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 . . . Vika wasn’t sure what Nikolai 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.”

Vika shrugged.

“You’re terribly nonchalant,” Pasha said. “It’s as if you do this every day.” He laughed, but it was flatter than usual, weighed down, most likely, by why it had been necessary to save him in the first place. Then he stopped laughing altogether and held on to his stomach. Magic might have put his pieces back together, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t feel the aftereffects, like a patient after surgery. Pasha managed to shoot Vika a smile, though, through the pain.

Vika smiled, too. It was nearly impossible not to in reaction to his charm. Plus, without the blankets covering him, she could see the ripples of muscle on his chest and abdomen. She tried not to stare. “I’d rather not have to stitch you back together every day. It’s not exactly easy, and I can’t guarantee it’ll work every time. So if you don’t mind, try not to get yourself almost killed again, all right?”

“I’ll try,” he said. “But I must warn you that tsars are often high on assassination target lists.”

“Good thing you’re not tsar yet, then.”

As soon as she said it, Vika wanted to take it back. Really? she chastised herself. You said that in the midst of everything that’s happening?

Pasha let out a curt laugh. “Right. Good thing I’m not yet tsar.”

I am an idiot, Vika thought.

Pasha brushed his fingers over the place where Vika had extracted Nikolai’s gear. Once. Twice. Three times.

“I’m sorry about what I just said.” Vika couldn’t take her eyes off Pasha’s fingers, still tracing and retracing where his brother had wounded him. “But I’ve been thinking. I ought to protect you better.”

Pasha shook his head. “You saved me. There’s not much better than that.”

“No, I meant a permanent shield, which I’d thought before was impossible, because that sort of magic requires a great deal of power and, therefore, proximity. But now that Bolshebnoie Duplo is generating more magic than ever before . . .”

“You might be able to do it.” His fingers ceased their obsessive tracing.

“Might. I’ll try, but that doesn’t mean you can toss caution to the wind. It’s possible it won’t work, and we won’t know until Nikolai tries to harm you again.”

Pasha cringed. Vika did, too, for she had said it as if another attack by Nikolai was inevitable. She and Pasha both knew it to be true, even if they didn’t want it to be.

“Do I need to, um, do anything?” he asked.

“No, just sit still.”

Vika stood from her chair but took a second to breathe and feel the magic sparking inside her. It brightened even more as she called to it, so much so that she almost felt there was a torch within. She welcomed its eager flames—she was, in this moment, pleased that magic was no longer secret, that the people’s belief had stoked more power for her to use—and then she focused on Pasha, outlined the space around him with her eyes, and conjured an invisible shield around him.

She imagined it as a soft, flexible material, one that would not repel bullets or enchantments but rather, would absorb them until she could dispel them safely. It seemed a better approach than conjuring a rigid barrier like a more traditional shield, for something like that could potentially shatter.

Then again, all this was theory. Vika didn’t even know if this enchantment would hold.

She stumbled a bit when she finished. Conjuring a shield that strong, and to last indefinitely, had taken more out of her than she expected.

“Sit and rest,” Pasha said, as he patted the edge of the mattress. “And thank you.”

Vika eyed the spot where Pasha’s hand lay. Heat flashed through her again, but not from magic this time. It would be incredibly improper to sit on any boy’s bed, but especially the future tsar’s. Not that Vika hadn’t already been ridiculously close when she’d healed him. Nor had she ever been constrained by propriety before. But still. This seemed different. Perhaps she was growing up and becoming more responsible. Perhaps she was learning to play by the rules.