Chapter Thirteen
Sandro's Study
Bathing in a fire’s warm glow, Serge’s heart grew strangely cold. The rich aroma of fine leather blended nicely with the fading fragrance of his childhood. As a boy, Serge spent a great deal of time in his father study, one very much like this one, enjoying the collection of books and the lingering scent of strong Turkish tobacco embedded in his father’s favorite reading chair. It was his sanctuary. But that study had been sealed for years, since the day Serge’s mother, known to all as Connie, had died.
Nonetheless, it was fun to be back in Sandro’s study. The dukes, Alexander and Nikolai, were more than uncles. They were his friends. Waiting for his father’s return from empire’s far-off provinces, he always seemed to find himself in this mysterious place, home to one of the finest collections of rare books in all of Russia. His adventure always began by strolling through this library of wondrous possibilities, then stopping in front on one crammed bookcase, to grab a tale that was full of dusty dreams, penned so long ago from forgotten men now long dead. He loved this place.
This living library was perfect sanctuary for a lonely child to breathe in and escape the cold world, and boldly plunge into a fascinating new world. It was a place where one could soar through the crowded streets of some Persian city on the tattered strings of flying carpet, or smartly sail the seven seas with boatload of buccaneers in search of hidden treasure.
In his life, Sandro collected as many books as friends. It was rumored that this wing alone housed nearly twenty thousand rare edition books and Serge believed it. Every inch of the high walls were lined with leather.
So, as the fire’s flames danced before him, he sat in a comfortable chair near the fireplace watching pale, curling smoke dance upon a warm flittering flame. Closing his eyes, he again drifted away. After his confrontation with Dmitri, he came here.
As the crackling of the fire slowly drew silent, he was home. Near his own fireplace, as someone tapped his shoulder—it must be Natayla, telling him to return to bed. Opening his eyes, he was rewarded by the sight of Nigel, one of Sandro’s trusted servants.
“Does your Excellency require anything of me?”
“Just a brief moment with Felix.”
“Very good, sir. He just arrived a few moments ago, and instructed me to tell you that he would only be a moment.”
“Thank you, Nigel. That will be all.”
Paging through Tolstoy’s War & Peace, Serge smiled. Oh, you righteous tale of past patriotic glory, he thought.
Then he heard hear hard footsteps skimming across the atrium’s marble floor. He was hoping it was one of the grand duke’s sons. They were supposed to be in the city this weekend. But as the large French doors swung open, Felix entered, and sat in a chair next to his cousin.
“Serge, what a pleasant surprise. Are you here to see me off, old friend?”
“What do you think?” Serge asked, annoyed.
“I think not. Is my little cousin concerned about me? How touching.” He smiled as reached out and patted Serge’s knee.
He pushed Felix’s hand aside. "What did you do?”
“Only what had to be done.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. Why did you kill him?”
“Kill who?”
“Why must you be this way?”
“And what way is that, my observant cousin?” Felix said, loving the friction gathering between the two of them.
“Why must you do everything in your power to destroy, all that you are afraid to love?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Felix, I have known you all my life. And, I have seen firsthand the ruin you inflict to the ones who fall into your tangled web. So, I ask you again. Why did you kill Father Rasputin?”
“Yes, Rasputin is dead,” Felix said, yawning. “But I am not the spider.”
“I think you are, and I am not alone,” the prince replied, thinking of his conversation with Inspector Renko.
“Think what you must but I’m not in a fit state to talk about it. I’m dropping with fatigue, and I need to pack for I’m leaving this evening for my Crimean estate. Irina is ill. I want to spend the holidays with her until she is well.”
“I am sorry to hear Irina is ill, but I am thankful you are leaving the city.”
“And why is that?”
“Don’t be so naïve. Do you really believe that you can escape the empress’ reaction to all of this?”
“I did what had to be done. I did what men like you lack the courage to do. I saved the monarchy, and the empress and her tainted ministers can go to hell.”
“You say this now, but from a dank prison cell, your perceptive might change.”
“Please, I am a prince. Married to the tsar’s own niece,” Felix said, rising from the chair. “Do you really see a prison cell in store for me? I am the only heir to one of the wealthiest families within the empire. I think not.”
“And what do you think the emperor will do?”
“The emperor?” Felix was growing angry. “The emperor will reward us for saving him from performing the gruesome task. You see, old boy, the good father was having his way with the empress. And, the sovereign’s true warriors ended that moral mockery that surrounded the throne! Russia has always been led by the brave acts of the bold and beautiful.”
“Nice speech, Felix. It’s nice that your band were able to protect the tsar from the embarrassment such a scandal would entail. But I know you better. You couldn’t care less about the vows that surround the throne. All you care about is yourself. I know about your secret, a secret that didn’t die with the good father.”
“Secret? Don’t play games, Serge. You may end up getting yourself hurt,” Felix warned. “Don’t you see the powers to be are already in motion?”
“Powers to be? Please, the atrocity of Rasputin’s death is all yours. His blood will forever stain your twisted fingers. You see, my eccentric one,” remembering an Oxford friend, “I know all too well that you destroy the things that get too close.” With a hint of jealousy, he added, “Do give Irina my love.”
“Still sore, old sport?” Felix asked. He knew Irina loved Serge more than him, but she was his wife. “The better man always wins.”
“Just make sure ‘the better man’ is on that train tonight.”
After Felix left, Serge wondered—how could he be related to that? “God save us from men like that,” whispered the prince.
A rusty old voice rang down from the heavens. “The Lord wants nothing to do with that mess,” laughed a grand duke hidden among dark mahogany shelves overcrowded with books. There, in all his glory, stood the Grand Duke Alexander.
“Charming boy, my son-in-law. I can’t see what my daughter finds appealing in him. Certainly his absence.” The old man laughed as only a Russian could.
“Sandro!” cried Serge, rushing toward the spiral steps. “I thought you were still at the front?”
“And, miss all of this?” Sandro grinned. “Someone needs to run this lunatic asylum that we once called Russia.” He looked Serge over. “I’m thankful the brutal test,” referring to the war, ‘has returned you in one piece.”
With those few words, a stream of shame coursed through the man wearing only a suit. Mumbling, as he looked toward the polished parquet floors, “Sandro, I …”
“Say no more, my courageous one. Have faith that there is still good out there.”
Shaking his head, Serge said: “All the good, and the brave are now buried at a place without a name.”
“And the unrest grows,” declared the duke. “A situation like this cannot last long. That is why I am here. I need to warn Niki before the dark forces that currently surround him cripple him completely.”
“Dark forces? Do you mean Rasputin? For he is dead.”
“Rasputin, that poor Siberian peasant, is nothing compared with the sinister forces that currently confront us,” Sandro said. “The tsar’s own government wants him dead.”
“What?”
“It is true. The government is doing all it can to increase the number of malcontents, and it is succeeding admirably. We’re watching an unprecedented spectacle. Revolution is coming from above, not below.”
“From above?”
“Yes, from above. These puppeteers are manipulating events—food shortages in the city while mountains wheat rot in the countryside. Factions in the military due to poor morale caused by lies of scandal in the court.”
“Do you know who?”
“I believe it all stems from the changing of the ministers. None of the loyal remains.”
“What about Protopopov?”
“Protopopov is a hysterical coward and a formal liberal turned into an orthodox conservative by Rasputin’s magic. They present a pair extraordinary fit for the last act of the death of a nation.”
“So there is no hope.”
“There is always hope,” Sandro whispered. “We will fix things, for we must. If we don’t, everything will crumble to dust. Know Serge, do tell me about your beard.”
Serge laughed as he knew how ridiculous he looked. “You don’t like it?”
As they sat down, they caught up with old times. It was fun.
