The stoic impassivity of his immobile expression was more frightening than any anger. “That’s what your ancestors did?”
He turned his head slowly, not blinking, almost soulless for a moment, and he nodded.
It was like negotiating with someone who may or may not be a serial killer. “But you’re not like that, right?”
That time, he blinked, like he was released from remembering horror. “I refuse to be involved. I stay out of politics and political arenas because I havenoambitions. I will not allow myself to be sucked into that criminal world and put myself, Kostya, Ryan, and everyone after them in danger. I hold the line. The Romanov legacy is not for sale. And that’s all I have to say about the matter of politics.” Nicolai shook hishead. “We can’t talk about this anymore. Inevershould have said that.”
“Worried about hidden microphones?” I joked, trying anything to break the chill that had seeped under my skin.
His sharp glance scared me.
“Seriously?”
Everything around me felt like an enemy.
The nightstand.
The bed’s tufted headboard.
The lamps.
“A conversation for another time,” he sighed. “But some people would not be amused atanyevidence I’d considered that scenario. So Idon’tconsider that scenario, ever.” His deep sigh sounded like resignation. “Except, evidently, when the sleeper codes activate.”
I scooted halfway across the bed, wanting to reach out to him because he seemed sad now, not cold anymore, but I didn’t. “So, just getting a divorce but not an annulment would mess up your—yourclaim,for the throne, if Russia ever had a tsar again.”
Nicolai Romanov nodded, turning farther toward me on the bed and toying with his wedding ring, twisting it on his finger.
“Do youwantto mess it up?”
Nicolai shook his head, his eyes still guarded, his face unmoving.
Scenes from Shakespeare’s playHamletwafted into my mind, lines where Ophelia was falling in love with Prince Hamlet, but her brother, Laertes, warned her about the prince.
Laertes told Ophelia to be afraid of Hamlet falling in love with her because Hamlet was royalty, and she was not.
Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister.
Her brother had said that Hamletmay not, as unvaluedpersons do, carve for himself; for on his choice depends The safety and health of this whole state.
Fear when royalty comes knocking on the door.
Don’t believe them. Don’t listen to them.
They will love the throne more than you.
And then Ophelia had sassed her brother back for being a man-slut while admonishing her about just hanging out with some guy.
But Hamlet had toyed with her, used her in his schemes to try to dethrone his stepfather, because he cared more about the throne than her.
Ophelia was alone, her mother dead, no nurse or governess or friends to guide her. Her playboy brother left her in the castle with the scheming prince while he went back to France, and then Hamlet murdered her father.
How easy it was for Hamlet to manipulate Ophelia.
She had no one who loved her.
Hamlet’s machinations drove Ophelia to madness, and she ended up dead in a pond, drowned, among her flowers.
So maybe I should heed Shakespeare’s advice from across the centuries.
