to do more to win the right to advise him. But at least it seemed that he would not end the Game tonight. He would give them more chances to prove themselves. A little of the tension leached from Vika’s shoulders. “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” she said. “I understand completely.”