Seven Witches

sixteen

Vladimir;

Vladimir didn't think there would be anyone more frustrating than the British ambassador. She was the image of annoying, constantly trying to play her way into letting him give up one of the royal Faberge eggs.

She wore gowns the colour of honey and sunshine, only to change them the next day and never look back at them. He wondered if she played herself into becoming an ambassador too, because from what he saw from her, she had no political opinions or skills.

The British were a weird lot, the men who accompanied her wore ridiculous wigs that reminded him of teacups and birds. She herself spoke Russian fluently however, those with her spoke it poorly. In fact, it was so poor that he'd sometimes ignore them to avoid burning what's left of his brain.

He couldn't recall the last time he sat down with only himself in the room for a full minute because the guests seemed to never be content with anything at all. Sometimes they wanted raspberry tarts and other times they wanted black tea. During breakfast, they picked at their plates and fluttered their lashes, noses crinkled.

He couldn't stand one minute with them.

Vladimir still had the issue of capturing Cythera. Even when he had found the handmaiden who was responsible for her escape, he couldn't find out from her exactly where she went.

It spoiled his mood then and now, to know that she had escaped. He never though of himself as a jailer, not until now. He was no villain, he was not his father, he was not the arrogant selfish man his father was.

It was the one thing he utterly feared; to become what his father had once been. He feared so much more than he feared Russia's fall because if he became his father, Russia will fall and it would be his fault—that he cannot bear.

If Cythera was not found and the immortal's words were truth... he didn't know what he would do then. There was the problem of the Ottoman Empire, then France, and then the people's mistrust of him. He couldn't possibly put his country under anymore danger.

Tsar Vladimir was grateful he was in his room now as he opened the drawer and pulled out his pipe.

He filled the chamber of the pipe with tobacco, placing the button between his lips with one hand and using the lighter to start the smoke with the other. Inhaling deeply, feeling the warm smoke damage his chest, he pushed the idea out of his mind. Russia cannot fall, it cannot fall, not as long as there is breath in his body.

He huffed out a cloud of smoke, watching it fade slowly. If she left The Winter Palace, then she must be somewhere in the cities. She couldn't have fled the country in such a short time, couldn't have gone so far already where people won't see her.

For all he knows she is alone, in the city, in danger. She could be raped or killed or enslaved or—

He didn't care. No, he cared, but only because her presence is vital for the security of his country. Yes, only for that one reason, one and only one.

Vladimir watched the pendulum of the clock swing with passing seconds. It was almost time for lunch, lunch with the Brits whom he needed to please for Britain to aid him against the looming war.

He set his pipe down and changed his clothes so that they won't smell the smoke on him. Making sure his eyebrows were straight and his hair was kept, he left to the dining room.

When he arrived, his sister and brother and every uncle and aunt that weren't killed, were present. They all stood, bowed for two heartbeats before he asked them to rise. He was so sick of all the bowing and curtsies.