As the carriage approached Tsarskoe Selo, Vika fell asleep against him, and Pasha was loath to wake her. Ludmila had told him of Vika’s nightmares, the constant tossing and turning and unconscious wailing. So when the coachman slowed the carriage and inquired whether Pasha wished to stop, he commanded the coachman to continue onward. They would take a circuitous route around the nearby villages, then proceed slowly home to Saint Petersburg.

Pasha watched the countryside fly by. Occasionally, villagers would come out at the sound of the approaching horses, and when they saw the double-headed eagle on the carriage, they would fall to their knees in the grass and the dirt. Children chased after the coach. Gavriil tossed coins for them onto the road as the coach rambled away.

When they were almost back at the outskirts of Saint Petersburg, Vika’s head rolled on Pasha’s shoulder. He caught her gently before she slipped down, and he repositioned her so she could continue to sleep. For a moment, he thought about kissing her, maybe just on the top of her head as she slept. But then he scowled at himself for even thinking of doing it without her permission.

And then Vika’s hair fell to the side and exposed her bare skin.

Pasha gasped. She writhed as something glowed orange on her collarbone. Two crossed wands, searingly bright as if they were the tip of a branding iron. Nearly invisible wisps of smoke floated up from the wands, and a faint hint of smoke that Pasha had not noticed before lingered in the air.

The wands were the same as the ones in his book.

So it really is true, he thought. And for a second, Pasha grinned as if he’d shot a hundred partridges in one day. Nikolai had not wanted to believe him, but Pasha had been right. For once, he’d known something Nikolai hadn’t: the Crown’s Game was real.

But then beside him, Vika gritted her teeth, and as the scar glowed brighter, she thrashed as if she were caught in the throes of a diabolical dream. How long had it been her turn—how long had it been burning—that it hurt her like that?

Reality rushed at Pasha, and he saw Vika through a whole new lens. One in which she was actually fragile. Because if the Crown’s Game was real, it meant Vika truly could die at any moment.

He didn’t want to lose her.

“I’ll find a way to end the Game,” Pasha said aloud. “I swear on my mother’s throne, I will.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

The Magpie and the Fox was crowded as usual, but Nikolai had sent word earlier of Pasha’s request to meet at the tavern, and Nursultan had reserved their table in the back. Nikolai arrived first—it happened on occasion when Pasha had to take an alternate route to evade his Guard—and Nikolai sipped on his beer while he waited.

He had just begun to take a bite of bread and smoked salmon when Pasha slipped into their booth. He was clean shaven this time, almost entirely himself but for the spectacles on his nose and the Wellington hat on his head. He promptly removed both as he settled into the darkness of their corner.

“I saw her today,” Pasha said.

“Hello to you, too.” Nikolai set down his bread and picked up the cold bottle of vodka Nursultan had left on the table. “Saw whom?”

“Vika. Her father passed away, and Ludmila asked me to comfort her. I took her on a carriage ride.”

Nikolai paused mid-pour and missed the shot glass, and vodka spilled and dripped onto his trousers. He didn’t move. Sergei had died? Was this why Vika hadn’t taken her turn?

“When did it happen?” he asked. The calmness in his voice was 100 percent pretense.

“The drive?”

“No. Her father passing.”

“A fortnight ago.”

Exactly when Vika had fainted. And lost her bracelet. They had to be related. Nikolai poured a new shot of vodka for himself. He didn’t even stop to pour one for Pasha or mumble a perfunctory toast; he just gulped it down and chased it with half a stein of beer.

“What’s gotten into you?” Pasha said.

“Nothing.”

Pasha shook his head, as if shrugging this off as another of Nikolai’s brooding episodes. “I also confirmed she’s part of the Crown’s Game.” Pasha pushed aside the platter of bread and fish and shoved his copy of Russian Mystics and Tsars onto the table. Did he carry that encyclopedia with him everywhere?

Nikolai considered drinking straight from the bottle. And yet he took Pasha’s bait and asked the question he knew Pasha wanted him to ask. “How?”

Pasha flipped open the book to a page he had marked with a length of gold ribbon. There was an illustration of two wands crossed over each other. “Because the enchanters are branded with this when the Game begins. And when Vika fell asleep on me—”

“She fell asleep on you?” Nikolai clenched his fists, and the glasses began to rattle.

Pasha glanced up from the book. The glasses stopped shaking. He furrowed his brow. “Er, yes. She fell asleep on me in the carriage. She had her head on my shoulder, and when her hair moved, it exposed her collarbone. . . .”

Nikolai closed his eyes, as if doing so could undo everything Pasha was saying.

“And right there on her skin was this mark of the wands.” He tapped the book. “Glowing orange and actually burning, no less.”

Nikolai leaned against the high wooden back of the booth.

“Amazing and horrifying,” Pasha said.

There was nothing but the noise from the tavern. Men singing a bawdy drinking song. Shouts to Nursultan to bring more pickles. A fistfight at one of the tables.

“Come now, Nikolai. You honestly have no comment? I spent the afternoon consoling the girl I’m in love with, and I confirmed that she might die as well. At least congratulate me on my detective work, or offer your condolences, I don’t care. Something.”

“I congratulate you on your sad lot.”

“Oh, don’t be such a curmudgeon.” Pasha poured himself a shot of vodka and gulped it down. He bit off a chunk of bread to take off the vodka’s astringent edge. “I thought you’d be more supportive. Or are you jealous? You’re not interested in Vika, are you? You danced with her only once at the masquerade.”

“I’m not jealous.” Nikolai had lost track of how many lies he’d told Pasha by this point. He knew only that he was buried deep in them, and he was suffocating.

“I implore you again to help me stop the other enchanter. You’re resourceful. Surely you can think of some way out of the Crown’s Game.”