Chapter Thirty-Two (Patreon)

Secrecy was required for this sort of meeting, but as Alexander had learned, there were many types layers to secrecy. Two men meeting in a lantern-lit office with thick walls would never be heard, but should so much as a single servant spy their retreat word would soon spread that something important was being discussed. Such risks could be managed, but the Governor’s Palace of Irkutsk lacked the needed men and facilities. Nor could Alexander risk having his agenda undermined by whispers of terror and cruelty.

Discretion and misdirection would be the order of the day. Secrecy that lay in plain sight, for who would suspect that a brother and sister leading their toddling and infant children through a park would hide some nefarious plot? To secure the illusion Alexander had committed to it, engaging his sister in a half-hour of nonsense. When at last the children were off to play amidst the blooming clover and the attendants out of earshot Alexander revealed the expedition’s true purpose.

“Agvan?” Maria asked, her voice quiet. “I know little of him, I must admit.”

“Tell me what you do know.”

Maria eyed him carefully. “He does not like to live in the Palace,” she said. “He will do so only in winter. The rest of the year he lives with his wife, siblings, and children on an estate on the city’s outskirts. He sometimes speaks to his colleagues, rarely to the courtiers, and never to the servants. I have had conversation with him on only three occasions. Once, when I first arrived, he introduced himself. The other two times were to congratulate me on giving birth.”

“And?”

“And what?” Maria asked.

“What else do you know?” His sister was not so lacking in skill as to gain nothing from those conversations.

“I know he likes farming,” Maria said. “He finds his wife pleasant and is proud of his eldest son. He prefers the wilderness to the city and prefers his farm to both.”

“Have you heard of him speaking to anyone in particular lately?”

“Only to Count Muravyov.”

Alexander frowned deeply. Muravyov had been speaking with von Stieglitz as well, before his ceremony in Saint Petersburg. What was going on, that three of his councilors needed to conspire?

“Brother, you can’t be serious.” Alexander narrowed his eyes. Maria scoffed. “Muravyov would sooner cut off his head than betray you.” She said it with such confidence Alexander could almost believe it. “He owes everything to you, dear brother. But if it concerns you, I can try to find out what they were discussing.”

“If you would,” Alexander agreed.

*

Alexander paced in the hallway. Every carpet, every painting, every speck of gilding upon the walls seemed a personal insult.

“Brother–”

Alexander turned sharply. Cold blue eyes searched the man who dared speak. Yet the man did not flinch, nor did he pause.

“There is no–”

A scream pierced the halls. Alexander flinched.

“There is nothing you can do,” his wife’s husband continued. His voice was gentle, as if speaking to a child. It made Alexander wish to rebel against it–a ridiculous thought, considering who was the Governor-General and who was a mere scientist and researcher. And yet his brother-by-law was right. There was nothing more Alexander could do. He had ensured the best doctors available were in that room. He had ensure their supply of soap and that they washed their hands.

Alexander sat on the nearby chair with as much dignity as he possessed. Which, at the moment, meant he collapsed upon it like a dropped bag of potatoes.

“Talk to me,” Alexander said.

“About what?”

“Your research. Your family. Anything just—“ Alexander winced as his wife screamed again. “Talk to me.

“Well,” Maximilian began, “our Maria swallowed a ruby yesterday.”

Alexander turned to his brother-in-law. Surely he had misheard.

“I do not jest,” Maximilian said with a smile. “Your sister’s earring came apart while little Maria was crawling. The ruby dropped. Little Maria picked it up and—“ he gestured, “put it into her mouth.”

“And she swallowed it.”

“She did.” Maximilian laughed. “One of the nurses found it a day later. We rewarded her of course, and thoroughly washed the gem.”

Alexander stared. A ruby, swallowed and nearly lost by an infant. A ruby, told as a minor anecdote. Alexander had spent this life surrounded by wealth. He oversaw a realm of gold mines, churning out more than a hundred million rubles a day. He had seen his father’s crown, encrusted with pounds upon pounds of faceted diamonds. Yet it was this ruby, a tiny red stone he had not even seen, that recalled memories of a dirt floor in Gori.

Alexander felt himself possessed by a righteous rage. What gave these people the right to such wealth? How much of it did they truly deserve if a ruby could be treated so casually? Why ought they have wealth and power when untold millions toiled for their masters in factories and farms, when serfs were bought and sold as if they were mere acreage? The issue was the system—the whole of it. It needed to be destroyed.

Then why are you here? his mind whispered. The system was destroyed. The Soviets ruled. Yet something sent you here.

His rage cooled. Alexander leaned back into his chair. Collective Purpose, Alexander reminded himself. Even at the height of their power the Communist Party had never held the unwavering fealty of the people that the Tsars now possessed. The system would need to be changed. Broken, so it could heal into a better pattern. But as with men it would take time. Time to gather the strength to break it. Time to decide upon the best pattern, and much time to heal it.

Patience had never been his strong point. Alas, it seemed he would need to learn.

Alexander turned back to Maximilian. “A ruby,” he said dryly.

Maximilian nodded.

A door opened. Alexander stood suddenly. “What news?” he demanded of the servant.

“Your Imperial Highness,” the nurse curtsied. “You have a son.”

Alexander moved. With a single step of his large frame he bypassed the nurse and entered the room.

Nurses moved around the bed. On the bed, resting on stained sheets, was his wife. Her hair was slicked with sweat, her face pale and strained. Yet there was love in her eyes as they stared down at their son.

“You are well?”

Alexandrine looked up at him. “I am covered in sweat and exhausted,” she corrected. “Now stop asking stupid questions and come hold your son.”

Deciding against testing his usually biddable wife, Alexander did as ordered. The boy was tiny in his hands. He seemed nothing more than a pink mass, his face scrunched in discomfort. Alexander ran his hand through the boy’s dark hair. The boy’s face relaxed, and he shifted in Alexander’s arms.

“He’s perfect,” Alexander said. His voice was rough, the sound of a ship’s hull scraping against the docks. His eyes rose to see his wife. “You are perfect.”

Even in her current state Alexandrine blushed.