kiss her forehead. She smelled spirit on his breath; he had needed courage to appear in public today and hand his daughter and country over to this foreign invader.
“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.
A choir began to sing as Astasia appeared. Boys’ voices soared into the echoing dome like a flight of white doves.
Flowers spilled from urns and gilded baskets: hothouse roses in white and gold, myrtles and lilies with their orange-stamened hearts. But the sweet scent of the flowers was swamped by the overpowering bitterness of incense billowing from swinging censers. Venerable, bearded priests, white-garbed for the wedding, mumbled prayers in every side chapel Astasia and her entourage passed.
He looks utterly confident,
Astasia thought as Prince Eugene took his place before the altar, beside her.
But then, this is not the first time he has been married. . . .
The choir finished their anthem. In the silence, the guests coughed and shuffled their feet.
The elderly Patriarch Ilarion, who had been standing near the altar, tottered forward to greet the bride and her father. A group of young girls standing by with baskets of rose petals ready to scatter, hurried to their places. The choir began the epithalamium and, before Astasia knew what was happening, Patriarch Ilarion had placed her hand in Eugene’s and was pronouncing the words that made them man and wife before God. She could not even remember whispering, “I take thee, Eugene . . .” She could only remember gazing, mesmerized, into his grey-blue eyes.
And now he was leaning forward to kiss her. She could not, dared not, flinch away this time. She steeled herself. His hands were warm and firm on her shoulders as he drew her toward him. How strong he was. She shivered and closed her eyes as his mouth touched hers.
After, she found herself looking up into Eugene’s eyes and saw that they burned with emotion. The intensity of his gaze made her forget the red, scarred skin that marred his face. No one had looked at her in that way before.
“Now you are mine, Astasia. You need never fear for your safety again,” he said softly, each word charged with the same intensity of feeling that she saw in his eyes. “I will protect you.”
And then he turned to present her to the congregation. She glimpsed her mother and Eupraxia sobbing into their lace handkerchiefs. Even Varvara was wiping away a tear.
I am his wife. Soon we shall have to do more than kiss. . . .
The thought sent a shiver through her whole body. How could she think of such a thing in the cathedral!
Eugene led her to the ceremonial throne beside his and, as her maids rearranged her heavy train, she sat down. Then he took the imperial crown from the shaking hands of the Patriarch and raised it high over his own head, then slowly lowered it until it rested on his burned scalp.
Trumpets blazed triumphant fanfares from all corners of the cathedral.
And as Astasia watched, she thought she saw a faint glow of fire radiating from the Emperor. Though it might have been caused by a sudden ray of sunlight penetrating the gloomy cathedral, catching light in the crimson depths of the five Tears of Artamon. . . .
Great tiered chandeliers—hastily imported from Tielen—lit the Hall of Black Marble with waterfalls of crystal light. Eugene had ordered an army of craftsmen to restore this room in the Winter Palace first so that he might officially receive the overtures of goodwill from the many foreign ambassadors and politicians who had attended his wedding and coronation.
Lavish refreshments had been provided: silver trays of glossy caviar piled on sparkling crushed ice were being carried around to the eminent guests. Eugene had decreed that the food and wines should represent the best each of the five princedoms could produce. All kinds of smoked and pickled fish delicacies represented Tielen: from pike and sturgeon to eel and river trout, all served on little squares of
“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.
A choir began to sing as Astasia appeared. Boys’ voices soared into the echoing dome like a flight of white doves.
Flowers spilled from urns and gilded baskets: hothouse roses in white and gold, myrtles and lilies with their orange-stamened hearts. But the sweet scent of the flowers was swamped by the overpowering bitterness of incense billowing from swinging censers. Venerable, bearded priests, white-garbed for the wedding, mumbled prayers in every side chapel Astasia and her entourage passed.
He looks utterly confident,
Astasia thought as Prince Eugene took his place before the altar, beside her.
But then, this is not the first time he has been married. . . .
The choir finished their anthem. In the silence, the guests coughed and shuffled their feet.
The elderly Patriarch Ilarion, who had been standing near the altar, tottered forward to greet the bride and her father. A group of young girls standing by with baskets of rose petals ready to scatter, hurried to their places. The choir began the epithalamium and, before Astasia knew what was happening, Patriarch Ilarion had placed her hand in Eugene’s and was pronouncing the words that made them man and wife before God. She could not even remember whispering, “I take thee, Eugene . . .” She could only remember gazing, mesmerized, into his grey-blue eyes.
And now he was leaning forward to kiss her. She could not, dared not, flinch away this time. She steeled herself. His hands were warm and firm on her shoulders as he drew her toward him. How strong he was. She shivered and closed her eyes as his mouth touched hers.
After, she found herself looking up into Eugene’s eyes and saw that they burned with emotion. The intensity of his gaze made her forget the red, scarred skin that marred his face. No one had looked at her in that way before.
“Now you are mine, Astasia. You need never fear for your safety again,” he said softly, each word charged with the same intensity of feeling that she saw in his eyes. “I will protect you.”
And then he turned to present her to the congregation. She glimpsed her mother and Eupraxia sobbing into their lace handkerchiefs. Even Varvara was wiping away a tear.
I am his wife. Soon we shall have to do more than kiss. . . .
The thought sent a shiver through her whole body. How could she think of such a thing in the cathedral!
Eugene led her to the ceremonial throne beside his and, as her maids rearranged her heavy train, she sat down. Then he took the imperial crown from the shaking hands of the Patriarch and raised it high over his own head, then slowly lowered it until it rested on his burned scalp.
Trumpets blazed triumphant fanfares from all corners of the cathedral.
And as Astasia watched, she thought she saw a faint glow of fire radiating from the Emperor. Though it might have been caused by a sudden ray of sunlight penetrating the gloomy cathedral, catching light in the crimson depths of the five Tears of Artamon. . . .
Great tiered chandeliers—hastily imported from Tielen—lit the Hall of Black Marble with waterfalls of crystal light. Eugene had ordered an army of craftsmen to restore this room in the Winter Palace first so that he might officially receive the overtures of goodwill from the many foreign ambassadors and politicians who had attended his wedding and coronation.
Lavish refreshments had been provided: silver trays of glossy caviar piled on sparkling crushed ice were being carried around to the eminent guests. Eugene had decreed that the food and wines should represent the best each of the five princedoms could produce. All kinds of smoked and pickled fish delicacies represented Tielen: from pike and sturgeon to eel and river trout, all served on little squares of
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