“Will you tell me if that ever changes?” he said, his voice a touch hoarse.

She frowned. “I doubt it will.”

“But if it does?”

She looked up at Pasha, and it took everything in him not to bend down and steal a kiss. “Yes,” she said. “If it changes, I will tell you.”

He sighed again.

“You have a lot weighing on you,” Vika said. “I’ll leave you to enjoy the island and sort through your troubles. I hope for the best for your mother.”

“You don’t have to go—”

But she had already vanished. How? Now Pasha allowed his hand to run through his hair. It was the third time in an hour she had startled him.

He dashed to the other end of the island to the pier, and there she was, already halfway across the bay on her leaf. He watched her all the way until she made it to the opposite shore.

She was unlike any girl he had ever known. And likely would ever know. His nerves were still on edge from their encounter.

He started to head back toward the main promenade, perhaps to sit on the steppe bench or the Ovchinin Island one. Vika was right. Pasha did have a great deal to ponder. But as he walked, he turned to look at the water one last time. She was gone, but her presence was not.

Tied to the dock was a gift. His own enchanted leaf.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

In his study, the tsar pored over his maps of the Crimea, as well as his generals’ most recent reports on the activities of the Ottomans. It was as Yuliana had warned. He should have made this trip south a while ago.

There was a gentle knock from the hall. Followed by a cough, weaker yet louder than the knock. The tsar hurried to open the door.

The tsarina smiled and coughed again into her handkerchief.

“Elizabeth, my dear,” the tsar said, offering his arm and leading her to the armchair by his desk. “Why are you here? It’s late. You ought to be in bed.”

She wore a white dressing gown with lace at the collar and sleeves. Her hair was swept up in a loose bun. When younger, she’d been known as one of the most beautiful women in Europe. But even now, older and ill, she was arresting. “I just wanted to see you, love,” she said.

The tsar kissed her on the top of her head. He had disregarded her for decades; they had married too young, when he was fifteen and she only fourteen, and the tsar had openly had many affairs. But age had worn him down—as had politics and too many wars—and in the end, it was Elizabeth he wanted. She had been regal and patient through everything, and when he came back to her, she forgave him his trespasses right away. The tsar was not so kind to himself.

“I am looking forward to the Sea of Azov with you,” he said.

“As am I, love. You deserve the rest.”

“There is no rest for the tsar. But at least I will be with you.”

Elizabeth nodded. But then she coughed into her handkerchief again.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes . . .” She wheezed as she drew in a shallow breath and devolved into another fit of coughing so deep, blood sputtered from her throat.

“You need the doctors—”

“No.” Elizabeth waved her handkerchief at him. “I’ll be fine. I only need you and the sun in the South.” She leaned her cheek on the tsar’s arm. “Will you help me to my room, love?” Her voice frayed at the edges.

He softened. “Of course, dear.” He pulled her up to her feet, but she stumbled and collapsed against him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The tsar shook his head. Then he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and slipped the other behind her knees. She had lost so much weight, he lifted her as easily as if she weren’t even there.

What a wicked twist of fate that Elizabeth might be ripped away from him when he had only now begun to appreciate her. He needed to get her to the South as soon as possible. It was the only hope of saving her.

As he carried her out of the study and into the hall, the captain of his Guard fell in line behind him. The tsar didn’t even look at him as he gave his order: “Get me Nikolai Karimov and Vika Andreyeva. Immediately.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The guard led Vika through the Winter Palace, past all the paintings and mirrors and wall upon wall of windows, all dark at this hour of night, until they reached a door flanked by more guards. They nodded at the soldier who escorted her, and he opened the doors and let her in.

Vika’s stomach had been in knots since the moment the guard appeared at her flat, and she’d hardly breathed the entire carriage ride here. The streets of Saint Petersburg had passed in a blur of nondescript night, and all she could think was that the Game was over. Either she or Nikolai was done. The tsar would declare a winner and a loser tonight.

But as she stepped into the room in the palace, some of the tension in her body eased. For this was no stern throne room. With its peach silk drapes and pale-yellow furniture and the scent of roses perfuming the air, it seemed completely opposite of a place from which the tsar would sentence one of the enchanters to die.

“You may sit until the others arrive,” the guard said.

Vika didn’t feel like sitting. Although the surroundings placated her a little, her nerves still jangled. But she sat on a daffodil-colored settee, because the guard wore a sword on his hip that she was quite certain he would use should she prove to be anything other than compliant.

Vika listened to the small clock in the nearby cabinet tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tock.

Three hundred and fifty-two excruciating ticks and tocks later, Nikolai arrived.

“Vika,” he said as the guard who’d escorted him closed the door to the room. Nikolai’s face was composed, elegant as ever, but the slight quaver in his voice betrayed him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Vika said, trying to lighten the sense of impending doom before it crushed them both. “You manage to dress impeccably, even in the middle of the night. Although I can’t say I’m surprised.”

His carefully controlled rigidity cracked, and he gave her his shy smile. “You look lovely, as well.”

“I thought I might attempt to be presentable if I’m to die.”

Nikolai’s smile wilted. Vika bit the inside of her cheek. So much for witty banter saving this night.