Peter holds out his arm to me, his face serene, if a bit pink from our earlier time in the sun. I smile warmly and accept his gesture, locking my arm around his and allowing him to lead me from the room.
He begins recounting the discussion from his earlier meeting as we wind down elaborate corridor after corridor. He leads me past the library without pausing. I crane my neck to catch a fleeting glimpse of the room as we pass quickly, but I don’t ask to stop. His pace is quick, a man with a destination in mind to be sure.
“How are the lessons going with General Salkov?” he asks pointedly.
“Quite well, thank you. He is a wonderful teacher.”
Peter stops, raising his hand, “Make no mistake; he has my aunt’s interests at heart, not ours.”
As he says the word ours, he motions to the two of us, as if we are co-conspirators in some great plot. I force a smile, unsure what to say.
He continues walking and adds, “It’s not that I have anything against the man, to be sure. But there is a general tone about him that I dislike. An arrogance, perhaps. If I thought for a moment that his lessons with you had been in any way inappropriate…”
His words trail off but his tone is clear. He feels threatened by the handsome general. I quickly work to set him at ease.
“No need to worry there, he’s been nothing but a gentleman. I think he is much too smart to attempt any such nonsense.”
He offers a satisfied grunt. “Good. I know my aunt is fond of him and I’d hate to see how she would react if I were to have to punish him.”
His words chill me to the core. I’ve never heard Peter sound so cold and harsh before.
As soon as we turn the next corner, I know where he’s leading me. The great hall is lined with suits of armor, tall pedestals of marble displaying all manner of weapons, and in the very center is a stone statue of his namesake, Peter the Great. He leads me past each display, describing their bloody lineage in vivid detail. I nod, feigning interest. Some of the battles he describes I’ve read about in books, others are wholly unheard of to me.
When he was a child, Peter had a set of toy soldiers that were his dearest possessions. He’d loved nothing more than recreating his favorite battles. His obsession, it seems, has only grown.
With a sudden burst of gusto, he leaps atop a chair and pulls an old pair of crossed swords from their places on the wall. He flips on in his hand, grabbing it by the dull blade and holds it out to me.
“Here, Princess. How about a real lesson?”
I take the hilt warily.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a whisper. “Surely we aren’t meant to use these.”
He offers me a wicked smirk, and then raises his sword.
“Prepare to defend yourself, Prussia!” he screams and advances. I manage to swing the heavy sword just in time to block his blow.
Encouraged by my move he continues, circling me like a predator, sword firm in his grasp. I watch him move, trying to emulate his posture.
In an instant, he lunges and I am only barely able to spin out of his way. He laughs and I can hardly keep the irritation off of my face. Thinking back to all the times I’d played wooden swords with my father I place one hand in the small of my back and swing the blade, drawing his attention to my left as I step forward and lunge half-heartedly. He blocks my move easily. Our swords come together with a loud clang and he takes his free hand and grabs me, pulling me to him until we are pressed together, only the cold steel between us. I push back and prepare to defend myself.
“Put the tip higher,” he orders, moving again. “Keep your weight on your back foot.”
He circles me, barking commands.
“Lunge!” he orders and I obey, trying to look more uncoordinated that I really am. I do manage to trip on the hem of my massive skirts and fall forward just a little. Though I catch myself before I fall, the maneuver gives Peter enough time to come up behind me and slap my backside with the flat part of his sword. Though I really can’t feel it through the layers of pannier and skirt I give a little yelp of surprise. I look over my shoulder to see a wide, devilish grin set in his face. A sense of unease fills me in that moment that I cannot quite explain to myself. Peter doesn’t look malevolent, but something in his expression reminds me of a child who has recently discovered a new toy.
The sound of trumpets blaring behind us startles me, making me jump. Peter turns away from me, looking curiously down the hall.
I’m glad he’s not watching me because I feel my expression fall, my expression souring.
Princess Charlotte of Saxony has arrived early.
Peter replaces our swords and then, taking me by the arm, he leads me back through the maze of corridors and to the main staircase. Four more trumpets blare and drummers beat their drums. The empress sweeps into the room from my right, descending the steps in front of us. Chancellor Bestuzhev and Count Lestocq meet her at the massive palace doors.
We flood outside just in time to see a white-and-gold sleigh pull to the front, tall, purple banners flowing behind it. The sleigh is pulled by an army of white horses so lovely that they could be made of snow and ice.
The sleigh stops and four people climb out, three young ladies and one young man. The young man steps forward, and they all bow and curtsy before the empress. I spot Princess Charlotte immediately. Her large, flowing gown is deep purple, nearly black. It perfectly accents her hair, though I don’t think black describes the color. Her hair is raven, the color of midnight, and her eyes are just as dark. Her lips are large and puffy like Elizavetta’s, only, somehow, they sit just right on her face. In every possible way, this new princess is stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful. As she walks forward, taking the young man’s arm, I glance over at Peter. He’s watching her impassively, as if her beauty hasn’t reached his eyes yet. Then he looks over at me and winks. Raising my hand in his, he grazes a kiss across my knuckles before releasing me to join his aunt.
I release a long breath, feeling myself relax at his reaction.
The young man bows again as they reach the empress.
“Your Majesty. I am Hans Svetten, Duke of Dresden, Saxony. I would like to present my sister, Princess Charlotte, and her ladies.”
Charlotte curtsies deeply.
“Your Majesty,” she offers in a rich, deep voice.
“Welcome to St Petersburg. I am overjoyed you could make the journey,” the empress responds coolly. “This is my nephew, Grand Duke Peter von Holstein-Gottorp.”
Peter bows, but he does not extend his hand. I feel my shoulders straighten, my chin raise, all without conscious thought. The empress, probably sensing Peter’s apathy, motions to the chancellor. “Please, Chancellor Bestuzhev will show you to your apartments.”
Without waiting, Peter turns his back to the princess and her entourage, walks toward me, and offers his arm, which I take without hesitation. The empress spares us only a quick glance over her shoulder, but I think I see a sly smile curl across her lips.
As soon as we are out of earshot, Peter leans down and whispers into my ear.
“If Bestuzhev thinks he can control the alliance by controlling my heart, he is sadly mistaken. No one controls me.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Not even the empress?”
He chuckles. “Not even the empress.”