The room was an exact reproduction of one in the private Angelovsky house in Moscow. The parquet floor, intricately fashioned of inlaid wood to resemble a Persian carpet; the scrollwork on the furniture, thickly overlaid with gold; the carved panels on the walls—all of these were things he had known in his childhood. He had left it all behind after the exile.
Nikolas stood on unsteady legs. “What's going on?” he whispered. “Where am I?” His voice shot up several notches. “Emma, where the hell are you?”
Sidarov began to look alarmed. “Prince Nikolai, are you feeling well? Perhaps you need something to eat…some bread? Fish? Smoked beef—”
Nikolas strode past him in sudden haste, pausing with a startled jump at the threshold. He began to roam through the halls and rooms like an animal caught in a trap, disoriented, sweating heavily, his heart feeling as if it might burst from his chest. It was all here, the furniture, the wood carvings, everything he had never thought to see again. A few strangely dressed servants regarded him with confusion when they saw him, but none of them dared to speak.
“Prince Nikolai?” came the steward's anxious voice behind him.
Nikolas didn't pause in his headlong rush until he reached the front door and flung it open. A blast of excruciatingly cold air hit him, stinging his face, gnawing through his thin sleeves. Except for a shudder of surprise, he was absolutely still.
All of Moscow was spread before him, in a glittering carpet of gold and white.
The estate was located on a hill near the edge of the city, rising above a sea of shining church domes topped with gold crosses. In between the churches stood houses of wood and stone, their roofs painted with green, blue, red designs. Smoke from thousands of stoves spiraled into the air, mixing with the fresh bite of snow in Nikolas's nostrils. Numbly he watched as flakes the size of down feathers descended gently to the frozen earth. The light covering of snow on the city sparkled in billions of crystalline fragments.
Nikolas's knees shook so violently that he was forced to sit on the ice-laden doorstep. “Am I dead?” he wondered, not realizing he had spoken aloud until Sidarov's sarcastic answer came from behind him.
“No, although you don't look far from it. And you'll certainly catch your death if you sit out here with no coat.” Gently the steward touched his shoulder. “Prince Nikolai, you must come inside now. You've appointed me to look after your household and your personal affairs. I would hardly be worth my wages if I allowed you to become ill. Come, the carriage will be readied soon…and you will go to the bride-choosing, as you wanted.”
Nikolas stood and continued to stare at the city. He felt like weeping in fear and joy, and kissing the hard earth. Russia, his beloved country…yet this Moscow was younger, harsher, than he had ever known it. The dark, primitive forest around the city had not yet been cut back and cleared. The streets were filled with the clamor of carts, animals, peddlers, holy men, and beggars. There were no houses or carriages of modern design. The villages in the distance were sparse and isolated, unlike the thick clusters he remembered.
Perhaps this was just a dream. Perhaps it would end soon. How had he come here? What had happened to Emma and Jacob? Disarmed, uncertain, he followed Sidarov back into the house. The steward produced a coat for him, the same shade of dark blue velvet as the doublet. “Allow me to help you with this, Your Highness.” The heavy garment enfolded Nikolas in warmth, its line of covered buttons extending high on his chest and reaching to mid-thigh. Standing back to view him critically, Sidarov gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Not quite up to your usual glory, but I doubt the prospective bride will be displeased at the sight of you.”
“Whose bride?”
Sidarov laughed, as if Nikolas had just made a joke. “Your bride, Prince Nikolai. Whomever you choose to be your mate.”
“I'm already married.”
The steward began to laugh harder. “I'm glad your sense of humor is back, Your Highness.”
Nikolas didn't smile. “I'm not choosing a bride,” he said, tight-lipped.
Suddenly Sidarov was flustered and upset. “But, Prince Nikolai…you said yourself that it is time for you to marry! You sent envoys to gather beautiful unmarried maidens from every village around Moscow. Now they're all here, waiting for you. Their families have brought them from Suzdal, Vladimir—some from as far away as Kiev and the Ukraine! Are you saying you don't even want to have a look at them?” He stared into Nikolas's pale face and clucked disapprovingly. “It's the wine talking. You hardly know what you're saying. As all Russians do, you require one day to get drunk, one to enjoy it, and one to recover.”
“I'm not enjoying it,” Nikolas muttered, hoping fervently that he was drunk. Stinking, filthy drunk. Maybe when he sobered, this would all be gone. In the meanwhile, there didn't seem to be much he could do about the situation.
“Come,” the steward coaxed, “we must go to the bride-choosing. At least favor them by walking along the line. Who knows? You may see a beautiful girl and fall in love at first sight.”
Wildly Nikolas dragged both hands through his disheveled hair. He didn't want to participate in this ridiculous farce. He had enough trouble with the wife he'd already married. But he decided he would play along until the dream was over. “Let's get it over with,” he said gruffly. “I'll go—but I won't choose any of them.”
“That's fine,” Sidarov soothed. “Just have a look. It's only fair, after they came so far.”
A small crowd of servants appeared to accompany Nikolas to the carriage, leading him down the slick steps. Efficiently they tucked fur robes around his legs and lap, placed hot stones at his feet, and pressed a goblet of wine in his hand.
“No more wine—” Sidarov began as he climbed into the carriage.
Nikolas silenced him with a gesture, and glared at him over the rim of the jeweled goblet. He needed a drink badly, and he'd had enough of the bossy little servant. The heated wine was strong and bracing, blunting the edges of his panic.
The gilded carriage was pulled by six black horses and mounted on runners that allowed it to glide swiftly over the carpet of snow. The Angelovsky crest was embroidered on the velvet cushions, and repeated on the ceiling and walls in patterns of jewels, crystal, and gold. “I'm an Angelovsky,” Nikolas said tentatively, placing his hand on the crest.
“You certainly are,” Sidarov agreed in a feeling tone.
Nikolas moved his gaze to the steward, who was beginning to look vaguely familiar. The Sidarovs had worked for his family for generations, had even accompanied him into exile, but Nikolas couldn't recall anyone named Feodor. Except…in his boyhood, he remembered the oldest Sidarov of all, whose name had been Vitya Feodorovich. Perhaps this was Vitya's father? Grandfather?
Then who am I supposed to be? Nikolas gulped the rest of his wine to stave off the sinking coldness inside him. The servant had called him Nikolai…Prince Nikolai…but that was his great-great-great-grandfather's name.
The vehicle passed by the homes and markets of the posád, the area of the city between the fortress walls and the outer earthen ramparts that encircled Moscow. People swathed in long coats, bulky robes, and fur hats began to appear on either side of the street and cheer, waving the vehicle on to its destination. The scene reminded Nikolas uncomfortably of the curious crowds that had gathered to watch him depart St. Petersburg at the beginning of his exile.
“Where are we going?” he asked tersely.
“Don't you remember? Your friend Prince Golorkov is the only one in Moscow with a private home large enough to accommodate all the women. He very kindly offered the use of his ballroom and pavilions for the bride-choosing.”
“Very kind,” Nikolas repeated grimly, gripping the empty goblet in his cold hands. They drove through the city, built in rings like the layers of an onion, with the Kremlin at its center. Some sections contained clusters of noblemen's homes and small, perfect orchards. In others, bunches of gold church domes were gathered like exotic flowers, dwarfing the small wooden cott
ages nearby. The roads had not been paved or modernized, and the buildings were constructed of wood.
With a dreamlike sensation, Nikolas listened to the pealing of bells as Orthodox churches signaled the approach of morning Mass. No other city on earth rang bells so frequently, filling the air with joyful music. If this was a dream, it was more detailed and vivid than any he'd experienced before.
Finally the carriage-sleigh was pulled up to a great house fronted with slender wooden columns and an octagonal pavilion on either side. People crowded on both sides of the street and at the gates, cheering as they caught sight of Nikolas through the carriage windows. He sank lower in his seat, his face dark and brooding.
“You must be nervous,” Sidarov remarked. “Don't worry, Your Highness, it will all be over soon.”
“It had better be.”
A complement of shivering, brocade-covered footmen opened the carriage door and escorted Nikolas to the house. Sidarov followed close behind, carrying a wooden box with golden latches. Their host, presumably Prince Golorkov, waited in the wide, low-ceilinged entrance hall. Golorkov was a balding old man with a thin gray mustache that curved along with his lips as he smiled. “Nikolai, my friend,” he said, a sly gleam in his eyes. He moved forward to embrace Nikolas, and drew back to look at him. “You will be very pleased by the women inside, I assure you. Such an array of beauty I have never seen. Hair like fine silk, breasts like the choicest fruit—you will have no difficulty finding a girl to suit you. Shall we have a drink first, or proceed directly to the ballroom?”
“Nothing to drink,” Sidarov interceded hastily, ignoring Nikolas's glare. “I'm certain that Prince Nikolai, in his great eagerness, will want to see the women immediately.”
Golorkov laughed. “And who could blame him? Follow me, Nikolai, and I will lead the way to paradise.”
The hallways echoed with a roar of excited female chatter that grew louder as they approached the ballroom. Smugly Golorkov reached for the lion's-head door handle, and sent the door swinging open. There was a chorus of gasps, and then an anticipatory silence fell over the room. Nikolas hesitated before entering, until Sidarov and Golorkov pushed him inside.
“My God,” Nikolas muttered. There were at least five hundred women in the ballroom, maybe more. They stood in an uneven line, staring at him, waiting for his inspection. Most of them wore smocks and over-dresses of red, the favorite color of all Russians. Each girl wore her hair in the traditional maiden's braid, dressed with a ribbon or scarf, or with a diadem of gold or silver wire. A few of the boldest women sighed admiringly as Nikolas walked nearer.
Nikolas felt a tide of burning color rise from his neck. He turned back to Sidarov, who was close behind him. “I can't—” he began, and the steward elbowed him hard.
“Just glance over them, Your Highness.”
“Shy?” Golorkov asked with a mocking laugh.
“This isn't like you, Nikolai. Or is it that you're still reluctant to marry? I promise you, it isn't so bad. Besides, the Angelovsky name must be perpetuated. Pick a wife, my friend, and then we'll share a bottle of vodka.”
“Pick a wife”…uttered as casually as if he were offering a tidbit from a tray of zakuski. Nikolas swallowed hard and approached the beginning of the line. His feet felt as if they were encased in lead. Hesitantly he moved past one girl after another, barely able to look them in the eye. He was showered with timid giggles, smiling glances, encouraging whispers—and occasionally, a look of dread from a girl who clearly had no more desire to be there than Nikolas himself. As he walked along the line, spines straightened to display well-endowed figures, and slender fingers plucked nervously at scarves and skirts. For each girl whom Nikolas rejected and passed, there was a word of consolation from Sidarov, as well as a gold coin from the box he carried.
About halfway through the crowd of prospective brides, Nikolas caught a glimpse of a girl with red hair, taller than the rest. She was standing several places down the line, noticeable because of her extreme stillness, while all the others fidgeted. Her face was turned away from him, but the way she stood with her shoulders slumped to conceal her height…
He strode directly to her. Sidarov followed in consternation, calling, “Prince Nikolai, you've passed over some of these very nice girls…”
As soon as Nikolas reached the young woman, he seized her by the arms, stared into her startled blue eyes, and shook her slightly. Mingled fury and relief coursed through his body. “Emma,” he snapped, automatically switching to English. “What's going on? What are you doing here?”
She shook her head in bewilderment and answered in flawless Russian. “Your Highness…I don't understand. Forgive me if I have offended you.”
Nikolas let go of her as if he'd received an electric shock. Emma didn't speak Russian. But it was her voice, her face and body, her eyes. He was quiet, baffled, staring hard at her while the rest of the assemblage broke into questioning chatter.
Sidarov took it upon himself to address the girl. “You with the red hair,” he said calmly. “What is your name?”
She replied while still holding Nikolas's gaze. “Emelia.”
“I want to talk with you,” Nikolas said in a low voice. “Now.”
Before anyone had time to react, he swept her out of the ballroom. The crowd of women swarmed in disarray, the line dissolving into a confused mass. Prince Golorkov began to laugh heartily. “Nikolai,” he called out, “you're supposed to wait until after the ceremony for that!”
Nikolas ignored the group and continued tugging at the girl's wrist. She followed more or less obediently as he led her to the first available room and closed the door behind them. Only then did she pull free of him, twisting her wrist hard in order to break his grip.
“What happened?” Nikolas demanded, looming over her. “We were arguing in the parlor, and Soames brought in the damned portrait, and everything went dark—”
“I'm sorry, I don't understand,” she said in Russian, rubbing her reddened wrist. She stared at him apprehensively, as if wondering about his sanity.
Nikolas was enraged by the fluid ease with which she spoke. “The last time I saw you, you knew fewer than ten words of Russian!”
The girl began to back away from him. “I don't think we've ever met before,” she whispered, her gaze darkening with alarm. “Your Highness, please let me leave—”
“Wait. Wait. Don't be afraid of me.” Nikolas snatched her back and held her stiff body close to his. Wildly he tried to collect his wits. “Don't you know me, Emma?”
“I…I know of you, Prince Nikolai. Everyone respects and fears you.”
Nikolas freed one hand and grasped the vibrant red plait hanging down her back. “The same hair,” he murmured. His fingers brushed the pale, downy surface of her cheek. “The same skin…the same freckles…the same blue eyes…” He felt a surge of deep pleasure at holding her in his arms, so beautiful, so familiar. Her lips, parted in dismay, were as full and tempting as ever. He bent and kissed her suddenly. She gasped in shock, offering neither response nor rejection. Nikolas finished the kiss with a gentle brush of his lips and lifted his head. “The same taste,” he said hoarsely. “It has to be you. Don't you remember me?”
There was a knock at the door, and Sidarov's anxious voice. “Prince Nikolai? Your Highness—”
“Not now!” Nikolas snarled. He waited until he heard the sound of retreating footsteps. Returning his attention to the girl in his arms, Nikolas pulled her tightly against him. He closed his eyes and inhaled the fragrance of her skin. “I don't know what's happening,” he said into the soft space just below her ear. “Nothing makes sense.”
Emelia struggled free with a burst of energy. Putting a distance of several feet between them, she stared at him and raised a trembling hand to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and very blue. “Your Highness…have you chosen me? Is that why you've taken me aside like this?”
Nikolas was silent, trying to comprehend what was happening.
Someho
w reading an answer in his expression, Emelia gave a little nod, as if something she had long wondered about had just been confirmed. “I thought you would,” she said gravely. “Somehow…I knew if I came to Moscow, you would pick me.”
“How did you know that?” Nikolas asked hoarsely.
“It was just a feeling. I heard the things they say about you, and I thought…I might be a good wife for a man like you.”
Nikolas moved toward her, and she countered with a small backward step. He forced himself to stand still, although he ached to reach for her once again. “What do they say about me?”
“That you are very intelligent and modern. They also say you are in great favor with the tsar because you spent some time in the West and you understand the foreigners. You even shave your face like them.” Emelia stared at the hard line of his jaw with open curiosity. “All the men in my village have beards.” Slowly she approached him, lifting her hand to his face. She stroked the surface of his chin once, twice, her fingertips soft on his skin. A shy smile hovered on her lips. “It's smooth, like a little boy's.”
Nikolas caught her hand and held the palm against his cheek. She was warm, real…too real for this to be a dream. “Emma, look at me. Tell me you've never been with me before. Tell me we've never touched, never kissed. Tell me that you don't know me.”
“I…” She shook her head helplessly, her gaze fixed on his.
He let go of her and prowled through the room in a wide circle, compelling her to turn in order to watch him. “Then who are you?” he asked in a low voice, feeling angry and hollow inside.
“I am Emelia Vasilievna.”
“What about your family?”
“My father is dead. My uncle and brother were taken from the village and sent to work on the new city on the Neva. I couldn't live alone in the village, and I didn't want to marry any of the farmers there.”