Rasputina and the Witch's Tsar

Chapter Thirty-Eight

"Be safe."

I disentangle myself from Pareskevas, watching him as he lazily draws the covers up to his chin. I press a kiss on his forehead as I draw my thinnest dress on, already sweating even before I've stepped out into the sun. Lacing up my ankle boots before drawing the blinds shut. "Watch little Varvara," I warn him, "they're going to break down the doors with all their running around. I found coins they took and hid beneath their pillows last night. Clever little things."

"It's because they miss you. Come home." He whispers, and I falter before I reach the door. "They always calm when you come home."

"Of course."

I kiss the little ones on the forehead as they play with some new soldiers and horses I bought for them from the market. The seller was Moroccan, and though I knew she wasn't Agapi, she still reminded me of her. The dark eyes and the scarf that I caught in my gaze walking up the alley, I thought that maybe it had been alright. Siberia hadn't happened. She'd never gotten caught with that woman or Kaskil was still at my right hand.

No, stop it. Be grateful you returned. Be grateful that he and Ursula are happier now.

Without you.

With me in their lives, I'd only ever be a threat. Too many people wanted to kill me. I couldn't drag newlyweds into this. And as for Agapi, aside from the letter she'd sent me while I was in exile, I haven't seen her in St. Petersburg. Kas doesn't know much more than I do, only that she left one night to gather fresh cream and never came back. Vanished. Safer invisible than with me.

If only I could vanish too. But Alexei still needed me, and the tsarina Nikolai and I had a reluctant peace since I've been healing him again. I haven't gone back to Alexandr's gentlemen's den. I don't trust myself around him.

Perhaps Alexei and I can play some cards later today. I know it's not the most appropriate pastime for a little prince, but—.

"This one's for the Father on high."

I can't see anything past a flash of cloak. Hair pinned tightly to a woman's scalp. It's too hot for those robes, but they serve her well. Hiding her face from me.

I look down at the blade protruding from my sternum. Thin wrists hold the hilt, trembling as she twists the weapon further. I gasp, choking from the shock of it all. "And this is for the Son and Holy Ghost. Burn in hell, you heathen witch."

I fall to my knees on the cobblestones. Footsteps from inside. My children clamoring at the windows as Pareskevas holds his arms around me.

"Bozhe moy. Bozhe moy! My God. Oh my God. She's been stabbed! Help us, help!" He screams in rage as the woman runs away. A row of guards doing their rounds further up break away from the walls, streaming down the sidewalk after her. I lie in my husband's strong arms, "stay with me, Maria. Stay with me."

"Pareskevas. I...I..."

He brushes my hair behind my ear, but all I feel is the blade. The searing pain. All I feel is the pain now that I'm aware of it. My insides are all wrong. The flesh is twisted. It's all so very, very wrong. "Hush, please, Maria."

"Get the blade out." I whimper. "Please, Pareskevas. It's so hot. I don't want the knife in me. It burns. It tears. Get it out. Get it out."

"I can't do that." I try to hold onto his face, onto consciousness. I sob and cry and twist and scream. But it all fades out of view. "Mne zhal', my love. I'm sorry."