Rasputina and the Witch's Tsar

Chapter Four

"Can you fix him?"

I take in the view of the shaking boy on the bed, Alexei. He's nothing like in the photographs they post in the papers. A bright, athletic boy, always out getting into scrapes and troubles. No wonder, really. Tsarina Nikola doesn't want this bedridden, shaking creature on the front pages. I remember her imperious gaze, the riding crop she wielded.

Who would want to give up a power that's so tenuous? Who would dare show weakness to all of Russia when the monarchy struggled enough? I heard the people's whispers, like leaves rustling in the wind. I saw the future, printed in the stars.

I prayed that my prediction was wrong, for their sake.

"Yes," I press my thumb and forefinger to the child's vein. He shakes even harder, like a wild animal, cornered. Blood seeps from his wounds, never stopping. Never clotting. I could sense it, practically taste it, this disease. "It's not your fault."

"What?" His soft eyes widen. Tsar Alexandr stumbles over his words, giving me the opportunity to feign searching the room for him. I knew exactly where he was.

"This illness. It's not your fault. You may think it is, but you wouldn't have known that you carried this disease inside you." I peer closer at him. He's not tall, but nobody's perfect. His calves are shapely. Is that a thing? Monarchs and shapely calves... "It's a disease throughout all the royals. Weak blood. Weak wills."

"Y-you... you just insulted..." He stumbles over his own tongue again. I smile, take a step forward.

He takes a step back. How he must regret dismissing the servants.

"I told the truth, as God has given it to me. Or the devil, depending on whose words you believe." I smile, turning back to the boy. "In the Holy Land, I saw men walk across coals. I saw penitents whipping their own backs in shame for their sins. I saw women go out to the desert without food, only to come back after forty days claiming they were cleansed and carrying an angel's child." I press a cold hand, my hands always seemed perpetually freezing, to the child's forehead. I press his soft, sandy hair back. His eyes are wet, turning to me. In so much pain, losing so much blood, blood that never ceases in this disease. Never heals right.

"You claim God speaks to you?"

I shrug, pressing a thumb into little Alexei's forehead. He stops shuddering, his eyes fixated on mine. The devilish blue of ice and snow, boring into his gaze. He hardly breathes. What a sight to wake up to. I wouldn't call myself ugly, but frightening seems like a safe word to use.

"The closest way to being godlike is through sin. I claim nothing. Believe everything." I smile slightly. The young boy mirrors my grin. I pray he hasn't heard my words. Yet still, I pray he has. Better for him, my so-called brand of wickedness.

"Papa?" He calls. Alexandr falls to his knees, skidding on his fine clothes, tearing the seams in his rush to care for his child. "Papa, is that you?"

I sigh, brushing my hands off on my ratty, torn and muddied skirt. "My work here is done." But Alexandr hardly hears me.

The father presses his son's clammy palm to his cheek. Alexandr's cheek's covered in the lightest dusting of stubble. I imagine the tsar would make a good lover. Not that tall, nicely muscled from all that riding and fencing practice. I wonder if he always speaks with that hesitant accent. I wonder how the words would sound, if he spoke to me in English, if he'd be more confident then. Confident enough to call my name.

Alexandr...

I wonder if Queen Victoria would be proud of her grandson then.

"About that bath the good tsarina promised me..." I beam as the foreign-married tsar's warm brown eyes turn to me. He rises to his feet, steps close. Takes my hand in his grasp. His gratitude outweighs his primary hesitation towards me.

"I'll pour you the bath myself!" He crows. Sensing his misstep, he blushes and rephrases. "I mean. I'll have the servants set out fresh clothing. You can stay at the palace as long as you need, Miss Rasputina. I'll ensure it. What you've done, my child was crying out in pain all through the night. One moment with you, and he's well enough to speak!"

He steps back, noticing my own cool indifference. Indifference is all I can muster these days, when some call me saint, and others, devil. It's the best way to protect yourself, as magic only goes so far. "Thank you, your highness."

He nods, his palms still clasped around my hand. He pulls away, his touch lingering. "I'll see to it you're taken care of. Nothing will be denied to you, should you choose to stay and heal my little Alexei further."

I grin. My family back home, they'd call out my bluff. They'd see the horse-thief, the seducer, the wanderer of world and spirit.

"My name is Matryona Grigorievna Rasputina, good tsar." I press my lips to his ring in a kiss that's by no means needed according to custom, but necessary according to my own interest. "But you can call me Maria."

We both know that words are hollow, but my power is not.

It extends, digging shadows and roots deep beneath the Winter Palace. Even the Russian-born Tsarina's throne.

If it goes deep enough, St. Petersburg may stand against the whispers of what's coming. But even the power of a vědma won't be enough to save the Romanovs. Though I'll try.