Page 46 of The Crown's Fate
But immediately, a tiny chill roused itself and trickled in his veins.
No. This is what I wanted.
Well, not exactly this, for Nikolai had wanted Pashadead, and he was not. But this devastation was part of a plan that Nikolai had set in motion, and he would see it through. He was not a quitter. The coldness inside him, although running thin, persisted.
Nikolai stood. He needed to glean more energy. He tripped, though, and nearly toppled into the snow.
First, before finding another source of energy, he needed some rest, to get his head straight again, to refocus. He turned toward the Black Moth.
And this time, he looked forward to the sordid inn.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The clock on Madame Boulangère’s wall struck midnight as Renata kneaded dough for the bread the bakers would put in the ovens in a few hours. And yet, despite how late it was, Renata felt lighter on her feet. A second wind, perhaps, like the kind that comes after one has been awake so long, one bypasses sleep and starts over again?
But Renata frowned. This was more than that. It was as if her blood was twirling through her veins, when all it was supposed to do was flow from heart to limbs and back again.
Heavens. She knew this sensation. Like she’d drunk nectar offered by mischievous fairies. It had been the same when Aizhana had transferred energy to her earlier tonight, unforgettable not only for the feeling itself, but also for the surprise that embracing a corpse could have produced such impish joy.
Now that thrill whirled through her veins, except it was wilder and brighter than before.I wonder if this is how magic feels to Nikolai?
She laughed at the thought. Magic? In me? How silly.
But then ... why not?
The floor was covered in a fresh dusting of flour from the dough she’d just kneaded. Renata scrunched her face and stared at a broom in the corner. “Sweep,” she said, as she snapped twice like she’d seen Nikolai do.
The broom remained stubbornly in the corner.
Renata glanced over her shoulder. Not that there was anyone else inside the bakery. Still, she flushed, embarrassed for even half hoping she could use magic like an enchanter could. She was only a servant girl, after all.
She poured herself a cup of tea and leaned against the pastry display. The steam curled up like wispy acrobats, somersaulting into the air. She took a sip, but the tea scalded her tongue.
“Ugh. Hurry up and cool down.” Renata set the cup on the counter and turned back to her bread dough, setting each round in a basket and covering it with a towel for its final rise. Then she picked up the broom that had refused to budge and swept the floor as ordinary people did.
But behind her, the steam acrobats had vanished, and the tea had already—much quicker than normal—cooled enough to drink.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Vika sat in an armchair in Pasha’s room and watched as the blue-and-gold blankets that warmed the tsesarevich’s bare chest rose and fell with his breath. Yuliana had left at one o’clock to rest and had promised to come back well before sunrise, but for a little longer, Vika could be with Pasha alone. The crease between his brows was relaxed, and his blond lashes fluttered against his cheeks in what was hopefully a happy dream. In his sleep, he was just an unguarded boy.
She bit her lip, though, because when Pasha woke, that crease between his brows would reappear, carrying with it the weight of being attacked by his brother, on top of all the other responsibilities and worries that being the next tsar would hold.
But hadn’t they all changed? Life happened without permission, and it swept everyone along in its violent wake. Pasha was no longer the innocent tsesarevich. Vika was no longer a carefree girl from the forest. And Nikolai ... Vikawasn’t surewhatNikolai was now, but he was no longer purely elegance and melancholy. He was still those things, but twisted and magnified.
Nikolai and Vika were no longer two sides of the same enchanting coin. How could she save him if she couldn’t even understand him anymore? Her stomach turned.
Beneath the covers, Pasha stirred. Vika stood and hurried to his side.
He groaned as he found his way back to consciousness. As Vika had predicted, the crease on his forehead reappeared even before his eyes opened.
He squinted at the single lamp that lit the room. Then he turned to his bedside. “Vika?” Pasha’s voice rasped. But he moved to sit up as soon as he saw her.
“Don’t strain yourself!” She held out her hand as if to stop him.
Pasha sat up anyway. Of course he did. He was the tsesarevich, and that meant he did whatever he wanted. That is, unless Yuliana said otherwise.
“You saved my life.”
