Page 4 of My Wild Horse King

“If we don’t take the portraits down, someone will eventually notice that her eyes are the only blue ones, amid a sea of deep russet.”

I’m not his child.

That’s my first thought, and it would fit. If my mother had been unfaithful. . . But that can’t be. I’ve been mastering my powers, and last week, I shifted into my equine form for the first time. That’s a magic unique to the Yurovsky line—my father’s magic.

But he’s still talking.

He’s arguing with someone who doesn’t speak nearly as loudly as he does, perhaps Mrs. Cerny, our housekeeper. “Of course not,” he mutters angrily. “But no one must know that her mother wasn’t legitimate. Even her grandfather doesn’t know, or he’d never have given her mother that dowry, and then I’d be in even bigger trouble than I am.”

Legitimate?

My mother—whose dowry famously saved my father’s estate—was not actually my grandfather’s child? And my grandfather’s struggling now, after a dispute with the czar. I’m sure if Grandfather had an excuse, he’d demand all that money back from my father in a heartbeat.

“But of course,” my father bellows, clearly growing more agitated. “Not a single war to wage since the cursed Turkish mess that stupid San Stefano destroyed, which means our powers are essentially useless. The only way to clear the current debts is with another well-planned marriage. And when this fell right into my lap, it must be fate.” He guffaws. “Seventeen’s more than old enough.”

I can’t help the squeak I make. No one has spoken to me about marriage at all—this is to be my first ball.

But when Father’s head pokes around the corner, his eyes widen and his nostrils flare. “Katerina.”

I swallow.

“You should not be listening in on adult conversations around corners.”

“Why not?” I can’t help myself. “If I’m old enough to get married, aren’t I old enough to find out about it?”

Father steps into plain view, his eyes flinty, and he straightens his coat. “I think you’ll find that not much changes for women, when they become old enough to marry. Instead of listening to me, you’ll simply be expected to listen to your husband.”

“I don’t have a husband.” I frown. “And sometimes it barely feels like I have a father.”

My dad’s hand moves so quickly that I barely see it before his palm striking my cheek sends my entire body flying toward the wall. The sound of my body slapping into the wall is so loud that I can’t tell whether it was the force or the sound that sets my ears ringing.

“My Lord, beating her just before a ball is not a good plan,” Mrs. Cerny says softly. “It begins in less than two hours.”

Once the spots clear from my eyes, I see our housekeeper standing a suitable distance behind my father, her head bowed. She may not dare to defy him, but she did defend me in her way. I appreciate the effort, however feeble.

“You will go to your room and rest until the ball,” Father says sharply. “And when you come down, you’ll be reconciled to the idea of marriage.” He drops his voice. “It should hardly be a new one. You’ve known that proper ladies marry since the day you were born.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t even notice the rip in the dress, so that feels like a small win. The bad news is that my lady’s maid insists she can’t repair it quickly enough for the ball without leaving visible lines, so I’m stuck choosing. I can wear a gown from last year, with skirts that are noticeably too short, or I can pin a strange sash over the clumsy repair.

I opt for the sash.

Who knows? Maybe it’ll start a new trend, even if the gown is pale cream with green flourishes while the sash is bright blue.

I’ve certainly seen stranger things.

As I walk down the stairs, I notice that Dad and Boris are both waiting at the bottom for me. “You, too?” I lift my chin. “And you’re fine with it?”

Boris—ten years older than me—has never been much of a brother, but I always thought that if it came down to it, he’d do whatever it took to keep me safe. “Lord Engelhardt’s respectable. You shouldn’t fight Father about this.”

As I step onto the main floor, my jaw drops. “You—not only do you approve of marrying me off, but you’ve already picked out the man?”

Father and Boris wear nearly identical expressions of immutable resolve. I pelt them with questions the entire carriage ride to the Winter Palace, but they either deflect or outright refuse to answer all of them.

“At least tell me about this Lord Engelhardt,” I say. “Is he my age? Is he tall? Short? Where does he live?”

Father compresses his lips, glancing out the window of our carriage and watching resolutely as we pull up in front of the massive, three-story-tall green and white palace. The windows appear to be practically endless as we roll past, but eventually our carriage comes to a stop in the front.

“He’s very wealthy,” Father finally says. “And he’s delighted to meet you and finalize your engagement tonight.” As if that’s all the information I could possibly want, he climbs out of the carriage and strides toward the massive front doors, leaving Boris and me to scramble along behind him.

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