The Winter Palace by Eva Stachniak Read Free Book Online Page A

impatience is a flaw?
    To break the chill of that August night, a birch log was burning in the fireplace, wet, for the wood hissed and smoked.
    “I’ve sent the servants away,” the Chancellor said, waving toward a small table set for two. “But you will not leave hungry.”
    I made a step toward it. It looked like an ordinary table, and the plates were empty.
    “It’s a mechanical table.” The Chancellor laughed, seeing my bewilderment. “Just like the one the Empress has in her suite. You better learn how to use it.” He motioned for me to sit. I did.
    “Lift it,” he said, pointing at a china plate. Underneath, there was a wooden lid.
    “Open it,” he said.
    Inside, there was a pencil and a piece of paper.
    “I know what mushy gruel Madame Kluge feeds the maids, so write what you fancy most,” he told me. “Don’t be shy.”
    Sturgeon soup
, I wrote.
Roasted pheasant
.
    “Anything you like. Go on.” I smelled vodka on his breath.
    Oysters
.
    Angel cake
.
    He pulled the strings that made the table descend down the shaft concealed beneath the floor. The boards closed over it. When the floor opened again, the table was laid with dishes, covered with silver lids. He lifted them one by one.
    “Eat,” he said. “The Empress doesn’t like skinny girls. They make her feel clumsy.”
    His plate remained empty.
    He watched me fumble with the oyster shells, fork up the morsels of cold, lemon-scented flesh. The fish soup was hot, and I ate too fast, scalding my tongue. Strands of smoked sturgeon lodged themselves between my teeth. I tried to loosen them with the tip of my tongue, but they wouldn’t budge.
    Two glasses stood by a half-empty bottle of cherry vodka. He filled them both to the brim.
    “A gift from the Empress,” he muttered. “A sign of imperial appreciation and gratitude.”
    If there was bitterness in these words, I ignored it.
    “Her favorite drink, Varvara. Taste it!”
    I took the glass in my hands, as carefully as I could, but I did spill some on the table. There was no tablecloth to absorb it, so I wiped the wood with my sleeve.
    He laughed.
    “Go on,” he urged, his voice softer now. “It’s really good.”
    I tasted the pink-colored liquid. It burned my throat. I put the glass down hastily.
    He leaned toward me and raised his glass, emptying it in one gulp.
    “Only a sip of imperial gratitude?” he mocked me. “You need to drink more of it.”
    I drank more. I felt a surge of dizziness. The room swirled and wobbled. I dug my fork into a thick slice of cake, smeared in whipped cream and covered with chocolate.
    The warmth in my stomach filled me with pleasure. My lips tasted of sturgeon and whipped cream.
    Where does destiny end and choice begin?
    He was watching me when I finished my meal, when I wiped the silky grease off my lips, when I tasted the sweetness of molten chocolate, when I drank more of the cherry vodka. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and fluid.
    “You are a pretty girl, Varvara, but the Empress doesn’t care for women in that way. You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you? You should.
    “You should know that she is at heart a peasant’s daughter. She likes her men simple and strong. She likes to be flattered and desired, but she also likes novelty more than anything else.
    “I can make the Empress summon you, but I cannot make her interest in you last. You’ll have to know what to tell her. And for that you’ll need me more than you think you do.”
    I watched the bald patch on the top of his head. His jacket was open, his chemise loosened. Something thickened in my throat, and I closed my eyes. He rose and came up to me. I felt his warm hands sliding inside my dress, touching my breasts. I felt the stone of his ring snag the lace on my mother’s dress.
    “I won’t hurt you,” he murmured.
    I let him pull me toward the ottoman. I felt my skirt rise, then my petticoat. Through the thin cambric of his shirt, I felt his heart beat so hard