"That will not be necessary, thank you. Nikolai and I will manage on our own." He glanced at his Guard, who had gathered nearby. Gavriil cleared his throat. "No, Gavriil, I am not going to allow you to explore the island first. I'm quite sure it's harmless."

"I am sure it is as well, Your Imperial Highness. The tsar ordered a regiment to ensure its safety shortly after sunrise this morning. The island is small enough that they were able to scour it from coast to coast. I was merely about to suggest that I accompany you to sh.o.r.e, just in case."

Pasha scowled. Nikolai knew he didn't like that his father's men had beaten him to the island, especially since Pasha had declared it off-limits. And even more so, Pasha hated that his father could antic.i.p.ate that he would come to the island first thing. Pasha didn't like to think himself so predictable.

"All right, Gavriil, you can come with us-but only you. The skiff will capsize if there are more than three of us in it."

Gavriil boarded the skiff first to verify that it was st.u.r.dy-Pasha scowled again at being handled so gently-and once its fitness for the tsesarevich was confirmed, Pasha and Nikolai were permitted to climb aboard. The boat rocked with the weight of all three of them, but once they were settled in, it was stable. The ferry's crew lowered the skiff into the water.

"I can row," Nikolai said.

"I'll do it," Pasha said.

"Your Imperial Highness," Gavriil said, "either Nikolai or I can-"

"No." Pasha grabbed the oars. "I said, I'll do it."

Nikolai relented. Pasha was much better at sea than he was, anyway. After all, Pasha had been on ships to Stockholm and Amsterdam, not to mention he'd sailed on the Sea of Azov. And where had Nikolai been all his life? On the ground, following yaks on the steppe, or delivering packages on the streets of Saint Petersburg. Nikolai sighed. It wasn't even a contest.

Nikolai leaned back and focused on conjuring a shield around their little boat, in case the Neva decided to grow violent again.

Pasha's strokes were long and strong, pushing and pulling the water in a steady rhythm. Swish, swash. Swish, swash. Swish, swash. The cadence almost hypnotized Nikolai back to sleep. He was still so tired from creating the Masquerade and Imagination Boxes, and from staying up all night at the ball.

He didn't get the chance to doze off, though, for he needed to keep the shield intact, and a few minutes later, they were at the island.

As soon as the skiff pulled close to the rocky sh.o.r.e, Gavriil jumped out to tie the boat to a maple on the coast. The tree was fully leafed and green. Eternal summer, indeed.

Pasha climbed out next, and finally, Nikolai. All three of them stood with mouths agape as they took in the scenery.

It was, as Nikolai had guessed, very much like the Summer Garden in Saint Petersburg. The breeze from the bay rustled through trees and pink flowering bushes. The burbling of water indicated fountains or waterfalls in the distance. Warblers chirped and ducks quacked.

And everywhere in the air was her magic.

Nikolai closed his eyes and felt the tingle of it on his skin, like a sprinkle of rain or a dusting of snow. Her enchantment pulsed in the ground beneath his boots. And he could smell it in the wind, the scent of honeysuckle mixed with cinnamon, the same fragrance that wafted from Vika's hair when she danced. He felt hot and cold again, found and lost, like he'd felt with her in his arms at the ball.

"Are you asleep again, Nikolai?"

His eyes fluttered open, and Pasha stood in front of him, grinning. How long had he been there? Nikolai really had lost track of s.p.a.ce and time.

"Gavriil has gone off to inspect and secure the coast. But I thought we might head inside." Pasha pointed at the wide gravel path that led into the park. It was a long promenade lined with oaks and shaded overhead by their leaves.

"Yes, of course," Nikolai said. "Lead the way."

They followed the path and entered the boulevard of trees. Everywhere they looked, there were larks and wrens, peeping a melody that sounded almost like an old Russian folk song. If Nikolai listened too closely, the song disintegrated into random notes, but if he softened his focus, the tune came back together again, like the whistling of panpipes and the strumming of a balalaika.

"This is a wonderland," Pasha said.

Nikolai could only nod, for he did not have the words to express how true a statement that was. For every leaf that Pasha saw, Nikolai also saw every stem and vein on that leaf. For every pond that Pasha marveled at, Nikolai sensed every droplet of water that filled it. A boulder was not merely a boulder, but a rock face full of detailed crags and slivers of crystal. None of it was as simple as it seemed, and it had all been conjured out of nothing.

"This island is the best enchantment yet," Pasha said.

Nikolai suppressed a grimace. Ever since dancing with Vika, it had been harder to think of the Game as a compet.i.tion. But here was proof once more that it was, and she had bested him yet again.

The boys walked deeper into the park. It was easy to maintain their bearings; like the Summer Garden, the island was laid out geometrically, with paths running parallel and perpendicular. Unlike the Summer Garden, however, Nikolai noticed an absence of statues and fountains. In fact, there was nothing resembling the man-made here-no benches, no sculptures, no columns and iron-grille fences. Perhaps because that was not Vika's strength.

But it was his.

Nikolai's scar seared against his skin, and it suddenly occurred to him that the lack of a dock and the dearth of statuary were deliberate. It was an open invitation for him to play. This island was not Vika's alone; it could also be Nikolai's.

He looked overhead to the canopy of leaves and smiled.

But then his smile faded. Had she created this island for them to collaborate? Or was it a trap, waiting to be sprung? Nikolai might have forgotten about the Game the other night at the ball, but it was possible she had not.

No, it was likely she had not.

Pasha waved to him from an outcropping that overlooked the Neva Bay to Saint Petersburg. Beside him rose a pillar of rock shaped like an enormous candle.

"Hey-o, Nikolai, come see the view."

Nikolai sighed. "I'll be right there."

He trudged over to where Pasha stood. But he did not take in the bay or Saint Petersburg. All he could focus on was the pillar of rock.

It looked just like a candle that had been snuffed out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

Since work at the Zakrevsky household had slowed to a tortoise's crawl, Renata was permitted to set up a tea stall next to Ludmila's pumpkin kiosk to make some extra money. Her station consisted of a simple table and several large copper samovars and a set of barely chipped cups and saucers Renata had salvaged when the countess declared them wanting. For a few kopecks, Renata would sell Ludmila's customers a cup of tea to go with their pastry. For a few more coins, she would read their leaves.

As soon as she opened her stall, the first customer arrived. "I understand you read leaves," she said.

Renata gaped at her. It was the lightning girl, Lady Snow, the other enchanter in Nikolai's Game. She tried to look Vika in the eyes but had to turn away. There was something too vibrant about them. Too green. Too intense. "Y-yes, miss. I read leaves." She fumbled with setting up the samovar.

"Will you read mine?"

"Uh . . ." She could not seem to form a coherent sentence. Although she and Vika were close to the same age, Vika's confidence and the way she carried herself made her infinitely more formidable than Renata could ever be.

"You were the girl at the ball with Nikolai, were you not? In the peac.o.c.k gown. I recognize your braids. They're very intricate."

"Yes, that was me."

Vika reached over to help Renata with the stubborn spigot on the samovar. "There. That ought to be better."

"Thank you. Your dress was, er, exquisite."

Vika beamed. "Thank you. I was lucky to have such a gown. Now, if I may inquire about the tea?"

"Oh, yes. I . . ." Renata could think of no excuse for not serving Vika. It also seemed unwise to defy her. She grabbed one of the clean cups and a saucer and filled it with tea.

"Come join me." Vika glanced behind her as if to confirm there was no one else waiting for Renata's services. Renata instinctively looked down the street, toward the Zakrevsky house, as if Nikolai could come to her rescue. But he couldn't. He was on the new island with the tsesarevich. She followed Vika to one of the tables by the ca.n.a.l that Ludmila had set up for her patrons. Renata waited until Vika was seated before she herself sat.

"I'm Vika Andreyeva, by the way."

Renata stood up again and curtsied.

"I hardly think that's necessary. It's not as if I'm the grand princess. What is your name?"

"Renata. Renata Galygina."

"It's nice to meet you, Renata. Please do sit."

She obeyed.

"Are you . . ." Vika spun her cup back and forth on the saucer. "Are you Nikolai's betrothed?"

Renata's eyes widened. "Me? Oh, no! I wish I . . . I mean, no, miss. He's my friend, but I'm a servant in the Zakrevsky household. Nikolai would never marry someone like me."

"I'm not so sure of that." Vika tilted her head, as if to get a better, deeper look at Renata. "He seems rather fond of you. He took you to the ball." Her voice lifted at the end, almost like a question tinged with the hope that Renata would deny it.

Which, of course, she had to, not only because it was the truth, but also because Renata was trained to speak honestly to her superiors. "No, miss," she said. "I came to the ball on my own. I wanted to . . ." The words drained away, along with the color in Renata's face.

Vika seemed to relax into her chair. "Let me guess. Keep an eye on me?" She smiled kindly.

Renata stared at the table and focused on the floral pattern of the tablecloth.

"You know about the Game," Vika said.

Renata considered hiding under her table. She had promised Nikolai she wouldn't tell anyone about the Game. Of course, her promise probably did not cover telling the other enchanter, since Vika already knew, but as Renata nodded, she still felt she had breached her word.

"I understand if you don't want to read my leaves," Vika said.

"I think I already know what they will say. I think you do, too."

"That either Nikolai or I will die in the Game." She cast her eyes downward to the table.

"Yes."

"I suppose I was hoping this Game would be different from the ones in the past. That perhaps the tsar somehow wouldn't have to choose only one of us." Vika looked back up. "I was hoping for a miracle."

Renata was, as well. She wanted so badly to read Vika's leaves, and yet, what was the point? If she already knew what they would say . . .

But morbid curiosity latched onto her, and she reached across the table to take Vika's cup. This would be her only chance to see into Nikolai's future again. He had refused to let her read his leaves after she'd read so much darkness in them the last time. Perhaps Vika's cup would shed some light.

The leaves were grouped in three small cl.u.s.ters. Three separate but related prophecies. At the top of the cup were two curved leaves that almost formed a heart, but for a third leaf that jutted into it. It represented love-possibly from a lover, but possibly from parents, siblings, or friends-and it foretold that love for Vika would always come with suffering. But Renata didn't tell her so. It seemed cruel. And, selfishly, Renata didn't want to say anything about love. She didn't want Vika to think about the word "love" when she was asking about the Game and Nikolai.

So Renata skipped those leaves and went to the next cl.u.s.ter, 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 ca.n.a.l 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.