Page 86 of The Crown's Fate
Pasha leaned in for a better look. Yuliana could hear that he was holding his breath.
“He died in 1807?” Pasha said.
She nodded. “I think so.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“I’m going to keep reading.”
Pasha rose and kissed his sister on the top of her head. “I’ll check the Imperial Army’s historical rosters. That ought to give us an answer for good.”
She looked up at him. “All right. But be careful.”
He tilted his head quizzically.
“It’s been too quiet since Nikolai tried to kill us with the carriage made of swords. He’s up to something.”
Pasha sighed. But then he nodded. “I’ll figure out what he is doing.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The soldier on duty at the Imperial Army’s office was asleep at his desk. Pasha frowned. He had gone to all the trouble of disguising himself as an infantryman from a regiment out of town—complete with a story about why he needed to access his uncle’s records for an honor his fabricated city was bestowing upon said uncle—but it seemed all his preparations were unnecessary. It was also a bit disappointing that this was what a soldier in Pasha’s army did when no one was looking. Then again, this was a records office, not an outpost at the edges of the Ottoman Empire. Even Pasha had to admit that if his job were sitting at this desk, he’d nap to pass the time too.
He slipped into the back of the office, past the snoring soldier, and availed himself of the files in the drawers.
The records were tidy, and this was certainly something of which Pasha could be proud. The Imperial Army was one of the finest in Europe, from their fighting against Napoleon down to their polished boots, from the wisdom of their commanders to the documentation for every soldier, so precise itwas as if Yuliana herself had made the notations for each one.
Pasha riffled through the yellowed papers, working backward in time until he found 1807.
Please, let there be a record here of Okhotnikov’s death.
He peeked through the door to the soldier out front, and upon hearing him still snoring, pulled a fat stack of papers from the drawer. Pasha sat with them on the floor, out of the soldier’s line of sight, in case he woke.
Records of new recruits. Of retirements. Of promotions and approvals for sick leave.
And then, a notice of death.
Alexis Okhotnikov, staff captain of the Guard.
Cause of death: stabbing, assailant unknown.
Pasha’s breath came fast and shallow. He clutched the paper to his chest, squeezed his eyes shut, and leaned back against the wall.
Before he’d left Yuliana’s chambers, she’d shown him the rest of her notes. After the loss of “the candle that lit her nights,” there were no more mentions of other lovers, and the tsarina began to write her friends more of the tsar’s renewed attention to her. And then of her pregnancy.
With Okhotnikov’s death record still in his hand, Pasha covered his face and processed the information.
“I really am a Romanov,” he whispered. “I am the tsesarevich. The crown belongs to me.” His voice shook as he uttered the words.
No, not just words. The truth.
But then he suddenly pulled his hands from his face and sat upright. Just because he was the legitimate heir didn’t mean his ascension was guaranteed. Plenty of kingdoms had been wrenched from their rightful rulers. Nikolai had been relentless in pursuing the crown. He wouldn’t stop simplybecause Pasha had evidence that he was first in line.
Pasha pounded the floor with a fist and got to his feet. His job was not done. For now he knew for certain he was supposed to be tsar.
“And I’m going to prove it.”
Outside one of the larger barracks, a crowd several men deep was ringed around a pair of wrestlers, who circled each other, shirtless. The snow had been cleared half an hour ago, when the soldiers had grown listless and had too much to drink—they’d managed to “procure” three crates of vodka from an unattended cart on Sadovaya Street—and now they pummeled out their boredom with fists and wagers and, of course, more vodka.
