The Last Tsar's Dragons

Chapter 23

Rasputin sauntered into the room, smiling. He could feel his body tingling, starting at his feet. That always meant something huge would happen soon. Perhaps Princess Irina would declare her love openly. Perhaps the prince would simply offer her to him. He had done so before with his other women, when they were both younger and the prince not so caught up in convention. Rasputin made little distinction between a princess and a prostitute in bed. They even liked it better that way.

But no—he preferred the chase, the slow seduction, the whimpering of the whipped dog that would be the prince. He must not jump the fence before it was close enough. His mother always said that. The old folk wisdom was true.

He touched the charm around his neck. The prince would hate him but could not harm him.

“Have some cakes,” Prince Yusupov said, gesturing with a hand toward the table. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.

Rasputin wondered at that. It was, indeed, too warm down in the cellar, but he himself was not sweating. He rarely sweated, except in the baths or in the arms of a beautiful and eager woman.

“The cakes were made especially… especially for you,” Yusupov said. He hesitated. “To make peace between us.”

Rasputin heard the hesitation, thought he understood what that meant. “The cakes will do, Felix,” he said. And indeed, they were the very kind he loved best. Honey cakes topped with crushed almonds, skorospelki covered with branches of fresh dill, caviar blinis, and so much more. But Rasputin did not want to appear greedy.

“Please,” Yusupov said. “Irina had them made especially. We would not want her to be disappointed.”

“No, we would not,” Rasputin said, managing to make the four words sound both engaging and insulting at the same time. It was not unintentional, and he enjoyed the confused clash of emotions that sparked briefly in Yusupov’s eyes. He picked up a honey cake and a blini and ate them, savoring the taste. Surprisingly, they were too sweet and dry. “Some Madeira, if you please,” he told the prince.

Yusupov himself went to the sideboard and poured the wine, with exquisite care, into a glass.

The first glass went down quickly but barely moved the dry taste out of Rasputin’s mouth. Forgetting that he didn’t want to appear greedy, he held out the glass for a refill.

Eagerly, the prince filled it for him.

“And the princess?” Rasputin said, after downing the second glass. His mouth was still dry, but he forswore another glass. He wanted to remember this evening in every crisp detail.

“Here shortly. She had to see off her own guests and then change costume,” Yusupov said. “Women!” His voice sounded like a small dog’s bark.

“Ah, women,” replied the monk. “God bless them. My mother used to say, ‘A wife is not a pot, she will not break so easily.’ Ha ha. But I would rather say, ‘Every seed knows its time.’”

Yusupov started. “What do you mean by that? What do you mean?” He was sweating again.

Rasputin felt a sudden camaraderie with the poor man. Prince or pauper, young man or old, women make fools of us all. He put his hand out and clapped Yusupov on the shoulder. “Just that women, God bless them, are like little seeds and know their own time, even though we poor fellows do not.” Then he passed a hand across his forehead, and it came away sweaty. “Is it very hot in here?”

“Yes, very,” said Yusupov, using a handkerchief to wipe his own forehead.

“Well, sing to me then to pass the time ’til your wife gets here,” the monk said, pondering another drink. Just to fend off this awful heat. He pointed to the guitar that rested against the wall. “I heard you often singing in those far-off days when we went into the dark sides of the city. I would hear you again. For old times’ sake.” The camaraderie faded as quickly as it had come, and he leered at the prince. “And for the sake of your lovely wife, Irina.”

Yusupov nodded, gulped, nodded again. Then he went over and picked up the guitar. Strumming, he began to sing.