Rasputina and the Witch's Tsar

Chapter Eight

"Miss Maria?" Alexei sits at the window, tracing patterns into the frost lingering on the panes. I can see his veins through his skin, and every time he coughs, I have to rub little circles into his shoulder.

            "Yes, little one?" I press his sand-brown hair behind one ear, watching the careful curve above his cheek, the slope beyond his jaw. He's getting healthier since I last saw him, unless that's foolish hope leading me on. I imagine he stands easier, breathes better.

            "Will I die?" He blinks, long lashes fluttering against my skin as he presses his forehead against my arm, nuzzling his head beneath my palm.

            "Aw, Alexei. What a silly question." I press my lips against his cheek. "Not while I'm around. I'll fight death for you."

            His eyes widen, glimmering with youthful energy. "Will you use your magic?"

            "Of course, I have magic. Only the best for a little royal." I lower my head to his, as we're resting on his bed. The poor baby has more of a sickbed than an actual room. Covers piled high, in disarray. Toys in neat piles because he's sleeping most of the days away. The boring grammar books, scattered bits of etiquette and texts from other lands. Rows of tutors, servants, but no friends to play with. Can't risk revealing the young prince's secret.

It's not right, for a child to have his whole world restricted behind four walls. It's not right for the young to be weaker than the old.

            "Miss Mary?" He tugs on my robe again. Homespun black, warm and slightly itchy. Just like Kaskil promised for me. "Can I see some magic?"

            I sigh, ruffling his hair. "Little one, it's so early..."

            He widens his eyes, bouncing up and down on his toes. Puffing his cheeks out. I shake my head, reminded of my own children waiting with Paraskevas back home. My own children, who've heard horrors about their mother. Never the truth. Maybe... I can get them out of the village. If I do my job well enough, then maybe they can join me in St. Petersburg.

            I relent, if only for my own children's sakes.

            I point outside the window, at a bird with heavy black feathers weighing it down. It's hopping around in the snow. "See that black bird, all alone?" I whisper into Alexei's ear, the little prince's hair curling around my lips. His fingers curl around my outstretched hand, the baby fat thinner than most healthier children. "Mr. Bird's feeling sickly. That's why he can't fly." I point to the scattered tracks in the snow, the desperate claw marks. The bird flutters upwards slightly, only to fall back down, off-balance. "But I'm going to heal him."

            Alexei nods, still staring out at the snow. So intense. Reminding me of an old man. I press my fingers against his, pointing at the bird. I mumble a few words beneath my breath. Words I learned in Athens. Words I carried across the Holy Land, etched into my skin. Writ into my bones, my blood. Fly. Fly. Fly.

            The bird's fluttering increases, desperately clawing at the snow. Alexei's eyes widen.

            Another moment, a heartbeat. The bird flaps and caws. Digging its nails into the snow, running in patterns. The rhythm increases. The pattern continues. The bird spins, spins, spins. I feel the magic leaving me, feel it enter the bird. Feel it all, washing over the bird, drained into its skin. Its breath.

            A moment, the ice-cold air stills. The snow outside the window seems to shudder to a horrid stop. The world holds. Silence.

            "Look! Look!" Alexei taps excitedly at the window panes. The bird takes to the skies, a rush of black across the gray heavens. "You did it! Your magic."

            "She did a wonderful job." We turn around, and Alexei flings himself at the newcomer. It's none other than Tsar Alexandr. He dons black boots, a smart gray jacket against the cold. His shoulders fill out the doorframe, an ornamental sword swinging at his hip. He nods his head to me, ruffling Alexei's hair absentmindedly. "Miss Rasputina. Good day."

            I curtsy in response, "Tsar Alexandr, the pleasure is mine."

            He raises an eyebrow, lip curling slightly. "Is it allyours?" A blush spreads over his cheeks, and he coughs gently into his hand. "Tell me how you did it. With the bird."

            I smirk at his coyness. So subtle. He doesn't flirt often, or if he does, then he must be terrified of me to blush so much. "Magic is a secret writ in flesh and bone."

            He steps forwards, hands linked behind his back, as though to avoid moving too close to me. Scared to touch, yet close enough to. "What if I called you out on your farce? My advisors tell me it's little more than parlor tricks. Magnets and string."

            "Then they're entitled to their opinions, as are you. But I know magic, and they would too, if they wielded anything more than their... tongues." I have to bite my own tongue to keep from revealing my crudeness too early. Not with Alexei here.

            Tsar Alexandr doesn't miss the innuendo though. He cups Alexei's tiny cheek in his palm, smiling fondly down at his son. "He's never looked happier. We're glad for you."

            I curtsy again as he moves to leave the room. Alexei trots back to me, pointing at other birds outside the window. "Magic again! Again!"

            I don't break eye contact with the tsar until he sweeps his way out the chamber. Sand-brown hair. High cheekbones. The imperious glare of Queen Victoria.

            This is Tsar Alexandr.

            Grandson of Queen Victoria.

            And then there's me, the vědma.

            "Miss Rasputina?" A servant rushes in just as I pour more tea for Alexei. A brew to strengthen his spine. To fill his blood with ice, skin with the strength of kings.

            "Yes?"

            The servant bows again, notably avoiding my gaze. Afraid, like the rest of them.

            "The Tsarina requests your presence."

            I stand, fixing a blanket around Alexei's shoulders before I go. I wonder what the mother of Russia has to do with me. But no, I know the answer. She's just like me, after all.

            Answers.

            Questions.

            And power.