“Alicky?”
She tried to nod, though she could barely hear Ernie’s voice through the roar in her ears. “Alicky, are you having one of your episodes?”
Herepisodes,hercondition—Alix’s family had never known how to refer to her strange illness. Alix herself didn’t really know what it was. All she knew was that her body would, without warning, descend into a whirlpool of grim panic. Her limbs would freeze up as dark spots exploded behind her eyes.
She should have known this might happen today. The attacks usually struck when Alix was in a highly public setting or facing a weighty decision. Her most recent episode hadbeen that night at the opera, back in London, when she’d collapsed into such a trembling heap that Princess Hélène had been forced to go fetch Ernie.
How shameful, that someone outside her family circle had seen Alix in the grip of her affliction. Yet, oddly enough, Alix sensed that Hélène wouldn’t tell anyone.
“Alicky?” Ernie repeated, as the carriage drew up to the front steps. He reached out and shook her by the shoulders, yet Alix hardly noticed; her mind was hurtling back to that awful day, to the nursery with its woven blue rug—
A postilion leapt from the back of the carriage and walked around to open her door.Just step outside,Alix willed herself, but her body refused to obey her commands; she felt like she’d been turned to stone, like one of the carved figures on the enormous stone pillars.
And then she saw him.
Nicholas, the tsar’s oldest son, bounded down the stairs in a flagrant violation of protocol. He was taller and more broadly built than Eddy—why was she comparing him to Eddy?—yet despite the imposing bulk of him, all muscled shoulders and powerful thighs, he was light and graceful on his feet.
“Ernie! Alix!” Nicholas reached the bottom step and held out a hand. He spoke in French, the official language of the Romanov court, though she knew he could just as easily have chosen English. “Welcome to St.Petersburg.”
He wore a scarlet coat over dark trousers, with leather boots that stretched almost to his knees. His dark hair was cut short, emphasizing the bold lines of his jaw. His deep blue eyes met hers, seeming to thaw her from within.
Alix placed her gloved hand in Nicholas’s and stepped down from the carriage.
For a moment they stood there, gazes locked, like dancers frozen mid-waltz. There was something warm about Nicholas, something that made Alix feel like she’d been tossed in a storm and now she’d found safe harbor.
A soft tut from one of the equerries recalled her to her senses. Alix withdrew her hand and sank into the most reverential curtsy she knew how to make, so low that her gown swept over the stones of the courtyard. She wasn’t required to make this curtsy to anyone except the tsar himself, but something in Nicholas’s presence, the strength and solidity of him, made her do it on instinct.
Alix hadn’t seen the tsarevich since Ella’s wedding five years ago. Back then she’d been an awkward and uncertain thirteen-year-old, and while Nicholas had treated her with kindness, he hadn’t really noticed her.
“Thank you for having us,” she breathed, as servants began collecting their luggage from the back of the carriage.
“Of course. I’m sure you’re eager to see Ella,” Nicholas offered. “She’s upstairs with my mother; they were hoping you could join them for tea, if you’re not exhausted.”
Alix wished that protocol required him to take her hand again. “We would be honored.”
Asking questions about the journey, the tsarevich led her and Ernie through the hallways of the Anichov. It was magnificent, every surface covered in gold leaf or lapis lazuli or snow-white marble. Everywhere there were mirrors, lush Aubusson carpets, display cases of Fabergé eggs, whimsical Chinese tables. And it was all so vast—it seemed to Alix thather father’s entire house would fit in the frescoed dining hall alone.
Buckingham Palace, which a few months ago had felt like the height of sophistication, suddenly seemed outdated and old-ladyish by comparison.
“My mother and Ella are in the blue salon.” Nicholas made eye contact with a footman, who threw open a set of double doors.
“His Royal Highness Prince Ernest Louis Charles Albert William of Hesse. Her Royal Highness Princess Alix Victoria Helena Louise Beatrice of Hesse,” the footman announced.
Alix always found it a bit silly, hearing herself referred to by that endless string of names. Clearly, the Russian imperial court was particular about etiquette.
She took a hesitant step through the doorway, and her years of training seemed to melt away, because there was her sister.
“Ella!”Alix sprinted forward and threw her arms around her. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!”
She was still Ella, Alix noted with relief. She smelled like Russia now, like warm furs and spicy perfume, and her gown and upswept hairstyle were painfully Russian—but underneath it all, she was still her sister.
Ella laughed softly. “Alicky, my darling,” she murmured, a note of reproof in her tone.
Alix spun about and curtsied to the tsarina. Nicholas’s mother sat in a chair by the window, staring at her and Ernie as if they were a pair of ignorant country bumpkins. “Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty,” she said self-consciously. “I was so excited to see my sister again. Thank you for having us.”
The Tsarina Maria—Minnie, her family had always called her—pursed her lips together in disapproval. Alix sensed that she should remain in the curtsy, though her thighs ached from holding herself in that position. Behind her, Ernie bowed and politely greeted the tsarina.
Finally Minnie flicked her hand, a gesture that Alix took to mean she could rise.
