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Every year it is the same. The display ends and the party begins and, despite the best efforts of a nursemaid trying to shuffle her charge back to the Little Palace, a little hand tugs at his kefta.
“Can I stay for the dancing?” his Sun Summoner begs, candlelight shining like a constellation in her big, dark eyes, head tipped too far back by the weight of her golden kokoshnik and the angle she has to look up at him from. He sighs, weary and put-upon. She clings tighter to his kefta, forces her eyes open wider so they get watery in that innocently manipulative way of hers. “Pleeeeeeease?”
He chucks her chin with a knuckle and rolls his eyes.
“ One dance!” he says wearily, as though she’s demanding he concede a battle. But he cannot keep up his pretense of dissatisfaction as she jumps up and down excitably.
He does not take to the floor at these things, though he never begrudges it of his Grisha. But this is his annual exception. To let this little miracle drag him by the wrist onto the dancefloor, to take her delicate little hands in his, since she is too small for a proper waltz hold.
“Can I stand on your shoes?” she asks eagerly. His valet spent all day polishing his dress shoes, but one day she will be too big to dance on his feet, as desperate as he is for her to be this small forever, so carefree, so easy to protect.
“Yes Solnishka,” he smiles. “You can stand on my shoes.”
She beams up at him as she steps up on his feet, the patent leather squeaking under the soft kidskin of her evening slippers, black and delicately embroidered with golden sunbursts. She has shown them to him three times this evening. Four years in his charge and she still delights in these little luxuries. He delights in her delight.
A cheerful Kerch Polka strikes up and he skips across the floor, surprisingly lightly considering he has a quickly growing nine year old standing on his feet. His partner laughs the whole way, both of their kefta whirling as he spins, the ink coloured silk blurring into one wave as they go. He knows the eyes of the court are on them, but for ten minutes he allows himself not to care. In this moment the only people he cares to please are himself and the little miracle clutching at his arms and squishing his toes. Everything he does, everything he has suffered, every lie, every plot, every buried friend, it’s all for her.This perfect child he adores more than life itself. She is the only saint he will bow to, the only faith he requires. And she wants to dance. So she shall dance.
It’s over too quickly, even for him. And when she asks for another he almost gives in. But he has cultivated his reputation over decades and he cannot be seen to be wrapped around this little girl’s finger, as much as it might be the case.
“Please? Pretty please!” Alina begs, tears welling up in her eyes. But he won’t be moved. He scoops her up off her feet, rests her on his hip, though she’s too tall now to be held this way and her legs dangle awkwardly.
“No tears now!” he scolds gently as he carries her to the door, damning protocol that requires her to formally say good night to the Tsar. “Don’t ruin a lovely night!”
Alina sniffs and nods. She knows his moods and his tones well enough now. She knows that he will not be moved from his decision. He gave her the indulgence of one dance. And now she must be good and go to bed. He beckons one of the young heartrenders who have served as something of an honour guard to the little saint for the evening.
“Ivan, is it?” he says.
“Yes, Moi Sovrenyi,” the young man says with a smart nod as crisp as any salute. “Ivan Pol-”
“See Miss Starkova to bed will you Ivan?” he instructs. The young man easily takes Alina from Aleksander’s arms and, when the child begins to protest being parted from him, expertly soothes her into a half slumber, eyelids growing heavy and little flushed cheek coming to rest against the shoulder of his scarlet kefta. Aleksander’s eyes linger on the door long after they have disappeared through it, wishing he had taken her himself, but his presence is required a while longer. Only Sankta Alina is allowed to depart the festivities before the Tsar and Tsarina, a concession to her age and her strict bedtime of nine thirty.
With her departure also goes any good will towards him that has been shown that evening. Other guests stand further apart from him, the whispers increase, the Tsar makes more than one comment about a failure that is not his, firmly laying the blame at the feet of the Black General and his Second Army.
By the time the Tsar leaves the party an hour later, Aleksander is thoroughly irritated. He stalks back to the Little Palace in a cloud of ill humour, his guards hurrying to keep up with his quick, long strides. He dismisses them curtly at the foot of the stairs, he doesn’t need protection in his own palace, and he’s in a dark mood, ideal for brooding and rumination over a glass of ice wine. All thoughts of that cease though when he reaches the corridor that separates his suite from Alina’s. Her door is ajar, the low, warm light of her nightlight spills out into the hall. He can faintly hear the sound of her nursemaid speaking, soft and low, and Alina’s muffled response.
He’s silent as he steps up to the doorway, but Alina’s eyes dart to find him almost instantly. It’s like she feels his presence, the same way he’s almost certain that he feels hers. Her hair is an inkblot across the white pillows, and she is burrowed down deep under thick blankets, only the top half of her head is really visible, but she seems to be quite determined to be awake.
“You should be asleep Little Lamb,” he says fondly, barely acknowledging the curtsey of the nursemaid as he passes her on his way to Alina’s bedside.
“I‘m not tired,” Alina insists, even as a yawn betrays her.
“I’m tired,” he tells her.
“Too tired to tell me a story?” she asks, and he wonders who taught her to do that wide eyed pleading little face she does when she wants to get her way. He knows it’s something she picked up since she came to them at the Little Palace, but it comes to her so naturally. It feels almost unthinkable to refuse her.
But he does like to have his fun. He flops sideways onto the bed, can feel her little feet wriggling against his side as she laughs at him.
“Oh yes!” he sighs, “Far too tired for a story!”
He closes his eyes and starts to snore, an exaggerated, loud snore as Alina squirms her legs out from under him. He can feel the dip of the mattress as she crawls over to him and it takes all his effort to stay still as a little finger pokes his cheek once, twice, and then as the third attempt comes his eyes fly open and he snaps playfully at her finger, setting Alina off shrieking with laughter. She keeps laughing as he scoops her up and tucks her back into her bed, kissing her forehead as he pulls the blankets up and tucks them under her chin. It’s so strange that it is a child he has not sired that he feels such easy love for. She is easy to love, his Alina. Or perhaps everyone else is harder to love, knowing how easy they are to lose. But his Alina? He’ll have her forever.
“I suppose,” he sighs, falling into the same game they had played in the ballroom, “I could manage one story. If-” he cuts off to give her a stern look as she starts to sit up to yell in delight and stays silent as he puts his forefinger against her forehead and pushes her gently back down against her pillow. “ If you are good and quiet and close your eyes.”
Alina grins as she snuggles down into her blankets and squeezes her eyes shut. Aleksander leans forward and brushes her hair off her face before he settles back to sit against the footboard of the bed, far too grand for such a little girl, but this little girl is a living saint, a living saint who wants a bedtime story.
“Once upon a time,” Aleksander begins, “There was a beautiful princess, who lived in a beautiful palace.”
Alina cracks one eye.
“Was her name Alina?” she asks.
Aleksander smiles fondly.
“Are you telling this story or am I?” he sighs which makes Alina squeeze her eyes shut again. “Yes, the princess was named Alina. And she was very very special…”