Nikolai looked over his room at the Black Moth one more time.
I’m certainly not leaving this cesspool with the improvements I conjured. He whipped his hand in front of him as if swiping away the furniture, and indeed, the beds and horsehair mattresses and porcelain washbasin he’d created vanished. He snapped, and the old louse-ridden, chipped, and stained furniture reappeared.
He wrinkled his nose at the once again filthy space. There was nothing at the Black Moth that he needed to take with him, not even memories. He’d had a mother, briefly, and that had turned out to be quite enough. Besides, she’d left her legacy with him, in the form of the unforgiving darkness coursing through his veins.
“Au revoir,” Nikolai said as he spun and left the room. “Et bon débarras.”
And good riddance.
He strode through the streets of the city to Ekaterinsky Canal. It was much faster crossing Saint Petersburg, now that Nikolai could cast a shroud to look like a normal person and didn’t have to slink in the shadows. Finally, something’s going right. He smirked to himself as he passed by one of the many granite posts along the canal’s embankment.
The post smirked back.
Deuces! Nikolai staggered a step and looked at the post again.
It was indeed smirking. And it was no longer a post, but instead a gargoyle, and a grotesque one at that, with a wart-ridden, troll-like face, seven gnarled horns curling out of its head, and blank eyeballs that rattled and rolled in their sockets.
“Did I just . . . ?” But surely not. Nikolai hadn’t even thought to create the gargoyle, let alone cast an actual charm. And yet, it was not the sort of thing Vika would conjure.
It was as if the gargoyle were a tangible manifestation of how Nikolai actually felt inside. Just like his shroud was a physical version of how he—still a shadow, really—felt he ought to look.
I don’t know if it’s a good thing I can now use magic without having to think about it, or if it’s bad that it’s not entirely under my control.
But then Nikolai thought of what this meant in terms of power—the magic prickling at his fingertips was colder and stronger than ever—and his eyes twinkled, although not brightly like stars. Rather, like black holes, swallowing light into their depths.
At the mere hint of Nikolai’s delight, all the posts along the rivers and canals in the city transformed themselves into gargoyles, with vacant eyes that watched and followed every movement of passersby. And the renewed energy inside Nikolai roiled gleefully at the mayhem this new enchantment would cause.
He marched up to the Zakrevsky house with a dark spring in his step and charmed open the door. He walked into the foyer and had only a few seconds to take in the familiar setting—the Persian rugs, the heirloom grandfather clock, the crystal chandelier and the staircase that curved up behind it—before Vadim, the footman, ran out to greet him.
Or perhaps not to greet him, seeing as Vadim wasn’t dressed in uniform but wore a plain tunic and trousers and had dry spittle crusted on his face. He must have been recovering from the food at the Neva fete, like most everyone else. His eyes bulged, and he came to an abrupt halt when he saw it was Nikolai in the foyer.
“M-Master Karimov,” he said, falling immediately into a bow. “I mean, Grand Prince, Your Imperial Highness, w-we were not expecting you.”
Nikolai motioned with his hand for Vadim to rise.
“Is it really you?” Vadim asked.
“Yes. Surprised?”
“There was a rumor that you were alive, but no one had seen you, so most dismissed it.”
“And what did you believe?” Nikolai narrowed his eyes.
“I, er, always supported you, Your Imperial Highness. All the staff in your house did.”
My house. Nikolai smirked.
“Speaking of the staff,” he said, “where are they?” He’d been friends with Renata while he lived here, but not with the rest of the servants, for his status had lain awkwardly in between the staff and the count and countess. Besides, the servants had steered well clear of Nikolai, who was often holed up in his room working on mysterious projects that involved a great deal of banging and cursing and the occasional explosion (they were Galina’s lessons to train Nikolai for the Game, but the servants knew none of that and only thought him eccentric and a bit intimidating).
Vadim looked off in the direction of the back stairs, which led down to the basement, where the kitchen and laundry and the guts of the house lay. “We were informed by officials of the countess’s death and were thus dismissed from employment, as there would be no one to pay us. Besides, most of the staff have taken ill from the party the other night. Only Cook, Kostya the messenger boy, and I remain to take care of the unfinished business.”
“Well, I’m here now,” Nikolai said, choosing not to acknowledge that Vadim was looking wan and wobbling on his feet. “I’d like a proper household. I want you and Kostya to fetch the others. They will have employment under me.”
“Thank you, Your Imperial Highness. It will be a great honor to serve you.” Vadim bowed, a bit unsteadily, then hurried away.
Nikolai went up the staircase to the second level and walked along the hallway of portraits of past Zakrevskys. He stopped in front of the mirror at the center of it. It was the first reflection of himself he’d seen since he cast his shroud.
“Not too bad,” he said. His hair appeared as he liked it, kept neat and short with minimal sideburns. His jaw was sharp as a knife blade, with cheekbones to match. And his eyes were dark half-moons. . . .
Nikolai scowled. The color of his irises was too black, a glimpse of his shadow self piercing through his careful shroud.
He glared at the mirror, and the glass disappeared. A second later, a portrait of Galina in an opulent silver gown—formerly hanging in her room so she could admire herself anytime she wanted—took the mirror’s space. It was a better fit, anyway. This was a hall of Zakrevskys. A reflection of Nikolai had no place there.
Nor do I want one.
He continued into his room, which was still a library as it was the last time he’d been here. But that would not take too long to rectify. It’s my house now. I have free rein to redecorate as I choose. He nearly smiled, but the darkness within him didn’t quite let him. Interior decorating was the sort of thing that would have made the old Nikolai happy, but not the new one. Still, it needed to be done.
The first thing that had to go were the draperies. While Nikolai appreciated the quality of the pale rose silk and had nothing against pink itself—he owned several cravats in varying shades of pink, or he had, before Galina had tossed out all his belongings—he just wasn’t in the mood for curtains in that color. He snapped his fingers, and black began to bleed down from the tops of the drapes, consuming the more delicate rose until the pink was no more.
Next, the shelves. They were full of books on fashion—French, British, Italian—so Nikolai was loath to be rid of them, but the shelves couldn’t stay, for there wouldn’t be enough space once he had a bed and an armoire in here.
But they could go in Galina’s room. The corner of his mouth turned up smugly. She made my bedroom into a library as soon as she thought me dead. It would be more than acceptable for me to do the same to hers.
With Vadim and Kostya out running errands and the cook downstairs in the basement kitchen, Nikolai could use magic without hiding it. He flicked his wrist, and the furniture in Galina’s room cleared. With a flick of his other wrist, the shelves and books in his own room migrated down the hall past the Zakrevsky portraits, marching like awkward soldiers, and settled where Galina’s canopy bed used to sit.
Nikolai turned back to his own room and exhaled. It was nearly empty now, other than the desk, and that had originally been his, so it could stay. He shifted it a few feet over to where it belonged near the farthest window, but that was the only change.
Soon thereafter, he conjured a wooden bed frame stained in black, its posts intricately carved with curlicues and feathers. Atop it lay a fine mattress and fluffy pillows and a black blanket stitched at the edges in gold. Gold, after all, was the color of the tsar.
Next came an armoire, in carved black wood to match the bed, and gold feather detailing on the handles and hinges. The feet he conjured in gold with talons, like garuda claws.
If only it weren’t empty, Nikolai thought as he opened the armoire doors. He could conjure clothes, but conjured clothing was always inferior to what he tailored himself, for nothing could compare to meticulous measuring and remeasuring, and cutting the cloth by hand. Well, perhaps not “by hand,” but his scissors under the direction of his magic were as good as extensions of Nikolai’s dexterous fingers.
No one had cared what a shadow wore, especially since he’d tried not to be seen. But his new facade required decent clothing, and in all honesty, “decent” wouldn’t suffice for Nikolai’s pride.
I’ll need to acquire several bolts of wool, and needles and bobbins of thread, and pretty much everything else required to tailor a new wardrobe. Nikolai frowned at the vast black emptiness of the armoire. He’d send Renata to Bissette & Sons as soon as she arrived back here to work; he could trust her to pick fabrics and buttons that he’d like.
Nikolai conjured a pad of paper and pencils and began to sketch furiously a design for a frock coat he had in mind. It had notched lapels. . . . No, no, that wouldn’t do, he was the grand prince, and formality dictated that his lapels be decidedly unnotched. He laughed to himself. Galina would have liked to witness this; she’d always disdained his penchant for notched lapels.
He tore out the sheet of paper, crumpled it, and started anew.
An hour later, he had a design he was satisfied with. But as Nikolai looked at it, he saw the futility in it. What was the point of a new coat if he had nowhere to wear it to? It was like being a debutante in a gown without an invitation to a ball.
I need to secure the crown once and for all, Nikolai thought. Then he’d have plenty of places to be in his fine clothes. Not that that was the reason he wanted to depose Pasha. But it was an amusing one. He laughed under his breath.
His head ached, though, and he didn’t have any ideas for how to attack Pasha next. What Nikolai wanted was an evening to regroup. And something to eat. He suddenly craved bread and smoked fish, and the dark corners of a tavern.
The Magpie and the Fox, then, he thought, pushing back from his desk. That’s exactly what I need.