The Paleys (1921-1927) - An Alternate Romanov Story

Protest

Petrograd, April 1924

Vladimir

"What I'm trying to say is that we are a year away from the coronation, and the Tsar has not set foot in Russia for five months. I don't know how this is not a clear problem for everyone in this room."

The sketch Vladimir had been drawing of Grand Duke Kyrill screaming at their faces during a meeting of the Grand Dukes was nearly done. He wasn't the best judge of his own work, but he felt tempted to admit that he had managed to portray him exactly as he saw him. His raven hair fell messily over one eye from the strain of his shouting, the veins in his neck bulging, droplets of sweat slicking his forehead. As the finishing touch, Vladimir added a few beads of saliva flying from the Duke's mouth.

Sitting next to him, Grand Duke Michael propped his elbow on the table, his palm resting against his cheek as he glanced over at Vladimir's drawing. His lips twitched at the sight, and he struggled to hide the grin that followed. He quickly turned his mouth away from the others to avoid being caught smirking at Kyrill's expense.

Most of the Grand Dukes were scattered around the stateroom of the Winter Palace, positioned at the long mahogany table, trying to feign interest as Kyrill ranted on about his and his brother's desire to replace Alexei as Tsar. The first few meetings on the subject had been unsettling, but they were beginning to feel more like routine by now. This fourth session had caused the others to subtly glance out the windows, longing to enjoy the first hints of spring that had begun to creep into the city. Vladimir's father had been so tired of the constant repetition of the subject that, this time, he had asked Vladimir to represent him.

Sitting across from Vladimir, his brother Dmitri was slouched in his chair, his boots casually placed on the table, the chair propped up on just two legs. His eyes were closed, giving the impression he was either asleep or, more likely, deliberately ignoring the meeting. Earlier in the meeting, he had been quietly throwing crumpled paper balls ripped from the thick dossier they had all been handed, aiming them straight at Grand Duke Boris's forehead. The paper projectiles only stopped when the others threatened to kick Dmitri out of the meeting.

"Kyrill, everyone in this room knows Alexei is recovering from a serious health issue. He's not lounging on some beach in Cannes by day and carousing at night," Grand Duke Michael said, unable to hide a weary edge to his voice. "He's been informed of all government business, managing his university work, and is actively involved in the coronation preparations. You and your brothers are the only ones treating this as some dereliction of duty."

"You're speaking as if we're all insane," Kyrill shot back. "In what other country does the head of state rule from abroad half the year? This isn't the age of the divine right of kings. People want to see their monarchs! Look at England! Their King inspects troops every week, the Queen opens a hospital practically every day, and the Prince of Wales is off to the Olympics next month. And what do we have to show?"

"Come now, Kyrill," Dmitri drawled from his seat at the end of the table, not bothering to open his eyes or adjust his relaxed posture. "Be thankful you aren't Tsar by the Olympics, or else you might have to watch me win gold in show jumping. Maybe they'd even make you hang the medal around my neck. Wouldn't that just kill you a little inside?"

A ripple of stifled laughter spread around the table, though the senior Grand Dukes didn't look particularly amused. Vladimir pressed his hand over his face to muffle his chuckling while several younger members openly smirked. Dmitri's joke hit closer to home than Kyrill likely cared to admit. Dmitri was indeed training to compete in the Paris Olympics, aiming for gold in the equestrian show jumping category after winning bronze in Stockholm in 1912.

It was no secret within the family that Kyrill harboured a bitter jealousy toward Dmitri—not just for his exceptional skill with horses but for his effortless charm and popularity. Dmitri's role in Rasputin's murder had endeared him to many, while his easygoing personality and striking good looks only amplified his appeal. Kyrill, by contrast, had long been seen as dour and out of touch, and his frequent complaints earned him little sympathy even among the Grand Dukes.