The Gathering Storm (8 page)

There was another feast later that morning with even more treats. Apricot creams and strawberry zephyrs. Chocolate babas and gooseberry puddings. And Petya’s and my favorite: an enormous marzipan torte. I ate until I thought I would be sick.

We presented gifts to our small household staff after breakfast: the male servants received new shoes made of the finest Parisian leather, while the female servants received silver-handled hairbrushes. I had knitted a pair of mittens for Anya.

“Did you make these yourself?” Anya asked incredulously as she inspected the delicate needlework. A red rose adorned each mitten.

“Of course,” I said, more than a little proud of myself. A surgeon needed to be dexterous to execute fine stitches. When Maman taught me knitting and embroidery, I imagined I was sewing up sick and injured people.

Late that afternoon, I accompanied Maman as she delivered presents to distant cousins, and then we visited the Oldenburg Hospital with baskets of oranges for the patients. It made for a long day. I almost fell asleep in the sleigh on the ride home.

I opened the onyx box again before bedtime, staring at the tarot card. It looked much older than the one in my mother’s deck. This queen was dressed in a crimson robe and the lettering was in Italian. According to Pushkin’s short story “The Queen of Spades,” said queen, along with the Queen of Swords, signified secret ill will. I wasn’t sure if the card was meant to be a warning. Or a threat. Either way, it seemed like a bad omen, so I threw it into the burning logs in my fireplace.

The flames leapt up and turned a deep violet. I stepped back, dropping the box to the floor.

I heard a gasp from the doorway behind me. Anya.

“What strange, unholy fire is this?” she asked, making the sign of the cross hastily. “Are you practicing witchcraft, Duchess?”

I’d never felt more terrible in my life. She was frightened of me. “No, Anya. Of course not. I was getting rid of an old card. It must have been the chemicals in the ink.”

She stared at the fire, which once again appeared normal. “Perhaps your father should come and see. In case it’s dangerous.” She opened the window a tiny bit to freshen the air.

“No, I’m sure everything is fine. I don’t want to disturb him or Maman.” The last thing I wanted was my mother to become ill again. And though Anya didn’t care for the Montenegrins, I thought she would be safer if she didn’t know everything about them. I hoped I was protecting her by lying to her.

For the rest of school break, I went to bed every night curled up with my medical journal. After having argued with Papa once more about the stubborn minister of education, I had decided to write a letter of application to the University of Zurich. That was where Maria Bokova and Nadezhda Suslova, Madame Orbellani’s idols, had received their medical degrees.

Every night I fell asleep to articles about childhood diseases or advancements in cranial surgery. I’d like to say I dreamed about finding a cure for meningitis or scarlet fever, but I didn’t. Nor did I dream about surly boys. Less than two weeks after Christmas, the Black Mountain nightmares began.

I
was standing in a temple, which appeared to be carved from deep within a mountain. The temple torches were lit all along the walls, with an especially large fire burning behind the altar. A priest in a black robe chanted something in an ancient language I could not understand. Was it ancient Greek? It did not sound familiar. I tried to move and realized my arms were pinned behind my back by someone I could not see. As I struggled to free myself, I found that I could not remember how I had gotten there
.

As the chanting went on, it grew dark outside the bloodred stained glass windows. The wind howled through the temple, shrieking like a banshee battered by a summer storm. Three figures, which stood around the altar behind the priest, wore black hooded robes. The sight of their hoods frightened me more than anything. I knew that they were important people in my life, but I could not determine their identity
.

The priest held his chalice up to the fire, seeking some sort of
unholy blessing from whatever being they worshipped. The cup was beautiful: golden with colorful enamel in the pattern of a phoenix. As the priest turned to me, I stared at the chalice, trying to see what was inside it
.

He smiled at me, his teeth small, white, and pointed. I felt a sudden wave of nausea. Instantly, I knew what he planned to do to me. The person behind me let go abruptly and the priest grabbed my arm, raking one of his sharp fingernails down my wrist. I gasped in pain and tried to fight down the panic welling up inside
.

The wound was far too deep. I would bleed to death if it wasn’t stopped soon. I began to pray silently, for I was sure only God could save me while I was in this place. I thought about my parents, regretting that I hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye to them. I was terrified, but determined not to show it to my captors
.

The priest held out the chalice as my blood fell in fat crimson drops into it. I smelled the copper taint of blood on the air. My very life essence was flowing from me; I knew it would not be long before I felt faint
.

The priest took the chalice and turned back to the three hooded figures. I would have fallen if not for strong arms and hands that suddenly reached out to hold me up. I did not bother to struggle anymore. I could only look on as the three figures joined in the chanting with the priest. The figure in the middle pulled back his hood to reveal himself as a handsome dark-haired, dark-eyed young man. Stepping forward, he took the chalice from the priest and drank my blood. Suddenly, a thousand white-winged insects flew out from under the altar and ascended toward the temple
vault. The moths flew above the flames and the smoke, swarming the darkness
.

I woke up stifling a scream. I was shaking. Sweat dampened my white cotton nightclothes. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.
Mon Dieu
, what had just happened to me? Had it been merely a dream? Or a prophecy?

Anya was at the foot of my bed, staring at me in horror. “Duchess? Are you ill?” she asked anxiously.

I flinched as a single moth fluttered from under my bed and out the open window. Despite the cold air, my chest was burning. I was still shaking.

Anya poured me a glass of water from the bedside table. “Here, drink this.” She had to help me hold the glass so I didn’t spill anything.

The water made me feel a little bit better. “Thank you,” I said, sinking back down to my pillows.

“Do you want me to call for your mother?” Anya asked. “I’m worried about you, Duchess.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to trouble her. What time is it?”

“Half past eight.”

I groaned. I had to get up. It was Theophany, twelve days past Christmas. We were to attend the annual Blessing of the Waters, when the metropolitan bishop would cut a hole in the frozen waters of the Neva River and bless it. Slowly, I sat back up. The room was spinning slightly, but really, I
couldn’t complain. A spinning room was certainly a better place to be than a cave where I would become a human sacrifice.

Thinking about the nightmare made me nauseated. I felt a terrible pressure in the back of my throat.

I jumped out of bed to retch in the washbasin. I held the sides, shaking still, as the spasms seized me.

“Duchess! Allow me to call your maman!” she begged. “You’re too sick to be going anywhere today!”

“No, Anya, please! I’ll be fine. I ate too much rich food last night—it’s nothing.”

“Duchess, I—”

“It was just the food, which caused another bad dream,” I insisted. “I’ll be fine.” I cleaned myself up and walked over to my wardrobe. Anya had already laid out my silver court gown trimmed in pearls and Venetian lace.

I splashed cool water on my face, and Anya helped me get dressed. When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, the bags under my eyes were a somber reminder of my miserable night. I could not see my own cold light, but I imagined it to be shimmering brightly, with Death looming close by. After such a dream, how could it not?

Anya arranged the velvet
kokoshnik
on my head, watching me in the mirror carefully. She was still afraid of me, I realized sadly. My strange behavior that morning had done nothing to allay her fears.

“Katiya?” Maman’s voice floated down the hallway. “Are you finished getting ready? We have to leave soon for the Winter Palace! Anya, where are my gloves?”

Anya turned away from me and nearly ran from the room. She was grateful for the interruption.

I took a deep breath, preparing for the day ahead.

It was a short sleigh ride from our house to the palace, which was situated at the end of Millionnaya Street. The morning was sunny, but freezing. Crowds were already gathering along both banks of the frozen Neva River as we went inside to the palace’s Grand Chapel for the divine service.

The chapel was hot and crowded with all St. Petersburg’s aristocracy. They all wore their finest court attire. The heat from the candles and the packed bodies made the ceremony almost unbearable. I had to remember not to lock my knees so I would not faint.

After the prayers, I followed Maman in the long formal procession through the palace from the chapel to the Jordan Staircase, leading outside to the snow-covered riverbank. The procession was silent except for the quiet swishes of the women’s elaborate court dresses. The empress and the grand duchesses wore long heavy trains that had to be carried by their pages. My mother’s page looked as if he were no older than I was.

Hundreds of servants in smart crimson liveries stood at attention along the magnificent staircase. I lifted my skirts slightly, praying I would not trip as I descended the stairs.

When we reached the ground floor, many of the empress’s ladies-in-waiting remained inside the enfilade, along with the entire Diplomatic Corps, watching the ceremony from
the grand windows. Maman and I followed the procession outside to see Papa and Petya. I was happy to breathe the frigid air, even though it hurt my lungs. After the closeness of the chapel, it was fresh and bracing.

The metropolitan stood in front of the Imperial Pavilion, his silver-and-gold robes blazing in the pale sunlight. He prayed silently over a small hole that had been cut into the ice. The waters of the Neva, warmer than the ice above it, caused steam to rise out of the hole.

We stood behind the pavilion, next to the beautiful young grand duchess Elizabeth Feodorovna and her husband, Grand Duke Serge Alexandrovich, one of the tsar’s uncles. The grand duchess turned to greet us. “Katerina Alexandrovna, you attend the Smolny Institute, do you not?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” I tried to curtsy, and wobbled slightly on the frozen, uneven ground.

“And you have already been presented to court?” Her breath fogged in the crisp winter air.

“Just this past summer, Your Highness,” Maman answered. “I believe you were in Darmstadt at the time.”

The grand duchess ignored my mother and kept her unsettling eyes on me. Both of her eyes were grayish blue, but one had a circle of brown. “You must be the same age as my sister, Alix. She is coming to stay with me this winter. I hope you will get to meet her.”