Page 44 of The Crown's Game
“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.”
Renata scooted out of the way, and Ludmila began to describe the confections on each shelf. “Here,” she said, pointing at the bottom row, “we have chocolate truffles filled not with ganache, but with steaming-hot cocoa that doesn’t cool until it touches your tongue.”
“Incredible.”
She dipped her head in gratitude. “Next, we have a pear pie, but as you can see, it’s no ordinary pie, for the pastry is shaped like the fruit itself.”
“Exquisite.” The pie was not merely shaped with pear-like curved edges. It looked truly like a three-dimensional pear, round and tall and narrowing at the stem, the kind you could pick off a tree and bite into. The large crystals of sugar on its “peel” even approximated morning dew. Magic, indeed. The laws of gravity would not allow such a pie to bake without falling.
“And finally”—Ludmila pointed at the top shelf—“we have cream puffs light as air.”
Pasha gasped because they were indeed as light as air, or even lighter, for the puffs floated and had to be tied to the shelf with colorful strings, like mini pâte à choux balloons.
“If I may, I would like one of those,” Pasha said. Ludmila nodded so emphatically, all her chins wobbled. Renata opened the glass case and retrieved one on a violet ribbon and passed it to Pasha. He couldn’t stop smiling as he held the tiny balloon’s string between his fingers.
“Would Your Imperial Highness like something else?”
Pasha glanced at his guards, who stood at attention nearby, and at the line behind him. “I would like to buy something for every man, woman, and child here.” He motioned to Gavriil, who retrieved a stack of ruble notes from a hidden pocket and quietly passed it over the counter to Ludmila.
“You are too generous, Your Imperial Highness.”
“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.”
