Free The Winter Palace by Eva Stachniak Page B

rule,” the Empress had vowed on the day of the coup that gave her the throne, two years before. Madame Kluge would not die, I told myself, knowing that death was not all a soul could fear. Under the strokes of the knout, skin turns to meaty straps. Muscles tear. Backs break. It didn’t take much to turn a woman into a cripple.
    Someone behind me tittered. I heard Madame Kluge scream. Before I could turn my eyes away from the scaffold, I saw her body go limp.
    The Empress nodded again. The guard who held the knout raised his hand and the first blow broke the silence. Nine more followed before the verdict was announced—dismissal from court and exile.
    Since that day, no one in the Winter Palace was allowed to mention Madame Kluge’s name.
    “You play the palace game. You lose or you win,” the Chancellor would tell me that night, caressing my breast. “You, too, can find yourself back where you came from.”
    The scar on his chest, he said with a chuckle, was a mark left by a dying hand. He didn’t even recall the man’s name.
    “Keep watching what lurks in the shadows, Varvara. The moment you stop, someone else will take your place.”
    I made myself believe that there was no other way.
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    In the small, forgotten rooms at the far ends of the old Winter Palace—dim oak-paneled chambers that still remembered her father’s giant footsteps—beds were kept ready for the Empress at all times. The room she chose was never the same from night to night. No one was to know where the Empress of Russia would sleep.
    She, too, was afraid of an assassin’s dagger.
    I had seen many an imperial secret by then. I had seen my mistress in tears; I had seen her sick from lust. I had seen her ripped clothes in a heap on the floor, slashed to free her when she had been too drunk to undress. In the months that had passed since my first summons, I had brought her many stories of foolishness and pride, of hopes and deceits.
    It was the measure of the Empress’s confidence in me that she told me of the letter her secretary had dispatched to the Prince of Anhalt-Zerbst.
    The letter made no promises but asked for his daughter’s company. The Empress had every reason to believe the Princess would arrive before February 10, in time to celebrate the Grand Duke’s sixteenth birthday.
    “We would all be in Moscow by then,” she told me, pleased at the thought of the court’s approaching journey. Staying in one place for too long made Elizabeth restless. Days were always brighter elsewhere, nights more starry. Besides, she disliked the thought of any of her palaces left to the servants for too long. This is when walls began to peel, silks faded, and carpets grew threadbare.
    Master’s eye fattened the horse.
    There was no reading of reports that night. Instead, I was to write down a list of questions for the steward. Did the furniture the Empress had ordered shipped to Moscow in advance of her trip arrive? Was there any damage from dampness or mice? Had the sculptor been hired to check the condition of the statues and do the necessary repairs? Even away from the capital, her visitors would not be given an excuse to doubt the splendor of the Russian court.
    “The grand ballroom of the Annenhof palace would do very well for their first dance,” Elizabeth said. Her hand was stroking a purring cat curled on her lap.
    The cats were never fooled by the charade of changing bedrooms. They always knew where to find her.
    In the Imperial Wardrobe the seamstresses were busy laying out the traveling clothes. In the hallways footmen were stacking up trunks and chests before loading them onto carriages. Crates lined up with braids of straw were still piling up in the main hall. In the stables, the grooms were fitting harnesses and traces for the horses.
    From now on I was also to make sure Grand Duke Peter’s reading contained suitable passages. “Not so many battles, Varvara,” the Empress said. “Some French novels, perhaps. But make sure