"I convinced Cook that you needed some cheering up, and that a nice lunch might do the trick."

"You're really too kind to me."

"I know." Renata smiled as she cleared a s.p.a.ce on Nikolai's cluttered desk, which was littered with crumpled papers full of discarded ideas for the Game. She folded a tablecloth to fit on the small square of free s.p.a.ce.

"Will you join me?" Nikolai asked.

"I already had my piroshki and cheese in the kitchen."

"I refuse to eat if you don't."

She wrinkled her nose and flattened a crease in the tablecloth on his desk. "Don't be difficult."

"I'm not. I'm being courteous."

"The countess would have my head if she found out I ate any of this food."

"The countess is indisposed. By a magical cyclone."

Renata smirked.

Nikolai set down the tray on the tablecloth. "After you, mademoiselle."

She hesitated.

"It's quite all right, Renata. I promise. You won't turn into a frog if you eat something."

"It's not that . . . it's . . . I've never eaten anything prepared so beautifully before. But you wouldn't understand."

"Believe me, I do." And he did. He still recalled his first formal dinner in this house after Galina had taken him from the steppe. Important-Someone-or-Other had been visiting from Moscow, and the Zakrevskys-the count had still been alive then-had served a feast of soups and oysters and roasted pheasant, so different from the spa.r.s.e helpings of tough mutton Nikolai had grown up on. But what he remembered most was the crme brlee, a decadent custard topped with a delicate pane of caramelized sugar "gla.s.s." It was the most heavenly thing Nikolai had ever seen, let alone tasted, at that point in his young life.

"Have dessert first," he said to Renata. "And eat it with your hands. Galina isn't around."

She smiled shyly, as if he had read in her mind exactly what she had been wanting to do. Then she picked up an apple tart and bit in.

Nikolai did not, though. He wasn't hungry. He hadn't been hungry since the oath. He'd eaten, of course, but only because he needed the energy to function, not because he found any pleasure in the consumption of his meals.

Instead, he walked back up to his window and unwedged Galina's knife from the sill. Then he charmed open his desk drawer, unlocked the enchanted hidden panel he'd constructed within, and secured the knife back inside.

He rubbed the back of his neck. It was something he'd done for as long as he could remember, whenever he was stressed. It helped him focus. Although it was questionable whether it was doing any good now.

"All I can think about is how ugly the city is," Nikolai said, "and how they ought to dress up the grandstands for Pasha's birthday, and how Nevsky Prospect, one of the supposed gems of Saint Petersburg, ought to have been repainted. I should be focusing on the Game, but my mind keeps wandering to stupid details about birthdays."

The scar beneath Nikolai's collarbone flared at the mention of the Game. It had been burning hotter every hour, as if impatient that Nikolai had already taken three days after the oath and not made his move. But this first play would set the tone for the entire Game, and he wanted to get it right.

"Aren't you supposed to do something for the tsesarevich's birthday?" Renata said. "You could repaint Nevsky Prospect as your move. You'd kill two birds with one stone."

"I'm not supposed to be killing birds. I'm supposed to be killing the girl."

"Her name is Vika."

"What?" Nikolai flinched.

"Her name is Vika. I overheard the countess saying it to herself in her rooms before you left for Bolshebnoie Duplo."

"I . . . I don't like the girl having a name." Nikolai shook his head, as if he could shake her name right out of his skull. It made it harder to hurt her if she had a name. He could only kill her if he forgot she was a person. Maybe. Because he knew where she lived, and she didn't know his ident.i.ty. He could go to Ovchinin Island and find her house. Then when she least expected it, he could cause it to cave in on her. Or he could charm her pillow to smother her in her sleep. Impale her with a garden hoe.

The thoughts turned Nikolai a dismal shade of green.

Besides, it would never work. The girl would have cast protections on her home-if she hadn't already relocated to Saint Petersburg-and she had already displayed far greater skill than Nikolai. And that had been in the woods when she had thought no one was watching, when her life was not even at stake.

But at the same time, Nikolai did not intend to lie down and accept loss without a fight. He had endured Galina's tyranny in preparation for this. All that suffering needed to be worth it. If he won, he could finally be free of Galina, and he could finally have a place where he was respected and where he belonged. No more bartering for cloth or sharpening other people's swords. He would be the tsar's adviser.

Not to mention, Nikolai had no desire to die.

Renata put the remainder of the apple tart back on its plate and wiped her fingers on a cloth napkin. Then she walked back to Nikolai at the window. "You don't have it in you to hurt the other enchanter." She pulled his hands apart from each other. He hadn't realized he'd been scrubbing at them again, still plagued by the memory of the tiger and the vipers and the lorises. So much blood.

"The Game ends when only one enchanter remains," he said.

"Or until one proves he is better than the other. You don't have to kill her. The Game will take care of that as long as there's a clear winner."

Nikolai retracted his hands from Renata's. He leaned against the windowsill. It was true he wasn't required to attack the other enchanter. But . . .

"I'll only have more turns in the Game if the girl doesn't kill me first." Nikolai shuddered as he imagined his body pierced by hundreds of fiery arrows. Or spontaneously bursting into flame. Which would also happen if her moves were simply better than his. "What do my tea leaves instruct me to do?"

"Tea leaves never give instructions. Only observations. And I haven't read your leaves since the time you forgot to lock your door."

The very corner of Nikolai's mouth smiled. But only the corner.

Renata reached up and brushed her finger against his dimple. She had always told him it looked like an accidental divot chipped out of the smooth planes of his face, for he only had one, not a matching pair. "There. I missed this dimple. This is a tiny bit of the Nikolai I know." Her finger stayed for an extra second before it dropped away.

Nikolai tried not to think about the way she lingered. Instead, he tugged at his collar, where the scar seemed to threaten to burn through his cravat.

He could reface all the buildings on Nevsky Prospect as part of his move. Superficially, it would be a pretty gift to the city for Pasha's birthday, and hopefully the tsar would appreciate the effort it would take to execute such detailed splendor.

It had to be more than just beautiful buildings, though. But what? Something to help himself in the Game.

Nevsky Prospect was the main thoroughfare through Saint Petersburg. Nikolai didn't know where the girl was living, but surely she would make appearances on the street or in the shops there with relative frequency, wouldn't she? Most of Saint Petersburg did.

Gargoyles! he thought. He could install gargoyles or something else discreet on the buildings, and then they could take care of the girl. If stone soldiers did the dirty work, it wasn't really Nikolai killing her. Was it?

"Nikolai?" Renata asked.

He broke away from his planning. He'd forgotten Renata was still there.

"Yes?"

"You looked . . . like you'd been enveloped by a storm cloud."

"Sorry." He charmed an apple tart to float to him, and he ate it, although he didn't pay enough attention to taste it.

"So you're all right?"

Nikolai brushed a stray flake of pastry off his collar. "No, I'm not all right. I'm not sure I'll ever be. But I'll do what I have to. It's what I've always done."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Vika dreamed that they were at Tikho Mountain, just outside Bolshebnoie Duplo again. It was hushed and hot outside, and so bright she could hardly see as she squinted in the white light. The tsar and his Guard had not yet arrived, so it was only Vika, Father, Galina, and the other enchanter. Vika stood in her shimmering shroud; her opponent was a silhouette, just as he had been before.

In the background, Galina had set up a small table, complete with lace cloth, several fine china dishes, and a set for tea. She nibbled on a croissant spread with strawberry jam.

Father pulled out a chair, its legs somehow squawking on the dirt of Tikho Mountain. He winked at Vika-the kind of wink that only worked in dreams-as if he knew the squawking would irk his sister. "I don't know how you can eat those pastries." He wrinkled his nose at his sister's croissant. "Have you any black bread?"

Galina cringed. "Honestly, why you insist on pretending you are ordinary country folk, I'll never understand."

"And why you insist on being so pretentious," Sergei said, "I will never understand."

Not far from Vika but out of Galina's earshot, the other enchanter chuckled quietly under his breath. His shoulders shook with laughter, and his shadow top hat tumbled onto the ground. It turned immediately from black to brown from the puff of dust.

How did dirt cling to a shadow, when the shadow wasn't really there?

Vika reached down to pick up the hat. It felt real in her hands, like silk and ribbon and rounded edges, and yet, it felt like nothing was there at all. It weighed as much as reality, and as little as fantasy.

She wondered what would happen if she put his hat on her head. Even just in her hands, his hat-his power-warmed her, like mulled cider on a winter's day.

And then she wondered what would happen if she touched the shadow boy himself. If she ran a finger along the sharp line of his jaw. If she touched the scar beneath his collarbone. If she pressed her mouth against his shadow lips . . .

She flushed hot at the thought. Much, much hotter than mulled cider.

And then Vika bolted awake. The sun had just begun its upward creep into the sky, but the scar throbbed against her skin as if only just branded inside the wooden caves of Bolshebnoie Duplo. Oh, thank goodness it was the heat of the wands, not the heat of blush and infatuation, that had seeped into her dream. She was not as silly as her subconscious would suggest.

And then she realized that if her scar was burning . . . the Game!

Vika leaped off the sofa on which she slept-after several days in Saint Petersburg, she was still not accustomed to the luxury of the mattress in the bedroom and much preferred the sofa-and scanned the third-floor flat she had rented on Nevsky Prospect. The scar flared again, which meant it was her turn. The other enchanter had made his move, and although Vika didn't know what it was, she was immediately on guard. Sergei had warned her that his sister's student was likely trained as a killer. He'd try to end the Game quickly.

Was the front door locked? Yes.

Any movement in the drawing room: in the corners, under the card table, behind the chaise longue? No.

Was there magic in the air?

Yes.

Vika's heart thundered in her chest, but she tried to breathe as quietly as she could.

She crept down the hallway toward the rest of the apartment. She'd used the money she found in Sergei's hiding spot (under the valerian root in his garden) to pay for the flat. It was small by Saint Petersburg standards, but twice the living s.p.a.ce she and Sergei had at home. And it had seemed perfect when she found it, full of eccentric mementos from the owners' trips abroad, some so strange-like the taxidermied elk head wearing a Viking helmet or the garishly colored Venetian mask with mouths where the eye holes should be-that it seemed possible they were enchanted themselves.

But now, living in an apartment full of oddities didn't seem like such a good idea. Any one of them could harbor a trap. She tiptoed to the first bedroom. Were there signs of an intruder?

But the bed was perfectly made, its satin sheets shiny in the early morning rays. The hat rack stood guard on the other side of the room. The dressing table, with its gilded bronze mirror and dozens of bottles of perfumes left by the flat's owners, seemed as frivolous as ever.

The wands on Vika's chest throbbed again. She slunk down the hall to the other bedroom, but it also appeared undisturbed. She slipped into the kitchen, her eyes darting from the stove to the oven to the cabinets decorated with scenes from Russian fairy tales, but saw no one and nothing alarming, other than the feathered talons that served as the dining table's legs. Nothing, that is, except for the sense that there was magic other than her own floating about, as if the air were several particles heavier than it ought to be.

She flung open the windows in the kitchen. "Out!" she commanded the air, to cleanse it of anything dangerous her opponent might have planted. But instead, air even more enchanted tried to push in from outside.

"What? No!" Vika pa.s.sed her hands over her head and up and down her body, fortifying the invisible shield she had cast around herself as she slept. She had protected the apartment from his enchantments, but his magic was trying to bully its way in. She doubled the charm around the window.

And then Vika saw the building across the street from her own. When she had gone to bed, that building had been a faded gray. Now it was a delicate powder blue, and its white trim, previously dull, had taken on a pearly tone.

If it had been only one home, she would have thought nothing of it. But she scanned the visible length of Nevsky Prospect, where the buildings, like many in the largest cities of Europe, were built right up against one another, and every single facade seemed a part of a candy wonderland. There were yellows soft as lemon cream, and greens like apples for pie. Purple like lavender marshmallow, and pink like rosewater taffy. Vika gasped. The buildings along the boulevard were the most breathtaking thing she had ever seen.

"This is his first move?" she said to herself. As if to confirm, the wands beneath her collarbone heated up, and she gasped again.

But the pain dissipated after a few seconds, and soon Vika's shoulders relaxed. She let down the shield around herself as well. If it was her turn now, she needn't worry about being attacked. And then it sank in that her opponent's first move had been a peaceful one for the tsesarevich's birthday. Vika's heart beat out of rhythm at the hope that the other enchanter was less bloodthirsty than Sergei had a.s.sumed.

Then she noticed the tiny statues on the buildings, and she immediately cast the shield back around herself. The statues were stone birds, so small they could easily be mistaken for real sparrows hopping on the ledges and rooftops every ten feet or so. They hadn't been there before, had they? Or was she just noticing them now because the entire boulevard had been brightened and was actually worth looking at?

She had to suspect the worst. As much as she'd wanted to believe that her opponent had laid down an amicable move, that someone as elegant as he wouldn't resort to violence, the Game would in fact end upon one of their deaths. And there was something about the way he carried himself, she thought. Mesmerizing, but subtly perilous. Perhaps the stone birds were enchanted to attack as soon as Vika appeared on the street. But would they be able to do that if her opponent didn't know who she was? She'd kept up her shroud diligently all the way home from Bolshebnoie Duplo. And Vika certainly wouldn't be able to charm something into tracking an unknown person.

Then again, the other enchanter could be exponentially more skilled than she. It was an unnerving possibility.

However, she couldn't remain in her apartment for the rest of the Game. She would have to go out and face the birds, whatever they were. Her father had prepared her well for this. He had taught her how to defend herself, from using the wind to blow dirt into a bear's eyes to creating ice barricades for protection from flaming trees.

So Vika fortified the shield around herself and left the flat, taking the stairs one slow step at a time. When she reached the first floor, she opened the building's door only a crack and poked her foot outside, like a tentative dancer testing the stage.

She waited. The stone birds did not fly off the ledges at her shoe. She slipped the rest of her body out the door, turning her head from left to right to take in all her potential avian a.s.sailants.

And then they attacked.

They dived from every direction-north, south, east, west-like shrapnel magnetized especially for her. The first ones slammed into Vika's invisible shield, and she shrieked upon their violent impact. But she held her shield steady, and they ricocheted off, shattering on the ground and against the building walls.

Then hundreds-no, thousands-more stone birds circled overhead, calculating, and Vika knew she wouldn't be able to hold the shield if they all came at her at once.

Heaven help me, I need my own birds.

She jammed her thumb and index finger in her mouth and whistled so shrilly, a dozen of the closest stone sparrows shattered. Their ranks, however, were quickly filled in by others.

Come on, come on, come on, Vika thought. Where are my birds? She fended off another wave of suicidal stone birds smashing into her shield. Each collision rattled through her magic and into her bones.

But a minute later, a dark cloud appeared in the sky, high above the misleadingly cheerful pastels of Nevsky Prospect. And then another minute later, the cloud revealed itself to be thousands of real birds-hooded crows with their gray-and-black feathers and wicked caw-caw-caws, chaffinches with brave, ruddy cheeks, and jackdaws, purplish-black and crying their hoa.r.s.e battle cries as they careened down past rooftops and into the fray against the other enchanter's army.