Page 60 of My Trojan Horse Majesty

“Hey, can you tell me where we are? Or what time it is?” I shiver. “It’s freezing and I’m definitely not dressed for the weather.”

But I notice that he’s also not dressed very appropriately. His clothing’s tattered, torn, filthy, and. . .not from our time period. But more concerning, the boy acts like he can’t even hear me. When he stands, he stares right at me, but his eyes aren’t focused, and then, he walks right through my body, like I’m a ghost.

Did Idie? What’s happening?

“Leonid!” It’s a man’s voice calling—most definitely not Leonid—and I spin around just as fast as he does. If he’s here somewhere, surely Leonid will listen to me. Surely he’ll be able to sense me, thanks to our connection.

“I’m cold, Papa.” The boy’s shivering too, and I notice that in addition to the insubstantial and tattered clothing, he’s not wearing shoes.

Now that I think about it, I’m not actually too cold myself. It’s more like I’ve been conditioned to be cold when I hear screaming wind, see flurries of snow, and notice moisture puffing out of people’s mouths when they speak. My arms have no goosebumps, however, and my hands aren’t trembling.

Probably because I’m not really here.

As I start to catch on, I notice other things. No one else is here—no Leonid. No one else I can see at all, other than the boy and the older man.

The clothing the little boy’s wearing is trousers, a plain, dirty tunic covering them, and no coat. Unlike me, what I can see of his arms is pebbled with gooseflesh. His feet, his small bare feet, look cold, wet, and ragged. “I want to go. Please, Papa.”

“Leonid,” the man hisses. “They said they’d meet me here. I promised them.”

The boy closes his eyes, and then he turns around. “But Father, they didn’t seem to be good men.”

“What could you possibly know about good men?” the man asks. “You’re not yet eleven.”

I realize that they’re speaking Russian, but somehow, I understand it. I suppose it’s no stranger than anything else I’ve experienced the last few days. I wonder whether this is some kind of delusional dream or something else. Maybe it’s connected to our strange bond.

“They made too many jokes,” tiny Leonid says. “They were too jovial to be good men. You shouldn’t have brought me here, and you never should have brought that.” Leonid points at what looks like a bundle of cloth on the ground. “We could sell that for?—”

Without warning, his father advances on him and backhands him across the face. “We wouldneversell these. They’re the only evidence of our royal blood. Without these, we’ll never claim our rightful place on the throne. Never.”

Tiny Leonid already has the vibrant green eyes I love so much. When he rolls them, I laugh out loud. I half-expect him to hear me. He’s careful that his father can’t see him, which is terribly sad. He didn’t mention this when he was telling his story, but his own father was awful to him. “I’m sorry, Father. Forgive me.”

“You’re too young to understand anything.” His father trots back and crouches over the bundle, stroking it with his hand. “Too young, yet. But one day, one day we’ll be restored with power and glory.” His father’s eyes are glowing in a very unhealthy way.

“Not if you keep drinking yourself half to death.” Leonid collapses against the fountain, presumably to settle in and wait for the people his father’s hoping to meet.

“Did you see Vasily’s cloak?” I can’t tell whether his father really expects an answer, or whether he’s talking to himself. “The gold embroidery alone must be worth. . .” His voice drops until I can’t hear it anymore, but he’s clearly still mumbling something.

That’s when I notice that Leonid’s dabbing at his lip with his grimy sleeve. His father split it open, not that he cares. I crouch down in front of small Leo, trying in the moonlight to make out the features that will one day look like they’re practically carved in marble.

He’s so young.

So vulnerable.

An awful idea occurs to me. He told me that once, after his father told them about his signet ring, scepter, and crown, some men came andstolethem. Could that be what I’m about to witness? Is tonight the night his family loses everything? Leonid said things grew far worse after that, but I don’t see how they could get much worse than they appear to be right now.

Leonid’s already barely more than a wraith. His arms are bony, his face dirty, and he’s not wearing shoes. It’s far too cold for him to have to endure any of this. “Oh, Leo,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

His head snaps up, his eyes widening, almost like he can hear me.

“Did you. . .can you hear me?” I whisper.

He frowns.

I run a hand down the side of his face. “If you can, hang on, please. Your life will get harder still, but you’re going to become a very great man one day. A very great, very handsome, and very powerful man.”

He freezes, and his head tilts. Then he blinks.

“I—I’ll be waiting for you. Don’t give up hope.”

---