Thank you to Mel and Pamela!

XXV

Rosalie

November 8, 1897

St. Petersburg, Russia

It has been five days since our arrival at the Alexander Palace, and I have not seen Liam once. I am growing more and more concerned about his whereabouts, but so far, no one will answer me when I inquire about him.

Is he safe? Did he travel with us, or is he still in the grafyina's house? Why hasn't he come to check on us?

It makes me nervous to be without him, even if I am amongst those that would call themselves my friend.

Since coming to the palace, Mother has been ill, driving her to be bedridden most of the day. Though she still conveys plenty of commands to me through Maggie—who I was relieved to find had come with us—I have spent little to no time with my mother. It has left me with a great deal of time to myself, something I am unaccustomed to.

Mostly, I spend my days in the czarina's drawing rooms, where she has permitted me to sit and do needlework or whatever else I desire to pass the time.

Honestly, it has begun to bore me.

I am in the drawing room, gazing out at the gloomy winter day when a soft knock has me looking up. There is a needlepoint sitting in my lap, untouched for the last hour.

At the doorway, I'm surprised to see Mr. McCarty. He looks sheepish, as if he is afraid of intruding.

"Mr. McCarty," I say, surprised.

"I'm sorry, my lady. Am I interrupting?"

I hesitate. He shouldn't be here while I am unchaperoned, but I am so desperate for someone to talk to, I shake my head and beckon him inside.

He steps in, leaving the door ajar for propriety's sake.

"What can I do for you?" I ask as he enters the room. He looks a little nervous, and I wonder if it is I that is making him so.

It is a giddy feeling in me to think so.

"I wanted to inquire about how you were settling," he says, stopping some feet away from me.

I let out a breath. "That is kind of you, thank you," I tell him. "I'm settling just fine. The czar and czarina are generous hosts."

Mr. McCarty smiles, and I feel my stomach twist a little.

"I am glad to hear it," he says.

Slowly, I motion to the seat he is standing behind. "Do you care to sit?"

The implications of my invitation are not lost on him. Technically, he is below my station, and I am unchaperoned. There is no instance in which it would be found appropriate for us to be sitting and chatting together.

But I am lonely and yearning for conversation in my mother tongue that is not about my duty to my family and country, and I want to know more about Mr. McCarty. He's the first man I've met outside of Liam that has ever managed to turn my head.

Mr. McCarty hesitates, his blue eyes dropping to the chair before lifting up to me. "I shouldn't," he says softly.

"Please," I say, surprising myself. "I would love to get to know you better."

Mr. McCarty looks pleased, perhaps even bashful as he nods and moves to sit. I wish I had tea to serve, and in my lap my hands begin to fidget with my needlework.

"Thank you, my lady."

I nod to him, finding that I am suddenly at a loss of what to say.

After an awkward moment, I clear my throat. "So," I say slowly. "Will you tell me how you've come to be so deeply involved in the Russian court?"

Mr. McCarty hesitates, his brows furrowing. I feel embarrassed for asking him, and I open my mouth to take the question back when he begins to answer me.

"My mother was the daughter of an ambassador," he says after a moment. "She grew up between England and Russia."

I am surprised to hear this. Is this how he has such a mastery of both languages?

"She raised me between countries until my grandfather passed. I was seventeen, and by then I'd grown familiar enough with the Russian court to ask the czar to allow me to stay and work for him. I've been here since."

My eyebrows lift in surprise. "Do you not miss England?"

Mr. McCarty shrugs one shoulder. "Both are my home," he says diplomatically. "And I travel back and forth between them often enough."

"Forgive me for asking," I say slowly. "But if your grandfather was an ambassador, why do you not also hold that title?"

I don't know if ambassador is a hereditary title like my father's, but even if it is not, surely with his inherent connections, he would be able to forge that path for himself should he choose?

Mr. McCarty's face falls, and in his lap, his hands begin to fidget.

"I may not hold such a role due to the circumstances of my birth," he says, his voice shamed.

It takes me only a moment to understand what he means, and I feel immediately foolish. He must be a bastard, born to an unwed mother.

I duck my head, feeling chastised for my impertinent question.

There is a terrible moment of awkward silence and then Mr. McCarty is clearing his throat. "I am told that you are an accomplished musician, Lady Cullen," he says, looking shyly at me.

I feel my heart flutter, and in my lap, my hands very gently grip my needlework.

"Oh," I say, feeling flustered. "Well, I don't know about that," I say, trying to remain demure. "I can play, but I am no great talent."

Mr. McCarty smiles. "I hope to hear you perform. Perhaps tonight, for the czarina's guests," he suggests.

I can feel my cheeks growing hot, and I duck my head. Alix has invited a handful of nobles to dinner tonight with the intention of introducing me to their young men. I am overwhelmed and anxious at the prospect of such attention on me, even though this exact scenario is what Mother has trained me for.

"Perhaps," I agree, my voice soft.

Mr. McCarty smiles. He is such a kind man, and if his work with Mr. Vassiliev is anything to judge by, he is also a patient man.

He is exactly the sort of man I dream of marrying.

Despite myself, I can feel a fondness for him growing in my chest. Where Liam has always been wonderfully bold and recklessly wild in the most thrilling of ways, Mr. McCarty is soft, calm, and steady. I can see spending my life with someone like him, reading poetry to one another while our children play in the gardens.

It is such a wistful and hopeful image in my mind that I can scarcely breathe.

Mr. McCarty gives me one of his shy smiles that urges such deep fondness to grow in my heart before he stands, inclining his head toward me. "I shan't keep you from your work a moment longer, my lady. I look forward to seeing you at dinner tonight."

I let out a careful breath. "Thank you, Mr. McCarty, for the gift of conversation. I look forward to our next."

It is too bold of me to say so, and yet, I cannot keep the words in me. He looks pleased, perhaps even a touch bashful as he gives me another bow and turns to exit the room.

When he is gone, I let out a long, wistful breath and slump back in my seat, my eyes fixed on a distant point. Though the world might be grey and cold outside, in my heart, a garden is bursting into bloom.

Despite the many days now spent in Russia, I have not yet adjusted to the taste of the food.

New spices confuse my tongue and I am skeptical by their use of certain ingredients. I miss the familiar lightness of food in England.

Mother joins us for dinner, but she is uncharacteristically quiet, her eyes looking heavy with her exhaustion. I wonder if she is still unwell, and I long for the opportunity to pull her aside and ask her.

The czarina has invited two men. The first is a count named Igor Ivanov, and he has a hooked nose and small, beetle-like eyes. He looks to be in his forties, and despite his thin, almost skeletal frame, has been so far warm enough to me.

The second man, Aleksandr Volkov, is a duke, and much younger, but I can see by the sneer of his mouth and the hardness in his gaze that he is much more cruel. He is handsome, with dark hair and a proud nose, and since we have sat down for dinner, his hungry eyes have scarcely left my form.

It is enough to make me want to hide from his gaze.

Mr. Volkov speaks a degree of broken English, but Mr. Ivanov has to rely on Mr. McCarty, who is stationed behind the visitors, invisible save for when he is needed.

It is everything I can do not to stare at him instead of the men at the table. I much prefer his company to anyone else's.

The czar is a gracious host and rarely lets the conversation dull into an uncomfortable silence. The liveliness of his wit helps me to stay distracted from the men across from me.

Though Mother is silent, her fatigue is not enough to stop her from pinching me hard when I reach for food. When I glance at her, she isn't looking at me, but I know her meaning right away.

Eat less, charm more.

Mr. Ivanov asks a question, and a moment later, Mr. McCarty is speaking. "He asks how you are handling the Russian winter, Lady Cullen."

I swallow a sip of wine, trying to find the answers that will least offend. "The cold is bracing," I say, and quietly Mr. McCarty begins to speak, translating my words to Mr. Ivanov. "I should think the addition of snow would provide the mind a blank canvas upon which one may reflect with sincerity."

Mr. Volkov rolls his eyes, but Mr. Ivanov smiles once my words have been translated for him and gives me a toothy smile. "Da," he agrees.

Beside me, Mother lets out a short, tense breath.

"This talk of veather bores me," Mr. Volkov says with a sneer. "Tell me of your home," he commands. "Are all the vomen as beautiful as you?"

His words make me feel small and slimy, but before I can flinch from his attention, Mother is finally speaking.

"They are not," she says, sniffing once. "My Rosalie is a rare gem, even amongst her own people."

I can see something dark in Mr. Volkov's eyes gleam at Mother's words.

"Vat can you do?" Mr. Volkov asks, leaning back in his chair and motioning with a lazy wrist in front of him.

"Do?" I ask, uncertain.

"Do you sing? Paint? Have a gift for gossip?" He sneers a laugh at my expense and I feel my cheeks blush.

"I play piano," I tell him, wishing more than ever that I could get up from this table and never return.

"She sings like a lark," Mother adds, her fingers twisting painfully into my side.

Immediately, I plaster on a charming smile. Mr. Volkov seems pleased when I soften my face, and he licks his lips, his eyes focused on me.

I try desperately not to shudder.

"We will be hosting a ball," the czar says, breaking the conversation. "In a few weeks. We intend to introduce Lady Cullen to more of our friends in the hopes she will fall irrevocably in love with our country," he jokes.

We all laugh politely even though I am dreading the thought.

"It shan't be difficult," I tell him, because I am obligated to do so. "Your country has already demonstrated so many of its charms."

The czar gives me a genuine smile, and for a moment I feel guilty lying to him.

Beside me, Mother lets out a tiny breath and I know I've finally pleased her.

It is horrible how happy that thought makes me.

After dinner, I am asked to sit at the piano and play for the czar's guests.

I have not played since before I left England, but the moment I am sat, the familiar feeling of being at my favorite instrument comes back to me.

I begin playing, plucking out the melody of a song I once heard my governess sing. "O love is like the roses, And every rose shall fall, For sure as summer closes, They perish one and all."

Mother clears her throat while I am playing, and I realize too late that I have chosen a song she absolutely does not approve of. Embarrassed by my lack of judgment and worried about making a further fool of myself, I play on, humming the melody and occasionally singing words my mind is able to string together on the spot.

It is a haphazard performance, and I am mortified by my lapse in sensibility when I am finished.

My audience politely claps for me despite my faux pas, and I give a shallow curtsy. "Perhaps I can learn some Russian compositions," I suggest.

"Yes," the czarina agrees. "That would be wise."

Her disapproval feels somehow heavier than Mother's and I duck my head in shame.

Thankfully, the czar invites the men for a drink in private, which leaves me alone with Mother and the czarina to reflect on my poor choices.

What a beastly match I would make for any man.

"Well," the czarina says, her lips pursing slightly. "We have room for improvements."

Mother nods. "Indeed."

"However," the czarina continues. "This will not be a problem. I am confident that you will learn quickly."

I nod my head in submission. "Thank you."

When I look up at her again, she nods. "It's not over yet, Lady Cullen. There is still much more of your journey to come."