Dmitrii's palace was a sturdy stone tower that had seen a few centuries to float by. It had a grace of its own, but it made me miss the sky bound woodwork of the monastery.
There was another disadvantage to the stonework: when Besson stepped inside, the draft that touched his neck was so cold, it must have lingered inside since February. The chattering of his teeth carried through the cavernous interior as well, despite the rugs. I'd been to cathedrals with lesser acoustic qualities.
The reception Prince Shuiskii received had the same stony quality.
Tsarina Maria slumped in her gilded chair, flanked by her equally grim-faced brothers, Mikhail and Grigorii. The size of the hall dwarfed the two men despite their bull-like builds. The rest of Maria's trusted retainers, decked in pearl-and-gold sewn robes, overshadowed her instead of imparting grandeur. Yet, the aura of despair coated their shoulders too, thicker and blacker than the furs on display.
Maria boasted a flaxen braid and translucent cheeks, alternating between scarlet and ashen in time with her breathing. Her eyes, on the opposite, lost much of their natural color—cerulean blue, unless I missed my guess—from crying. But once I subtracted the toll taken by grief...
Wow! I whistled.. Wow, that's a real tsarina for you!
Tsar Ivan favored swarthy women since his second wife, a Tatar woman.
If he had a type and made an exception for this girl, I get it.
Besson scrunched his face. They... they say Maria's appearance reminded him of his first and beloved one, Anastasia. Maybe the old apostate sought to find the peace Anastasia used to instill in his sinful soul.
Maria interrupted Besson's charitable thoughts. She pointed a shaking finger right at my unfortunate friend. Her eyes regained all the color, lost to tears, and blazed brighter than gems. "Villain! Murderer!"
Besson staggered behind his uncle's back to break contact with tsarina's maddened gaze.
Leave him be! My shout merely echoed through Besson's mind.
Uncle Vasilii's arm shot backward, unerringly found Besson's collar and shoved him toward the nearest bench.
"Sit and scribe," he growled under his breath.
Besson blinked, reorienting himself to find a bench in the farthest corner, shuffled to it, and set out his writing implements. That done, he slumped and kept his gaze on the paper, on his quill's pointy tip, on the swirl of ink in the inkwell... basically anything inanimate.
"Take a longer counsel before shouting accusations at my sister's son, Maria," Uncle Vasilii spoke in a quiet, scary tone. "Your wild outcry had already roused the rubble. Three youths of good behavior and of honest families lay dead."
Maria opened her mouth, but he overrode whatever retort she might have had, forcing everyone in the room to bend their ear and listen to the heavy fall of his words.
"The same grim fate had befallen eleven other men of various stations on your instigations. Dmitrii was sired from Rurik's mighty seed, but he was a child. Did it take fourteen men to subdue him?"
Uncle Vasilii eyed each of his would-be opponents, one after another. None dared to open his mouth. It was uncanny, as if he had more gravity than everyone else in the room combined.
"No argument? I'm glad we agreed," he said.
Maria shook from head to toe.
"Cowards," she hissed at her menfolk before straightening to face Uncle Vasilii. "It took many more men than fourteen."
YOU ARE READING
The Tetrachromat (On HOLD)
Historical Fiction||UMBRELLA ACADEMY x THE PRINCES IN THE TOWER|| In 2023, eighteen-year-old Grisha is upset over missing his admission to a prestigious Art Academy. Worse, he's drafted to fight in an unjust war he hates. In a fit of rage, Grisha rips his second-hand...
