grey. But Astasia had been up long before dawn, submitting herself to the ministrations of her attendants, while ladies of the Mirom and Tielen courts gossiped and preened in the anteroom. Eupraxia was supervising her
toilette,
aided by Nadezhda and Astasia’s maid of honor, Lady Varvara Ilyanova, the dowager countess’s granddaughter and Astasia’s closest friend since childhood. Varvara had recently returned to Mirom from the city of Bel’Esstar, bringing exquisite ivory lace for the wedding gown.
“You look so pale, Tasia,” she said as Nadezhda laced Astasia into the gown. She leaned forward and playfully pinched her cheeks.
“Ow!” Astasia slapped at Varvara’s fingers. “What’s that for?”
“To give you some natural color. Eupraxia won’t allow rouge, will you, Praxia?”
“Certainly not,” Eupraxia said through a mouthful of hairpins. “Rouge is for ladies of easy virtue—and actresses.” Her governess’s cheeks were flushed already, Astasia noticed, and little pearls of perspiration dewed her cheeks and upper lip. Poor Praxia. All this was too much for her.
“All the ladies at Ilsevir’s court are using it in Bel’Esstar,” Varvara continued, her brown eyes glinting mischievously. “I have a pot or two here in my reticule. See? This one is called ‘Pouting Pomegranate’ . . . and this, ‘Carnal Caress’—”
Eupraxia choked and spat out the hairpins onto her palm. “Enough, Varvara!”
In spite of herself, Astasia felt a smile begin to break through.
“That’s better,” cried Varvara gaily.
“Such a pity the little princess is not well enough to attend the ceremony,” said Eupraxia, fixing the pearl-and-diamond wedding tiara in place in Astasia’s dark curls.
“She’ll be so disappointed.” Astasia had been to check on Karila’s progress and had been told the princess was sleeping. Poor little Kari, brought all the way across the Straits, only to fall ill on the eve of the festivities.
Astasia rode to the cathedral with her father, Grand Duke Aleksei, in the ceremonial Orlov carriage. The old carriage had escaped the rioters’ wrath, and the proud sea eagles that perched on each of the four corners of the roof had been regilded to glitter in the foggy morning.
The great square around Saint Simeon’s Cathedral was filled with row upon row of uniformed soldiers. Behind the ranks of grey-clad Tielen troops and White Guards of Muscobar, Astasia saw the people of Mirom, her people, silently huddled together, muffled up in greatcoats and fur hats against the cold. No one cheered. They just stared. Astasia pulled her white velvet cloak closer. Their silence was frightening.
They still hate us. They will always hate us.
Candles burned in every niche of the cathedral. The dull gold of the screen of icons around the altar gleamed like a winter sunset, sun sinking beneath lowering clouds.
Astasia was hastily ushered into a side chapel, away from the echoing murmur of the eminent wedding guests thronging the aisles. Dark-painted icons of haloed saints stared down at her, their faces emaciated, their eyes wild with holy revelations. The richly dressed courtiers of the new empire seemed small and unimportant beneath their stern gaze.
A glowing coal brazier gave off thin blue smoke, a welcome heat in the chilly cathedral. Astasia held her numb fingers to the glow to try to restore some feeling, as her bridesmaids crowded around, fastening then straightening the gold and lace train of her gown.
“Ready, my dear?” inquired the Grand Duke.
A last, wild desire to fling down her bouquet and run from the cathedral overwhelmed her. And then she looked into her father’s eyes and saw a look she had never seen before: a look of pride, mingled with bitter resignation. He was a broken man, crushed by this double defeat. She could not run away now. She could not let him down.
“You are the last of the Orlovs,” he said, leaning forward to
toilette,
aided by Nadezhda and Astasia’s maid of honor, Lady Varvara Ilyanova, the dowager countess’s granddaughter and Astasia’s closest friend since childhood. Varvara had recently returned to Mirom from the city of Bel’Esstar, bringing exquisite ivory lace for the wedding gown.
“You look so pale, Tasia,” she said as Nadezhda laced Astasia into the gown. She leaned forward and playfully pinched her cheeks.
“Ow!” Astasia slapped at Varvara’s fingers. “What’s that for?”
“To give you some natural color. Eupraxia won’t allow rouge, will you, Praxia?”
“Certainly not,” Eupraxia said through a mouthful of hairpins. “Rouge is for ladies of easy virtue—and actresses.” Her governess’s cheeks were flushed already, Astasia noticed, and little pearls of perspiration dewed her cheeks and upper lip. Poor Praxia. All this was too much for her.
“All the ladies at Ilsevir’s court are using it in Bel’Esstar,” Varvara continued, her brown eyes glinting mischievously. “I have a pot or two here in my reticule. See? This one is called ‘Pouting Pomegranate’ . . . and this, ‘Carnal Caress’—”
Eupraxia choked and spat out the hairpins onto her palm. “Enough, Varvara!”
In spite of herself, Astasia felt a smile begin to break through.
“That’s better,” cried Varvara gaily.
“Such a pity the little princess is not well enough to attend the ceremony,” said Eupraxia, fixing the pearl-and-diamond wedding tiara in place in Astasia’s dark curls.
“She’ll be so disappointed.” Astasia had been to check on Karila’s progress and had been told the princess was sleeping. Poor little Kari, brought all the way across the Straits, only to fall ill on the eve of the festivities.
Astasia rode to the cathedral with her father, Grand Duke Aleksei, in the ceremonial Orlov carriage. The old carriage had escaped the rioters’ wrath, and the proud sea eagles that perched on each of the four corners of the roof had been regilded to glitter in the foggy morning.
The great square around Saint Simeon’s Cathedral was filled with row upon row of uniformed soldiers. Behind the ranks of grey-clad Tielen troops and White Guards of Muscobar, Astasia saw the people of Mirom, her people, silently huddled together, muffled up in greatcoats and fur hats against the cold. No one cheered. They just stared. Astasia pulled her white velvet cloak closer. Their silence was frightening.
They still hate us. They will always hate us.
Candles burned in every niche of the cathedral. The dull gold of the screen of icons around the altar gleamed like a winter sunset, sun sinking beneath lowering clouds.
Astasia was hastily ushered into a side chapel, away from the echoing murmur of the eminent wedding guests thronging the aisles. Dark-painted icons of haloed saints stared down at her, their faces emaciated, their eyes wild with holy revelations. The richly dressed courtiers of the new empire seemed small and unimportant beneath their stern gaze.
A glowing coal brazier gave off thin blue smoke, a welcome heat in the chilly cathedral. Astasia held her numb fingers to the glow to try to restore some feeling, as her bridesmaids crowded around, fastening then straightening the gold and lace train of her gown.
“Ready, my dear?” inquired the Grand Duke.
A last, wild desire to fling down her bouquet and run from the cathedral overwhelmed her. And then she looked into her father’s eyes and saw a look she had never seen before: a look of pride, mingled with bitter resignation. He was a broken man, crushed by this double defeat. She could not run away now. She could not let him down.
“You are the last of the Orlovs,” he said, leaning forward to
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