The Last Romanov by Dora Levy Mossanen

Author:Dora Levy Mossanen [Dora Levy Mossanen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc.
Published: 2012-01-24T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Six

Darya picks up a pebble and tosses it into the depths of the Black Sea, which is not black at all but blue as heaven. She loves the Crimea with its native pine and sequoia, vineyards that supply the sweetest muscat and headiest champagne, trailing vines of rose and lavender, orchards of peaches and cherries and almonds, and a range of hills that keep the cold northern winds at bay and its handsome populace of Tartars content.

The Imperial Family and their entourage are here for the inauguration of the new Livadia Palace. To Darya’s great delight, she succeeded in convincing the Imperial Couple to bring the Tsarevich along, and under her tutelage and care, he has never looked healthier. The Empress seems stronger and happier too. And Avram, invited along with the other artists, is basking in the success of his latest collection of portraits, the primitive-looking nudes of his sole model: her!

The only cloud in the canvas of her clear sky is Grigori Rasputin, whose encroaching shadow slithers underfoot, flat and ominous, as she strolls along the fringe of the sea. Having been invited back to court by the Empress, Rasputin is in good humor. The Tsarevich, during a recent trip with his family, fell against the bathtub and bruised himself. The bleeding was terrible. The Empress did not leave her son’s bedside for ten days. Doctors admitted defeat. An announcement was drafted declaring the death of the heir. The desperate Empress sent Rasputin a telegram.

“God has seen your tears,” he wired back. “Do not grieve. The Little One will not die.” Within hours the bleeding had subsided. He had, once again, saved the life of the Tsarevich, and neither the most powerful of ministers, nor governess to the grand duchesses, or a single member of the Imperial Family dared to criticize him.

Darya detects something floating on the waves, bobbing up and down like a giant cork. Her hand shading her eyes against the sun, she squints to bring the shape into focus. An animal, she thinks, continuing to plow ahead. Warm sand sifts through her bare toes, but her gaze is riveted on the sea creature riding the waves, hissing and foaming like the Empress’s Chantilly lace skirts.

Darya slows down, moves to the water’s edge. The sea has vomited a silvery elliptical object onto the shore, an object the size of the Tsar’s traveling valise. It glistens under the sun, as if imbued with a life of its own. Fossilized squid beaks and shells poke out of its hide that resembles brittle pumice stone, or some spongy material with the voluptuous scent of leather and tobacco and sea, a seductive perfume that curls up to embrace her like a womb.

Cherish it, the Ancient One says. Its journey has been long and hard. It has crossed seas and oceans, has been cured for decades in salty waters and under hot suns to reach you. Valuable ambergris, Darya Borisovna. It is yours!

Oblivious to the lapping waves and the warm sand, Darya falls to her knees.

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