Page 10 of The Tsarina's Favorite
IV.
My fitting the nextday turned out not to be with a metalsmith but with the seamstress again, who sewed a constricting white boned-fabric collar around my neck.Feathers embellished this new accessory, both from above and below, lending additional verisimilitude to my costume.The white feathers from above the collar scratched my chin and face.Those from below fanned out in a heavy mantle, warm bright colors ensuring that I could not be missed in a crowd.Ribbons too dangled from the collar, small bells at the ends of them, ensuring that everyone would know I was coming from rooms away.
The collar, though not changing anything fundamentally, added discomfort to an already impossibly uncomfortable situation.The bulk of the costume already proved difficult to arrange in order to sleep, but the collar prevented any natural position.I resigned myself to sitting up to sleep, resting upon the bulk of my costume that would not enable me to rest lying down.And while being certain I would never be comfortable or rest easily again, each night my eyelids let the weight and misery of the day close them until morning.
I tried, with only a modicum of success, not to sneer at the bowls of borscht served regularly.So much of Ilyichian cuisine itself served as a punishment that anything traditional might have been met with disdain.The red lumpy liquid, almost devoid of any meat, failed to inspire anything but disgust as I circled the spoon around each bowl, hoping I might find it, if not more appetizing, at least less repellent than the last.But I ate it anyway, hunger winning out over preferences.
I eventually saw the tsarina’s other jesters performing their duties when she grew tired of me and sent me to my basket nest or had me take the place beside her to pour her kvass.Most of them, of diminutive stature, tumbled or told bawdy stories.And they dressed well, not as I did with an absurd costume to denote my position, but with handsome suits and dresses that would not shame anyone should they attend an evening ball.
That was why I had not met them then, despite us all holding the same title.I would embarrass them too.
No one bothered keeping guards or servants on me now, now that I wore an unmistakable costume that would not permit me to hide or move with ease.Now that I wore a costume I could not easily remove and therefore would not get far in an escape attempt.
I took advantage of every moment of privacy to use the chamber pot too, unwilling to imagine the heights to which courtly amusement would soar if anyone realized they could ridicule me while I struggled to defecate.I only hoped the process would get easier with familiarity.
Oh, Great Holy, I did not want to get familiar with this.
My one relief came in the empty nights, waiting until I was completely alone to remove the gloves, push the hood back, and slide the straps of the beak behind my head so that I could lower it around my neck.I took every opportunity to remove the beak as it had formed terrible sores on the bridge of my nose and around my mouth.My ablutions and nightly shaves offered a small respite.I welcomed the evening chill on my face, otherwise hot with perspiration and shame.I may no longer have been Prince Mikhail, but those moments of quiet solitude free from the mask and the hood and the gloves offered me the opportunity to be a person again rather than an object of ridicule.I lived now only for those moments.And each morning, I said farewell to myself as I replaced my beak, pulled up the hood, tugged on my gloves, and resumed being the tsarina’s favorite plaything.
My existence fell into a dull routine, providing merciful numbness with each tired request of amusement.At least until I did not wake early enough to replace my costume before the tsarina found me.
Prodding from a walking stick woke me.I stared up at several painted and powdered faces peering down at me, their leering expressions grotesque and unnatural.For one fleeting moment, I considered that, even in my costume, I was the least absurd in the room.
The tsarina stood at a distance from the others, the apex at a channel lined with courtiers.The tightness of the empress’ lips spoke of displeasure.
“I have never seen a bird remove its beak before,” one of the peering people remarked.
I fumbled for the gloves.
“Take this as your one warning, Mikhail,” the tsarina said.“I will have one of your fingers cut off every time someone of my court sees you without your complete costume.”
That would be impossible.Of course, I did not miss the implication that I should never be out of any part of it.The sweat on the back of my neck chilled.
“And when I run out of fingers, ma’am?”
“Then toes.Or,” she mused, thinking better of her threat, “if removing fingers and toes does nothing to inspire you to change your ways, then I will have your nose sliced off that you will wear the beak willingly to cover your disfigurement.”
I repositioned the straps of the beak around my neck and head, then pulled the beak up over my nose and mouth.I also pulled my hood over my hair.
“Better,” the tsarina said.“It would pain me to ruin that handsome face of yours.But I will do it if I must.”
Pain her, maybe, but I did not underestimate her willingness to see me lose bits of myself as a lesson to others.That’s what I was now — a lesson.An example set to remind those around her that they needed her permission to live and breathe and have a life outside of her good graces.
“Fetch the kvass, Mikhail, and then keep us company while we stroll the gardens.”
I obeyed, a silent servant in a chicken costume, trailing behind her group with the pitcher of kvass ready to refill their glasses.
Not even a quarter hour into our walk, Sergey tripped and spilled the contents of his glass over me, the sticky liquid soaking the feathers and padded costume.I developed a quiet endurance, having learned that silence made others lose interest in me, but I still exclaimed from the surprise of it.
The tsarina spun around to see what caused the commotion.Her gathering stopped when she did.She narrowed a glare at me, one brow lifting.
“Sergey could never hold his liquor,” I explained, trying to mop up the spilled drink with my sleeve.“But now he’s proven that he cannot even hold his kvass.”
“It was an accident,” Sergey protested.
I bit back the urge to say “was not” like I might have as a boy.But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut entirely.“How relieving to know that he’s as much an idiot as he appears.”
