Page 92 of The Crown's Game
“Amazing and horrifying,” Pasha said.
There was nothing but the noise from the tavern. Men singing a bawdy drinking song. Shouts to Nursultan to bring more pickles. A fistfight at one of the tables.
“Come now, Nikolai. You honestly have no comment? I spent the afternoon consoling the girl I’m in love with, and I confirmed that she might die as well. At least congratulate me on my detective work, or offer your condolences, I don’t care. Something.”
“I congratulate you on your sad lot.”
“Oh, don’t be such a curmudgeon.” Pasha poured himself a shot of vodka and gulped it down. He bit off a chunk of bread to take off the vodka’s astringent edge. “I thought you’d be more supportive. Or are you jealous? You’re not interested in Vika, are you? You danced with her only once at the masquerade.”
“I’m not jealous.” Nikolai had lost track of how many lies he’d told Pasha by this point. He knew only that he was buried deep in them, and he was suffocating.
“I implore you again to help me stop the other enchanter. You’re resourceful. Surely you can think of some way out of the Crown’s Game.”
Nikolai squeezed his fists tighter. His nails dug into his palms. “I told you before. There is no way out.”
“How can you be so sure? I’ve told you only the abridged version of the Game. There are many more details. There’s so much you don’t know.”
“I already know too much, Pasha!” Nikolai picked up the vodka bottle and smashed it over the book. Glass shattered and flew across the table, several shards embedding themselves in Pasha’s sleeve.
Pasha gasped. “What are you—”
But he stopped talking as the pieces of glass quivered, then slid across the table and back onto the book, where they reassembled themselves into the shape of a bottle. The shards in his arm wrenched themselves free and rejoined their glassy brethren. Even the liquid on the book cover converged into a small pool, then traveled up the side of the bottle in a clear stream before trickling back through the bottle’s mouth and back inside.
He gaped at Nikolai.
Nikolai squinted at Pasha’s arm. “I’m sorry. Did the glass cut you? Or is it only your sleeve?” There was concern in his words, strictly speaking, but his tone belied very little of it.
Pasha glanced down but was unable to speak.
“Just the sleeve then. Much easier.” Nikolai’s tone was more derisive than he’d intended to let on, but he couldn’t shake it, because Pasha had pushed him too far. Nikolai snapped his fingers, and a needle and thread appeared. They dipped down to Pasha’s shirt and began stitching the tears the broken glass had left.
“You’re the other enchanter,” Pasha whispered.
Nikolai kept his face an unfeeling mask. “I’m afraid so.”
“You made the benches.”
“And refaced Nevsky Prospect and conjured the Jack and ballerina. The Masquerade Box was mine as well.”
“All this time . . .”
Nikolai sighed, and his mask dissolved. Now actual remorse began to flow. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“You let me go on and on about the Crown’s Game like a fool.” Pasha stared at his sleeve, where the needle had finished its work, and a pair of scissors was snipping the extra thread.
Nikolai shook his head. “You’re not a fool.”
“But you made me out to be. I don’t even know who you are.”
“I’m the same person you’ve always known.”
“No.” Pasha rose from the booth. “You’re not.”
“Pasha.”
“You’ve known this about yourself your entire life. And that means you’ve lied to me for the entirety of our friendship.”
“It’s only a small part of my identity. I’m so much more than this.”
