Free Empress of the Night by Eva Stachniak Page B

into the fire. Soon the bedroom is warm enough to dispose of thick stockings and fur slippers.
    She waits. Across the corridors of the Winter Palace that separate her rooms from the Grand Ballroom, the music resounds. There is laughter and screams of delight. Revelers wander the palace unhindered; lovers seek empty rooms where they can hide. Footsteps approach and then fade away.
    Catherine opens a book, closes it again. The flames of the fireplace provide a temporary distraction. When the anxiety becomes impossible to withstand, she takes a sip of laudanum straight from the bottle, without even diluting it with water. The bitter taste spills over her tongue, but moments later, the warmth in her stomach calms her.
    She bargains with fate. If he comes right now, I will give alms to the poor . When he doesn’t come, she offers more. I will sell my jewels and take five orphan girls. Ten, no, twenty orphan girls, and bring them up at my own expense. I will teach them to read, write, and count .
    Give them dowries .
    Find husbands for them .
    There is little she remembers from the rest of this night. A few of her friends come by—friends who’ve promised to keep an eye on Serge. They try to be of help. Yes, they have seen her lover. Yes, they have passed on her assurances. Yes, he knows that she is waiting. That she is alone.
    “So why is he not here yet?” she remembers asking.
    The memory of their answers eludes her. The drowsy, foggy thickness has made her thoughts laborious. Her words slur.
    Didn’t Serge once say: Aren’t you my beloved? The queen of my thoughts? What could have changed?
    He does come to see her, a week later. After she lets her hair turn oily and rank, when no admonitions or her maid’s coaxing could make her dress up and see anyone. When in the clouded palace mirrors her face looks frightened and starved. She looks, Catherine realizes, as if she has been quarantined during some plague to stop the disease from spreading.
    Serge enters her room, unannounced, dragging in the smells of the road: bonfire smoke, wet leather, the sweat of horses. In his hand is a gift from Sweden, a bouquet made of pinecones and acorns, tied with a red ribbon.
    “For Your Highness,” he says, as if he were giving her something precious.
    She waves her maids away. When they are gone, she throws her hands around his neck, rests her head on his chest. His heart beats fast, but his hands do not lift, his arms do not embrace her.
    It takes her a moment to register that what she hears is Serge’s tongue clucking with disapproval. “The Grand Duchess of Russia is making the court tongues wag. Haven’t you heard the names the Shuvalovs are calling you?”
    He takes her hands off his neck and makes her sit down. “I’m here,” he says, “because you’ve forced me to come.”
    She hears him and yet she doesn’t. She babbles of her pain, her fears, her terrible loneliness. She wants him to know how much she missed him.
    When a tear rolls down her cheek, he wipes it with his finger. “I’ve never wished to hurt you,” he says.
    Serge’s voice is soft. His words are ripe and fragrant, each bestowing pleasure. The court, he says, is a swamp of jealousy and intrigue. He has been warned that the Empress does not want him near her, and so he had to obey. He thought she would understand. Was he wrong? His lips glide down her bare shoulder.
    “I understand,” she mutters, through joy and relief. Serge is back. He loves her. She was right all along.
    She opens his breeches and slides her hand inside.
    This is where he stops her. His grip is painful. Harsh. His words strike like lashes of the knout. “Other women can afford to be blind, Catherine, but not you!”
    “What do you mean?” she asks, still uncomprehending.
    “You’ve just believed another lie.”
    “What lie?”
    “Everything I’ve just told you is a lie. And you know it.”
    She covers her ears with her hands, but he pulls them away. He whispers, but his