City of Silence (City of Mystery) by Kim Wright

if rumor was correct, the rooms there were awe-inspiring upon first glance
but in reality just as unsatisfactory when it came to matters of lighting and
plumbing as the rest.  The next layer contained the extended family members of
Alexander and his Danish-born wife - the minor royals, one might say.  Then
came the halls where Tatiana and Filip lived.  They belonged to the segment of
the staff that was considered elite, those who resided in the nether world
between privilege and service.  Governesses, doctors, dancing masters, portrait
artists, jewelers and dressmakers, musical directors, the members of the
private guard.  Beyond them, in the more farther-flung wings, were the true servants. 
The sort who washed and cleaned and cooked and carried.
    Even
after more than two years within its walls, Tatiana could not claim to
understand entirely how the palace protocol worked.  For example, she and Filip
both were servants and had servants, a concept which she still found a bit hard
to grasp.  This morning her porridge and his eggs had come as they always did,
on a high-domed tray which presumably had been prepared in some kitchen
somewhere, another place she would most likely never see.  Their clothing was
carried away dirty and carried back clean.  Things appeared.  Flowers on a
table, apples in a bowl.  Fires were laid in the winter and damped down in the
spring.
    The
first morning, shortly after her marriage, that Tatiana had awakened in the
Winter Palace had been very telling.  She had risen and, through the most instinctive
of habits, made her bed.  The maid had entered minutes later, inquiring what she
might like for breakfast.  When the woman – twice the age of Tatiana, who had
been no more than twenty at the time – spied the neatened bed, her mouth had
closed into a hard, tight line and Tatiana understood that her error had been
grave indeed.  The maid had bustled forward and most resolutely mussed the bed,
throwing pillows to the floor and crumpling the coverlet in her hands.  And
then she had made it again.
    Tatiana
had simply curled up on her chaise and watched.  The woman’s gestures could
have been interpreted as a slap in the face or were perhaps kindly meant, a
silent illustration of how life in the royal palace was intended to work. 
Tatiana had never made that mistake again.  In fact, understanding this new
reality in ways she could not have begun to articulate, she often made a point
of leaving a bit of a deliberate mess:  a napkin dropped to the floor, a bar of
soap sent skidding into a corner, a dress with a button dangling, an overturned
glass.  To create no work for her staff would have been rude, even cruel.  It might
have cost someone their position and thus left them with no roof over their
head or no way to feed their children.  Over time Tatiana had slowly but
steadily acquired the sort of exaggerated helplessness that always seemed to
come with privilege.  When she approached a closed door she would simply stand
still and wait for someone to open it. 
    As
she now walked through the Palace, navigating from the private wings into the
public, the effort gradually calmed her and forced her thoughts into more
linear patterns.  The dancers who had allegedly killed themselves… Filip had
said they were in the ballet, and the ballet troupe was a different entity entirely
from the cadre of royal dance masters.  Konstantin was in no danger.  It was
unlikely he had been anywhere near the scene at all.  There was no need for her
to visit the theater on her own, especially at this hour when there was no
logical explanation she might give for why she was there.  And yet she walked,
hall after hall, room after room, staircase after staircase, passing mirrors
and portraits and statues without number, striding beneath grand chandeliers
from Italy and across deep carpets from China.  Retracing the familiar route as
if she were lost in a sort of dream.  
    At
last she reached the