So Renata skipped those leaves and went to the next cluster, three arched leaves, one right after another. “This could mean movement.”

“Like a journey?”

“Yes. Or emotional movement, internal change. I don’t know. It’s a bit vague.”

“I see.” Vika bit her lip. “And what about that one?”

Renata swallowed. The leaf she’d indicated was a sharp line with a jagged edge. There was another short leaf across the top, like a hilt. “A knife. Death.”

“Oh.” Vika sagged in her chair.

“The crookedness means it is not as expected.”

“But one of us will still die.”

“One of you will still die.” Renata clutched the sides of the cup tightly. Both she and Vika stared at the leaves, as if they could will them to move and prophesy something else instead. In that moment, it seemed that the canal next to them turned black. But when Renata looked again, the water was purple.

And there was something else in the leaves, although Renata didn’t say it, for she suddenly felt as if she’d revealed too much.

But Vika stared at her. “What is it?”

“What is what?”

“The thing you’re keeping from me.”

“I’m not—”

“Renata.” Vika curled her fingers. Was it a threat? What would she do to Renata if she didn’t tell her what was in the cup? Or worse, what would she do to Nikolai?

Renata’s heart rose into her throat. “The knife,” she blurted in her panic over Nikolai. “The leaves that form the knife are close to the inner circle—the bottom—of the cup.”

“Which means?” Vika’s fingers tensed.

“It means death is coming soon.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Beneath one of the bridges that traversed Ekaterinsky Canal, a hooded figure loitered, listening. She kept her distance from the girls discussing their tea leaves, for the woman stank of rot, like scraps of meat left out in the garbage on a midsummer day. But because there was no one else at the pumpkin bakery at this early hour, she was still close enough to hear.

After the steppe, Aizhana had traveled to Moscow. There, she lurked outside restaurants and horse races and anywhere she could find nobility, hoping for a glimpse of her son. Of course, she did not know what he looked like. So she’d done the only thing she could think of—stalk the aristocracy and hope she would recognize her boy, if only because she was his mother.

But then word reached Moscow of the wonders springing forth in the capital city, and Aizhana knew the source must be Nikolai. From the stories her village had told of his powers, it had to be him.

Aizhana rushed to Saint Petersburg then, her putrefied heart swelling with pride. She tracked him down to a house along Ekaterinsky Canal, and it was here that she had hidden, hoping for a glimpse of her son.

But now, as she eavesdropped on the girls, a different horror set in. For it was apparent Nikolai was involved in a game of sorts, a competition, from which only one enchanter could emerge victorious. And the tsar would choose the winner.

Aizhana had to lean against the walls of the dank underpass for support as her weak leg crumpled beneath her. Her son could die when she had only just found him. Was this the purpose for which the noblewoman had purchased Nikolai from the tribe? To enter him as a pawn in a game for the tsar’s amusement?

Aizhana’s blood boiled, threatening to rupture her brittle veins.

But then her rage settled at a simmer. It is because of me that he was lost in the first place. I was not strong enough. I nearly let Death take me. Nikolai’s misfortunes stem from my failure as his mother.

She pulled herself deeper into the shadows beneath the bridge. She was not worthy of meeting her son now.

It did not mean, however, that she could not make herself so.

As flies began to swarm around her, attracted to her stench, Aizhana adjusted the hood around her face and smiled a rotten, gap-toothed smile.

I will find you again, Nikolai. As soon as I redeem myself as your mother.

And she had a plan. She would kill the tsar.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The next day, Pasha stood in the archery yard with a bow and a quiver of arrows. The weaponry master, Maxim, had cleared not only the archery range, but also the entire practice arena where the Tsar’s Guard ordinarily trained and sparred, because Pasha’s aim was so accurate, he needed twice the normal distance in which to practice.

“Ready?” Maxim hollered.

“Ready,” Pasha said.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Your Imperial Highness.”

“So little faith in me, Maxim.” Pasha grinned. “I said I’m ready. Now shoot.”

Maxim shook his head but lifted his bow. He pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back. He aimed it straight at Pasha. “All right, Your Imperial Highness. Ready?”

“Yes! Shoot!”

“I pray to the Lord you know what you’re doing.” Maxim aimed again, making sure his line was directly to Pasha’s chest, took a deep breath, and let an arrow fly.

Pasha drew back his own arrow and shot it straight at the incoming one. He knocked Maxim’s out of the air, and the arrows clattered to the dirt below.

Maxim’s jaw dropped so far, his gray beard met the armor on his chest.

“Again,” Pasha said, grinning even harder than before. “I like this trick.”

“Your Imperial Highness, I can’t. If I strike you, the tsar will have my head.”

At that moment, Yuliana appeared on the gravel path leading to the archery range. “What nonsense are you up to that would cause Maxim to lose his head?” The way she moved always appeared elegant but sounded like an angry stampede of wildebeests, even when she wasn’t angry or irritated—which, to be honest, was rare. But she wasn’t upset now; although her footsteps were vehement, the tone of her question was woven through with genuine curiosity. Pasha’s archery practice was one of the few settings where he and his sister were both consistently pleasant.

Well, Pasha was always pleasant. But yes, watching him shoot arrows somehow soothed Yuliana’s ruffled edges.

Maxim bowed to Yuliana.

Pasha wiped the sweat off his brow. “Oh, nothing. Maxim’s being overly cautious. He refuses to shoot any more arrows at me.”