Page 114 of The Crown's Fate
But Ilya must have had his reasons, just as Pasha and Nikolai had for what they’d done. And if Pasha could forgive himself and Nikolai, if he could understand that they were real people who’d made mistakes, then he could understand the Decembrists.
Pasha would allow himself to be sad, and angry, and everything in between. But he would also learn from his mistakes, and he would rule the empire his way, with compassion and love, even for his enemies.
“We’ll find a way to punish them,” he said, turning away from Ilya for the last time. “But no executions. And while I will not abolish the tsardom, Iwillconsider some oftheir proposals to better the lives of the common man. It will take time, perhaps years, even decades, but we will set things in motion and do right by our people in the end.” He braced himself for Yuliana to scowl.
Yet she only took his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. “It would be easier if we simply maintained Father’s course. But I admire you for making the harder decision. It’s not what Father or I would have done, but yours is the right one.”
“You think?” Pasha said.
She lifted her head and smiled, a warm, clear smile, the kind reserved only for her brother. “You’ll be a great tsar, Pasha.”
He smiled, too.
“Yes,” Pasha said. “I do believe I will.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY
With Pasha and Nikolai reunited again and Saint Petersburg on the mend, Renata and Ludmila relaxed next to each other that evening, leaning against the warm stone of Ludmila’spech. Renata drank the last drop of tea in her cup. She hadn’t tried to manipulate it, even though the magic danced in her fingertips, growing more powerful with each passing day.
Ludmila crowded her to peer inside. “What does it say?” she asked.
Renata studied the cup for only a second before she grinned. The short black leaves were arranged in perfect concentric spirals, each bigger than the next, like a chrysanthemum with hundreds of petals.
“It says that the possibilities are endless.”
“Our fates are not set in stone,” Ludmila said.
“Or, more accurately,” Renata said, “our fates are not set in our leaves.”
Ludmila laughed and refilled their plates with morecookies. Renata poured them both some more tea. Then Ludmila regaled Renata with tales of her circus youth, and they fell asleep by thepech, warm and hopeful and dreaming of acrobats and dancing bears, and fortune-tellers who could change the courses of fate.
And ordinary people who could change the courses of fate, as well.
EPILOGUE
Three weeks later, Vika looked around the Cathedral of the Dormition in Moscow. The hall was resplendent in red and gold, from the intricately patterned canopy above the throne, to the rugs that lined the steps and the church floor. The Guard wore red on their breasts. The head of the Church—the patriarch—and the other clergy wore robes of gold. And all the other men and women lucky enough to witness the coronation looked on in their smartest uniforms and gowns.
Pasha stood in uniform in the center of it all. A heavy gold mantle was draped over his shoulders, trimmed from collar to hem in lush, black-spotted white fur. His posture was tall and proud, and his blond waves were neatly tamed for once.
Of course, after Pasha, Nikolai was the best dressed in the cathedral, not only because he was part of the imperial family, but also because he was Nikolai. His uniform was somehow cut more precisely than anyone else’s, the epauletson his shoulders woven of brighter, nearly luminescent thread, and his boots polished to such a shine, his sword was reflected in the leather, just as the leather reflected off the blade. Vika smiled at him from her side of the dais. Nikolai attempted not to smile in return—to look proper—but his dimple gave him away. She almost laughed, and she clapped her normal hand over her mouth just in time.
Yuliana, seated on the dais, shot Vika a glare.
It only made Vika want to laugh more.
But she corralled her attention back to the ceremony, just as the patriarch finished a prayer.
The cathedral hushed. Pasha stood regally in the silence. This was the moment he’d been groomed for his entire life. The moment Russia wanted. ThatPashawanted.
He nodded to the patriarch, who handed him the Great Imperial Crown.
Its four-hundred-carat red spinel jewel and nearly five thousand diamonds sparkled as Pasha placed it on his own head. The patriarch said another short prayer, then bestowed upon Pasha his scepter and the orb.
“Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov, Tsar of all the Russias.”
Pasha allowed everyone in the cathedral to look upon him for a moment. Then he lowered himself onto his red throne, with the Great Imperial Crown on his head, his scepter in his right hand, the orb in his left.
And Vika Sergeyevna Andreyeva, Imperial Enchanter, to his right. Nikolai Alexandrovich Karimov-Romanov, Grand Prince of all the Russias and also Imperial Enchanter, to his left. They had beaten the rules of the Crown’s Game. They had freed themselves from the bonds of ancient fate and now lived—and served the empire—of their own free will.
