Page 65 of The Crown's Game
Vika seemed to relax into her chair. “Let me guess. Keep an eye on me?” She smiled kindly.
Renata stared at the table and focused on the floral pattern of the tablecloth.
“You know about the Game,” Vika said.
Renata considered hiding under her table. She had promised Nikolai she wouldn’t tell anyone about the Game. Of course, her promise probably did not cover telling the other enchanter, since Vika already knew, but as Renata nodded, she still felt she had breached her word.
“I understand if you don’t want to read my leaves,” Vika said.
“I think I already know what they will say. I think you do, too.”
“That either Nikolai or I will die in the Game.” She cast her eyes downward to the table.
“Yes.”
“I suppose I was hoping this Game would be different from the ones in the past. That perhaps the tsar somehow wouldn’t have to choose only one of us.” Vika looked back up. “I was hoping for a miracle.”
Renata was, as well. She wanted so badly to read Vika’s leaves, and yet, what was the point? If she already knew what they would say . . .
But morbid curiosity latched onto her, and she reached across the table to take Vika’s cup. This would be her only chance to see into Nikolai’s future again. He had refused to let her read his leaves after she’d read so much darkness in them the last time. Perhaps Vika’s cup would shed some light.
The leaves were grouped in three small clusters. Three separate but related prophecies. At the top of the cup were two curved leaves that almost formed a heart, but for a third leaf that jutted into it. It represented love—possibly from a lover, but possibly from parents, siblings, or friends—and it foretold that love for Vika would always come with suffering. But Renata didn’t tell her so. It seemed cruel. And, selfishly, Renata didn’t want to say anything about love. She didn’t want Vika to think about the word “love” when she was asking about the Game and Nikolai.
So Renata skipped those leaves and went to the next cluster, three arched leaves, one right after another. “This could mean movement.”
“Like a journey?”
“Yes. Or emotional movement, internal change. I don’t know. It’s a bit vague.”
“I see.” Vika bit her lip. “And what about that one?”
Renata swallowed. The leaf she’d indicated was a sharp line with a jagged edge. There was another short leaf across the top, like a hilt. “A knife. Death.”
“Oh.” Vika sagged in her chair.
“The crookedness means it is not as expected.”
“But one of us will still die.”
“One of you will still die.” Renata clutched the sides of the cup tightly. Both she and Vika stared at the leaves, as if they could will them to move and prophesy something else instead. In that moment, it seemed that the canal next to them turned black. But when Renata looked again, the water was purple.
And there was something else in the leaves, although Renata didn’t say it, for she suddenly felt as if she’d revealed too much.
But Vika stared at her. “What is it?”
“What is what?”
“The thing you’re keeping from me.”
“I’m not—”
“Renata.” Vika curled her fingers. Was it a threat? What would she do to Renata if she didn’t tell her what was in the cup? Or worse, what would she do to Nikolai?
Renata’s heart rose into her throat. “The knife,” she blurted in her panic over Nikolai. “The leaves that form the knife are close to the inner circle—the bottom—of the cup.”
“Which means?” Vika’s fingers tensed.
“It means death is coming soon.”
