IT WAS A STRANGE KIND of procession that wound its way through the entrance of the Winter Palace. Henry led the small flock of them, talking quietly with an elderly man with a bowed back—some sort of courier. Etta studied the two of them from under her lashes, listening to their muted Russian. A long, seemingly unending red carpet stretched out before them, running along the tile and stonework like an invitation into the palace’s hidden heart.

The cold and shock finally began to thaw out of her. Etta was surprised to find that the palace was well heated despite its immense size, to the point where she shrugged out of her absurd coat and let one of the men in suits take it off her hands.

Behind her, Julian was whistling a faint tune just loudly enough to be annoying. Winifred remained behind him, complaining to the Thorn guards about their “shocking lack of foresight” in the route they’d had the party take. Those men, behind even her, kept slowing their pace, as if trying to build more distance between themselves and the mouth spewing venom at them.

“Is there a way to shut her off? Some hidden switch?”

Etta didn’t turn back or even acknowledge Julian. He was forced to lengthen his strides to keep pace with her. When the sleeve of his formal dinner jacket brushed her arm and she took a generous step away, he gave her an amused look.

“The last girl I chased at least gave me a kiss for my trouble,” he said in a low voice, sparing a quick look at Henry’s back.

“Do you often accept kisses from deranged girls?” Etta asked.

His mouth twisted. “Don’t be sore about that, kiddo. For a second it really looked like you were ready to engage in mortal combat. It was just self-preservation.”

More like wounded pride, she thought. He hadn’t expected her to try to fight her way out of that room in San Francisco, never mind back him into a corner.

“So what do you make of all this?” he asked. “The changes, I mean. I’ve only ever known the world Grandfather created, which I’m guessing is the same for you?”

She looked ahead, breathing in the faintly perfumed air, drinking in the sights around her. It didn’t feel real—she knew that this wasn’t her timeline—but she had expected something about it to register as different to her senses, like seeing the world in a mirror’s reflection. This was a glimpse of what Henry and the others had lost. What the world itself had lost.

But instead of appreciating it, all Etta could think of was the last time she had been in Russia, for the International Tchaikovsky Competition. With Alice. Competing. Winning it all. The Times article. “Classical Music’s Best-Kept Secret.”

All of it had melted away from her life like the snow in the palace’s courtyard, leaving her nothing but pockets of glistening memories that felt like they could disappear completely at any time.

My future isn’t the real future, she reminded herself. It only existed because of one man’s greed.

Etta shook off the thought, reaching up to smooth back a loose strand of hair. Julian walked with the easy nonchalance of someone who had no idea he was being led into the mouth of a wolf. And that soft part of her she had hated so much, the one that now set her apart from her mother, ached a little at the thought. Standing in Ironwood’s presence for less than an hour had been a triumph of courage. She could only imagine what growing up with the man had been like.

“You know…” she began, “you’ll be able to pay him some compliments about it directly. Soon, if I had to guess.”

“Pay him some…” Julian’s words trailed off at the exact moment his eyes widened slightly. He turned away from her, coughing into his fist. “Please. You think…that is, I’m sure you think you’re warning me, but I already know. Of course I do. My best skill is knowing when to leave a party before the fun’s gone.”

“I’m sure that’s been incredibly useful—”

“Etta?” She looked up to find Henry had stopped and was extending his arm to her. “May I escort you in?”

With one last glance at Julian, she crossed that last bit of distance and took Henry’s arm. The courier moved ahead, signaling to the two guards posted at an imposing set of doors to open them. As they stepped into the next room, Etta felt unsteady on her small heels.

“Have they found your man yet?” she asked. “Kadir?”

Henry shook his head, but gave her hand a reassuring pat. “He mentioned in his note that if he did not feel it safe to stay, he would hide the astrolabe somewhere in the palace. It may take days of searching yet, but I haven’t any doubt we’ll find it here as he promised. The others will begin their search immediately, but I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine first. There are a few things I need to discuss with him to secure this timeline.”

The ceiling stretched high above, a dome beautifully painted in the colors of sky and earth, framed—of course—with gold. The black-and-white-checked tile was a quiet design touch compared to the stone figurines of women and angels carved into the arches where the gray granite columns met the roof. Around them, two layers of windows brought in a flood of moonlight to aid the glowing golden sconces. The walls were a pristine white where they weren’t covered with panels of silk or art or gold, most of those embellished to within an inch of their lives with meticulously crafted vines, leaves, and flowers.

The party went up one staircase; on the next landing, steps led left and right, winding up to the same high point overlooking the room.

“This is the Jordan Staircase,” Henry said by way of explanation. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Etta said. “I think it could do with a touch more gold.”

“More gold—” He turned toward her, brows furrowed, before his face broke into a wide smile. “Oh. Sarcasm. That’s a most unattractive trait in a young lady, you know.”

“Yes, sarcasm; one of the many services I have to offer,” Etta said, her voice even more dry, “along with driving Winifred insane.”

He gave her a knowing look. “She’ll soften, given time.”

“The way a fruit softens as it rots away?” she guessed.

He struggled to summon a stern look. “That was unkind.”

But not untrue.

They walked for seemingly forever, until Etta, an experienced city walker, felt like she might want to sit down and take her shoes off, just to spare her toes the agony of being pinched for a few minutes. The rooms blurred together in a rainbow stream—edged, of course, with gold. Blue rooms. Green rooms. Red rooms. Great halls with chandeliers the size of modern trucks. Ballrooms waiting to be filled with flowers and dancers. Parquet floors whose swirling designs were made up of a dozen types of wood. Marble floors so very glossy Etta could see her reflection as she moved over them.

And still, it took another ten minutes before a crisply dressed servant met them at the base of another grand staircase and said, in accented English, “He’ll see you in his study before dinner. Shall I show your guests into a drawing room?”

“I think we all shall wait—” Winifred began.

“I’ll be bringing this young lady with me,” Henry said. “The rest are to have free range of the rooms to conduct their search.”

Etta’s gaze slid over to Julian’s, just as Winifred drew herself to her full height with a huff and curled a thin hand over his shoulder.

Don’t leave me, he mouthed as the woman dragged him away, following another servant back down the hall. Jenkins moved to follow Henry and Etta, but was waved off.

“Sir—” he began.

“We’re safe here,” Henry reassured him. “Lock the Ironwood child in a room and go see to the search. Inform Julian that if he throws a temper tantrum or breaks anything, we’ll certainly break something of his.”

Jenkins nodded, but didn’t look especially pleased as he retreated.

The servant opened the door and went inside, but Henry held Etta back a moment.

“This friend of mine is neither a guardian nor a traveler, though he knows of our existence,” Henry said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I ask that you not share the details of the timeline you grew up with, as it might frighten him into acting rashly.”

Etta nodded and reached up again, pushing a rogue strand of hair back out of her face. Sophia had told her, in no uncertain terms, that to reveal what they could do to any non-traveler brought layers upon layers of consequences. She was surprised Henry was taking the risk at all.

Dark wood paneling surrounded them on all sides, making the awkwardly shaped room seem almost coffinlike. It was so aggressively masculine in its bold lines, the air drenched in wood polish and tobacco, that Etta wondered if the room ever received female visitors. Bookcases, most with glass doors, ran along the edge of the room, broken up in places by small oval portraits of men in military uniform. Around a corner, Etta saw a grand piano peeking out. At the center stood an impressive desk covered with picture frames of all shapes and sizes. She didn’t notice the man sitting behind it, a book open under the glow of a brass desk lamp, until he lifted a tumbler of alcohol to his lips.

“Your Imperial Majesty, Mister Henry Hemlock and Miss Henrietta Hemlock.”

Imperial Majesty.

The words dripped through her mind, slow as syrup.

As in…the tsar.

All at once she understood the warning that Henry had given her, not to speak of the timeline she’d grown up in. Because this man, who stood only an inch taller than her, with neatly combed brown hair and piercing blue eyes, should have been dead a year ago, along with his whole family.

“Thank you, that will be all,” Tsar Nicholas II said, dismissing the servant, who gave one last swift bow on his way out.

“Nicky,” Henry said simply, and it was Etta’s turn to be stunned as he favored the other man with a true, warm smile.

His friend. A friend he hadn’t saved, or hadn’t been able to; one who’d been murdered, along with his family, as a new regime had risen to power in his country. Etta’s hands felt cold and damp inside of her gloves.

This was what it meant to form attachments to people outside of their small, insular world of travelers, Etta realized. They were at the mercy of the timeline. Saving them was no guarantee that events wouldn’t change for the worse, but to live with the knowledge of their deaths…

Etta glanced at Henry again, took in the way he rubbed a hand over his face, fought to keep his expression from slipping. A sharp jolt of pain went straight through her heart. She knew this feeling. She knew this exact brand of painful elation. Seeing a younger Alice had changed her perception of death entirely, forced her to recognize that time wasn’t a straight line. As long as she—as long as any of them—could travel, they wouldn’t be constrained by the natural boundaries of life and death.

And this was what truly set the Thorns apart from the Ironwoods; the old man only saw humanity as tools to carve and hone his vision of what the world should be. But here, in the way Henry had to press a hand to his face to mask his relief, was a kind of love; a compassion for messy, flawed humanity. A wish to spare this life, just as they had struggled to spare the lives of San Francisco’s many fortunate strangers.

The thought made Etta eager to leave, to join the other Thorns combing the rooms for the astrolabe.

All of this could be over in a night. Less than that.

“Oh, dear,” the tsar said with a faint laugh, extending a hand toward him. “I can’t imagine what’s about to happen to me to provoke that sort of reaction from you.”

His English was better than hers, somehow crisp and smooth all at once, with a refined edge.

“No, it’s only—” Henry cleared his throat and laughed. He took the tsar’s hand, releasing Etta to clasp it with his other one. “I was only thinking it’s been so very long. Will you do me the honor of allowing me to introduce my daughter, Henrietta?”

“Daughter!” The tsar came around the desk, grinning. “You never said! What a charming beauty she is.”

Henry nodded. “And wit to match.”

The tsar smiled. “Of course. Intellect and charm.”

“It’s…” Etta realized she should be doing something—something like curtseying—and did an awkward sort of bob at the knees. “It’s incredible to meet you.”

Because, honestly, what else could she say? It was incredible, absurd, and more than a little alarming.

“The pleasure is, of course, all mine.” The tsar turned his attention back toward Henry, repeating that same stunned exclamation, “Daughter! I wish you had sent word. I would have brought my own with me from Tsarkoye Selo. As it was, I hardly had time to travel into the city myself.”

“Please forgive my abhorrent rudeness on the matter. We made an unexpected trip here, as you might have gathered. And, regretfully, I only recently became reacquainted with Henrietta after a number of years apart,” Henry explained. “We’ve been making up for lost time.”

The tsar’s lips twisted into an ironic smile. “It seems odd to me that your kind can ‘lose’ time when you stand to gain so much from it. Please—sit, sit, and tell me, how have you been, my old friend? What news from your own war?”

Oh my God. The knowledge that he was well aware of their world, and had directly benefited from his association with it, made Etta shift uncomfortably. This was the very first lesson of their world Sophia had given her. How chillingly serious the other girl had been when she’d said, if nothing else, they couldn’t reveal themselves or what they could do. They couldn’t share news of the future with the past, save the dead from their fates, or even break character.

The passivity of it had infuriated her, but to see the effects of breaking those rules now, even in the service of something good, was a little frightening.

Etta found herself in a stiff-backed chair without ever remembering sitting down. Henry settled into the chair beside hers. The tsar reclaimed his own.

“It continues,” Henry said. “I take it you became acquainted with two of my men?”

The tsar sat back in his seat, his hands folded over his chest, his initial pleasure dimmed. “I think perhaps you already know the answer to that.”

Henry tried for a smile. “Are you furious with me, then, Nicky?”

“I was many things,” the tsar said. “Defeated soundly by the once-inferior Japan. Humiliated in the eyes of my cousins and peers the world over. Chastised by the poorest of this country for the conditions they were subjected to. Sickened by the Duma taking more and more power, mine by birthright.”

Etta tried to fight her cringe as the man’s voice grew hoarse. “Betrayed by former allies. Humbled by the notion that I have failed to maintain the power of my father and his father before him. But alive. The tsar. My country struggles, as all do in the face of great change, but the reforms you encouraged have been a boon, including the cessation of pogroms against the Jews, which I would never have believed.”

“The recent disturbances…” Henry began, looking troubled.

“Already tidied up,” the tsar finished. “I will find a way to soothe the ruffled feathers.”

“I’m certain of it. But what of the treaties?”

“Breaking them came more easily than I might have imagined, with France aiding the revolutionaries, who were misguided in thinking one less monarchy would better the world. It was a simple thing to stand against political assassinations, given the history of my family. Serbia was a sacrifice, but one that kept us from the war.”

The First World War, Etta thought, straightening. Russia had lost millions of soldiers; the badly managed effort, the poor conditions at home, and the machinations of other governments had all led to the ousting of the tsar, and his own eventual assassination.

“I hated you. Bitterly, I’m afraid, for countless years,” the tsar said. “I cursed you with every breath. But I trusted you and prayed on each decision. Your family has been the steward of mine for many generations, the caretaker of this land for longer than even the Romanovs.”

As in…guiding their choices? Etta wondered. Advising them on the right ones to make?

How was that any different than what the Ironwoods were doing?

“I thought you were against interfering in the timeline?” Etta asked Henry, however rude they might think her for interrupting.

“Oh, no, Etta, it’s not quite like that,” he said, quickly. “We worked very diligently to protect the timeline from the changes other families were making, especially as they pertained to ruining the fortunes of this part of the world.”

“That is true,” the tsar said. “They have never bowed to the demands of my family for more information, for ways to overcome our enemies. They have been protectors, not puppeteers.”

Settled somewhat, Etta nodded. Henry turned back to the tsar.

“The Germans no longer had quite as much interest in your rule, did they,” Henry said knowingly, “once they considered you humiliated after the war with Japan. Did they even bother with Lenin?”

The tsar shook his head. “And now they are quite busy, as is the rest of the world, with pulling themselves back together after their own humiliation. Your traveler war seems to be the only one which cannot find its end.”

Henry smiled. “We might surprise you yet. Did one of my men indicate they would be hiding something in the palace during their visit in 1905? Do you recall?”

The tsar stroked his mustache. “I’m afraid not. They were harried and bloodied, in no state to do anything but hand off your letter. The guards were reluctant to let them in to see me. They were given food and rooms to rest, but by dinner they had fled again. I’ll have one of the maids show you to their rooms after dinner—you’ll stay and dine with me, won’t you? Your men will be busy searching. There are fifteen hundred rooms here, you’ll recall.”

And how many hundreds of hiding places in each? Impatience stirred in her. We’ll be searching for days.

“Where is your foe now? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you look quite so relaxed.”

“My spies have Ironwood safely ensconced in an earlier century, in Manhattan. His men are far too distracted by the changes in America to focus on you and your country.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the tsar said, showing what Etta thought was admirable restraint in not pushing for more details. The man took only what was offered, though he probably had ways and means of demanding more. He reached back for his glass and held it up in Henry’s direction.

“Yes, thank you,” Henry said as the tsar crossed the room to a small cabinet, where a crystal decanter was stored.

“I’ll take one, too,” Etta said before she could stop herself. The tsar laughed as he poured out the liquor into the two glasses, but Etta wasn’t joking. She could have used the liquid courage to prop her nerves up. Her back only straightened as the tsar passed the glass to Henry and resumed his former position.

“Tell me about yourself, my dear,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ve got me at a disadvantage, as you likely know more about me than even I do.”

Etta swallowed again, feeling Henry’s gaze bore into the side of her head.

“Well,” she began, “I grew up with my mother in New York City some time past, ah, now.”

The tsar raised his glass to Henry. “For your own protection, I’m sure. A wise choice, my friend. There are times I wish I had done it myself. But continue, child.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything else all that interesting,” Etta said, then added, “beyond the obvious, I mean. I’ve recently begun to travel. I do play the violin, too.”

“A fine pursuit!”

“The tsar is a great lover of music,” Henry explained, visibly relaxing. “You should know, Your Imperial Majesty, that Henrietta has quite undersold herself. She’s exceedingly talented and has won numerous international competitions for her skill.”

Etta turned toward him, her heart in an absolute riot—because, for a minute, he’d sounded like he was bragging about her.

To the last tsar of Russia.

“Brilliant,” the tsar said. “You’ll play for me, won’t you?”

“I—yes—what?” Etta blinked.

“She’s got Tchaikovsky in her repertoire,” Henry continued.

“I do, but—”

“The violin concerto, no doubt,” the tsar said, crossing the room in several quick strides. He retrieved a small case from where it was tucked beneath the piano.

That looks like—

A violin case.

“Oh,” Etta said, feeling rather stupid. “You meant right now.”

The tsar’s smile fell somewhat as he set the case down on his desk. “I shouldn’t have presumed you’d feel comfortable—”

“No, I’m happy to,” she said. The usual tingle of stage fright was gone, swept off by an overpowering sense of longing—for the instrument, for the music. Weeks had passed since the concert at the Met, and Etta hadn’t gone longer than two days without playing since she was five years old. The anticipation hit her like a drug, and she was shaking with it.

“Wonderful. It will send us to dinner on a pleasing note. Henry, you’ll accompany her, won’t you?”

Henry stood, too, ignoring Etta’s look of surprise. Accompany her—the violin concerto was generally played with a full orchestra, but there was, of course, a reduction for a simple violin and piano duet. Sure enough, Henry was moving toward the piano, trailed by the tsar. He took a seat at its bench.

“Perhaps just the first movement,” he suggested. “Unless you’d prefer the second?”

“Yes—I mean, of course. The first movement is fine.” Etta realized that she was still standing by the tsar’s desk, stunned and trembling with nerves, and quickly moved to join them. She accepted the violin, taking a moment to simply feel the slight weight of it in her hands, to let her palm run down the graceful neck, along the striped grain of the wood.

There was a single moment when she debated the propriety of taking off her gloves, but went for it regardless, needing to feel the instrument against her fingertips. She tossed the long lengths of silk over the back of the nearest chair. If the tsar was scandalized, he didn’t show it, merely wetting his mustache as he took another deep sip of his drink.

Henry pushed back his sleeves, giving himself more freedom of movement. Etta wondered if he was truly planning to play without any sheet music, and felt a swell of admiration despite herself.

“When you’re ready,” he said.

She drew the instrument up, tucking it beneath her chin. She’d played this piece any number of times, the last of which being the competition in Moscow; Alice had never favored it all that much, despite its dominance in their world, and loved to repeat an early review of the concerto that claimed to play it was to “beat the violin black-and-blue.” She only hoped she remembered it well enough to do it justice, and not humiliate herself in front of her…in front of her father again, like she had at the Met concert.

Her left shoulder stung with the effort of keeping the instrument up, but Etta pushed past the strain, forced her hands to stop shaking, and drew the bow against the strings. She nodded to Henry, who made his gentle entrance into the piece on the piano, launching them into the music.

And that was how Etta found herself playing Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in the early twentieth century for Tsar Nicholas II.

The piece wasn’t just hard, it was devilishly difficult, to the point that Etta wondered if Henry hadn’t suggested it because of Tchaikovsky’s obvious ties to Russia, but because he wanted to showcase her skills in the flashiest way possible.

But from the first note, it was like learning to breathe again—the simple relief of hearing the music, using that part of her mind and heart. The tactile presence of the violin swept her away as she began, gliding into the gorgeous framework Henry established, announcing the piece’s main theme.

The first movement of the concerto built and built, adding a theme, repeating the main theme, creating variations that grew more athletic. The runs became faster, reaching an amazing cadenza that made Etta’s heart feel like it would burst from the joy of it.

Her eyes flicked over to Henry, watching his own eyes slide shut, as if imagining each phrase as he carved it out on the keys. An expression of pure, unself-conscious joy.

This is where it came from, she thought in wonder. I inherited it.

And that was what she would still have, now that she had altered the course of her life. No concerts, or competitions, or debuts—simple joy. And, much like seeing how Henry had nudged the timeline to reveal its secrets, it wasn’t bad; it was different. It was a new, sweeter future to match the world’s.

When it was over, Etta reluctantly lowered the violin, and let the world back in.

The tsar clapped, rising to his feet. “Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful, the two of you. Perhaps we won’t discuss business after, but will simply play—”

There was a faint knock at the door, and the same servant that had escorted them in stepped back inside at the tsar’s command to enter.

“Ah, of course. Every dream ends. That will be dinner, then,” he said, retrieving the violin from Etta.

AS THEY WALKED TO DINNER, TRAILING THE TSAR, Henry whispered, “You’ve got an odd look on your face. Is something the matter?”

“No, I just…” Etta lifted her gaze off the plush carpet and looked at the man ahead of them. “It surprised me—that he’s just a normal person. That he’s a real person, I mean, not just words on paper or a photograph. And nice.”

Even with the infinite possibilities of time travel, Etta hadn’t truly considered that she might meet someone famous or noteworthy. She and Nicholas had kept to themselves, avoiding the people around them as much as possible, and she’d assumed it was the same with other travelers, too. All her life, she’d thought of these historical figures as still lifes, to be studied through a layer of distance and glass like precious objects in a museum.

Henry snorted. “He’s real, all right. And as fallible as any of us uncrowned mortals. He is rather nice to his friends, but of course, there have been many versions of his life that have seen him oppressive, cruel to those of other beliefs, foolish, and even blind to the needs of his most vulnerable subjects. You could say it was because he came to power too soon, before he was ready; because he picked poor advisors; or that it was a collision of unfortunate events. But I’ve seen it, time and time again: he cannot stop the march of a future that no longer has a place for him and his family.”

“He’s killed in this original timeline, too?” Etta whispered.

Henry rubbed a gloved hand over his forehead, considering his answer. “His death…it’s inevitable. The events leading up to it grew worse and worse with Ironwood’s interferences and alterations, but it has happened, and it will happen; only this time, it must play out the way it was intended a year from now.”

He took a deep breath. “You remember what I told you before, that we must accept it, we must be ready to sacrifice what we have in order to see to the well-being of the whole? When I was younger, I came up with so many scenarios, so many different plans of how to save him, this one life, and still keep the timeline intact. But the pattern is undeniable. He is taken again and again; we are separated again and again. That is why I believe that certain things are destined; I can see the patterns, and cannot deny the repetition and the greater purpose they are trying to serve. At least in this timeline, I can be content in knowing the rest of his family will only go into exile.”

A tremor of sadness in the words, but also resignation. “Etta…I wish I could spare you this, but it is inevitable that you, too, will be asked to relinquish something. You will see the pattern, too.”

Etta tightened her grip on his arm, giving him a reassuring squeeze. In truth, she didn’t know how to comfort him, or what to say, but she was grateful beyond words that he could see his friend again, even if it was for the last time. She would have shattered every rule the travelers had ever imposed if it meant being able to throw herself into Nicholas’s arms and feel his steady heartbeat murmuring beneath her cheek.

As much as he presented himself to the world with a grin and an infectious laugh, every now and then Etta caught a glimpse of the part of himself that Henry tried to hide. It complicated her perception of him, made her want to study him that much more closely. She’d had a hard time seeing how her mother, who was so cold and sharp at times that she could cut without a single word, had ever found herself entangled with someone who acted as though laughing and smiling were as necessary to him as oxygen. But now Etta had seen the embattled parts of him; she’d witnessed that irresistible quality he had that made him a friend of tsars and Thorns alike.

“Henrietta…Etta,” he corrected himself. Her heart gave a twist at his gentle tone. “You play exceptionally well. My compliments to Alice. I don’t think she’d mind my saying that you surpass even her skill.”

He’d heard Alice play at some point. She smiled sadly. It helped, somehow, to know that someone else remembered the way Alice had made her violin sing.

“Thank you,” Etta said. “How long have you played the piano?”

“Nearly my whole life,” Henry said. “From before I was tall enough to reach the pedals.”

Etta nodded, her fingers pressing against his sleeve. “It must be hard to find time to play. What with all the traveling. Hiding. Scheming.”

“Not as hard as you might think,” he said. “I make time. It’s true that altering timelines or events is a kind of creation, but there are always consequences, good or bad. Music is something I can create that is neither. It simply is the meeting of the composer’s mind with my heart. Oh, dear—” He laughed. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. It’s rather maudlin, even for me.”

Etta smiled. It had made perfect sense to her.

“Why do you play?” he asked her. “Not just play—why would you want to make it your life?”

Etta had been asked this question so many times over the years—by Alice, by reporters, by other performers—and had asked it of herself even more often. Every answer had been a reprise of the same practiced refrain. And yet here, with Henry, she felt safe enough to admit the other truths, the ones she had pushed so far back in her heart they’d begun to rust. The ones she hadn’t even shared with Nicholas.

“I wanted to find something that would make Mom proud of me. Something I could excel at,” she told him. “But some part of me thought that if I was out there performing, if everyone knew my name, I might reach my father or his family. They might recognize me. They’d hear my music and want to come find me. Know me.” She let out a deep breath. “It’s stupid, I know.”

Up ahead, the tsar had slowed to greet Winifred and Jenkins near yet another of the palace’s elaborate doors. Their voices carried down the hall, punctuated by polite laughter.

Just as Winifred turned to make her way over to them, Henry looked away, thumbing at his eye. When he looked back at her, nearly stricken, she wasn’t sure what to do, other than tighten her hold on his arm.

They were still feeling around each other’s edges. Trying to learn the same étude, each trial bringing them closer and closer to learning the skills of caring for the other.

“I heard you, Etta,” he said softly. “I heard you.”