“No more than most.”
Ivan watched her thoughtfully. “Perhaps that is true: we all have things we are frightened of telling others.”
They drove along Kremlevskaya Naberezhnaya, the broad road that ran beside the riverbank. Billi watched the broken platforms of ice drift slowly down the Moscow River.
They were rolling along beside a park when Billi caught a flash of fire from beyond the trees.
“What’s that?” There were more flames. Streaks of light wove and spun in the darkness.
“Dimitri, stop,” said Ivan.
The car pulled up by the curb, and Ivan jumped out and opened Billi’s door. “Bolotnaya Square.” He held out Billi’s new coat for her to put on.
“You’re quite the gentleman, Ivan.” Billi laughed.
“We do things differently in Russia.” His hands lightly brushed her shoulders as he placed it around her. Then he turned her so that they were face-to-face.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked, straightening her collar, his fingers resting on the top button, next to her neck.
Billi flushed. Despite the snowflakes, she was suddenly more than warm enough.
Ivan took a step back and collected his own coat from Dimitri. Then he offered Billi his arm.
“Shall we?”
They moved down the path toward the flames. Music beat across the night sky, a cacophony of clashing beats and drums and guitars, and slowly Billi started to make out groups of people collected like tribes around the open center of the park.
Fire dancers spun fireballs attached to long chains around their bodies in a seamless path of golden light. There were dozens of them: some competing, others showing off or egging one another on. Large steel bins had been placed around the park, each a fire pit that one of the tribes was gathered around.
Despite the subzero temperatures, some of the men were bare-chested, and the orbiting fireballs threw ever-changing patterns of light and shadow over the contours of their bodies.
“Koshchey doesn’t like me coming here,” said Ivan. “He says I shouldn’t mix with ‘peasants.’”
“Is that what you think?” She’d never met a bona fide member of a royal family before. Her own ancestors were thoroughly anti-monarchy. The SanGreals had taken part in the French Revolution. The closest they’d come to royalty was when they’d operated the guillotine.
“Nobility isn’t about coats of arms or titles.” He nodded in the direction of more dancers. “I’ll never be free, like them. Every moment of my life has been dedicated to one purpose. To lead the Bogatyrs. To protect those under me. And as a Romanov, that means Russia.” He sighed. “That’s why I like it here. Just for a short while I can forget what it is to be Ivan Alexeivich Romanov.”
Billi touched his hand. Ivan took it all so seriously. When she’d met him she’d thought he was just about fancy clothes and posh living, but he was more than that. She knew how he felt. Didn’t she feel the same about being a Templar? They were both dedicated to their lives of duty, and nothing else.
“For what it’s worth,” said Billi, “I think you’ll do a great job.”
“If Koshchey lets me.” Ivan gripped her hand. “I’m not so naive as to think he’ll just hand it all over when I turn eighteen. He’s just waiting for me to slip up.”
“Look, if you’re going to get in trouble for being here, we can go.”
“I’m in enough trouble already.” He waved at one of the dancers. The girl smiled as she whirled a pair of burning chains around her body, wrapping herself in an incandescent pattern.
“For helping me?” Billi should have known that there were always going to be consequences for Ivan. “I’m sorry.”
Ivan frowned. “Don’t apologize. You stepped up to protect that girl. It’s what I should have done.”
“You defied the Bogatyrs.” She thought about that talk she’d had in the elevator, about how Ivan was an idealist. “You defied Koshchey.”
“Only because I followed you.” Ivan raised his hand to her cheek. “You have that effect on people. Haven’t you noticed?”
Billi laughed, trying to cover how unsettled she felt from the heat of his touch on her face. But she didn’t move. “Don’t follow me. I have a bad effect on people.”
“Do you know what it is to be a noble?” he said, more to himself than to her. He peered into the fire, the orange glow of the flames casting him in gold. “It is to have an ideal and to strive toward it. No matter what the cost. To believe in something more important than yourself.”
“I had a friend who thought the same.” A coarse, thick lump, a stifled sob, rose to Billi’s throat as she recalled Kay. Ivan was so like him, but so different. Tears rose, and she tried to stop them. What would Kay think, her being with Ivan? Ivan, the prince, the nobleman. Kay had been a noble man too.
Ivan moved his gaze away from the flames and looked at her. “What happened to him?” He moved his hand from her cheek, cupping her chin, and gently lifted her face.
Billi blinked, but the tears still fell. “He died.”
“I hope his killer suffered.”
“Yes.” Billi held it in by biting her lips. She had done what she’d had to do, but she’d regretted it ever since. Eyes closed, she tried to hold back the misery she’d fought down for the last three months. Kay’s death by her hand. “I suffer every day.”
“I am sorry,” said Ivan. He leaned closer, until she could hear him whisper. “Chekhov said to begin to live in the present, we must atone for our past. But we can only atone by suffering extraordinarily.” He drew her nearer, and as he spoke, Billi’s eyes were drawn to his lips. “But then the suffering has to end.”
Billi could hardly breathe as the distance between them slowly closed. She didn’t want to betray the memory of Kay; she never thought she’d meet anyone as good as him. But Ivan was good; he was like her-trapped in duty and responsibilities beyond his years-yet he still cared.
She paused-just for a second. Ivan waited, sensing her uncertainty. But Billi realized she didn’t want to move away. She leaned forward, grazing his mouth with hers ever so lightly. She felt dizzy with the sensation. With his arm around her, supporting her, Ivan kissed her, and for that moment Billi forgot everything else.
Now was the time to look to the living-to Ivan.
Billi held Ivan’s hand as they walked back to the car, silent. There wasn’t anything to say now. They knew how they felt-but she was leaving tomorrow. Billi felt the calluses along his fingers, which, like hers, he’d gained through years of sword practice. One indent on the forefinger she didn’t have: trigger time. He’d spent as long on the firing range as he had on the dueling deck.
His grip was firm and secure, warm and soft.
Then his fingers tightened.
A woman stepped out from the cover of the trees. The flames swayed in the large steel drum in front of her. She wore a paisley scarf over her hair. Billi recognized her. She was the Polenitsy woman they’d helped escape out of the apartment block earlier that day.
Three other women stalked the darkness on the edge of the firelight, moving like the wolves they truly were.
Billi shot a look at the car and saw Dimitri lying on the ground, a heavily bearded man leaning on his back, knife to his throat. Her hand dropped to her hip, feeling the edge of her kukri strapped to her belt.
“We come under a flag of truce,” said the woman with the scarf. She kept her distance and held her hands open.
“What do you want?” asked Ivan, backing away from the four approaching women, keeping Billi behind him.
“To thank you for allowing us to escape.” She looked up at Billi, eyes narrowed. “And to deliver a message from our pack leader, Olga.”
Old Gray. The fact that they hadn’t been torn to pieces already boded well. Billi moved to Ivan’s side. His fist trembled as he struggled to control his rage. He flipped back the corner of his coat, and a moment later his pistol was in his hand.
“Olga killed my father.” He whispered it, his grip tightening on the pistol.
“He died well, young Romanov. She honored him with single combat, after Koshchey had abandoned
