The Tsarina's Legacy by Jennifer Laam

fan in her hand and opened it, fluttering the silk gauze as the ambassador attempted to conceal his boredom.
    Grisha repeated the first impersonation he had ever performed for her. “Someone important? L’etat c’est moi. The state demands amusement.” He raised his voice to a higher pitch and hit the words with a distinctive German accent to mark his target not as a native speaker but merely an apt learner. “Make me laugh, Grisha. Say something funny, my kitten.”
    He heard a sputtering from the lips forced shut around him. He dared not draw his gaze away from Catherine’s face. But her laughter came easily enough. And then there was laughter all around and a hard slap on his back from the ambassador.
    â€œExactly so,” Catherine kept saying. But there was no special warmth to her tone, only the formal admiration she might express for any amusing acquaintance. “I treasure you as a friend, Prince. With such wicked wit, I would hate to have you as an enemy.”
    Never an enemy. He forced himself to concentrate on the clink of silver on porcelain and the obnoxious slurping sound as the ambassador polished off his fish soup.
    â€œYes, quite amusing.” Zubov draped an arm over the back of his chair. “Now that you honor us with your presence, do you plan to regale us with tales of this Mohammedan monstrosity?”
    â€œIf you’re so eager to be apprised of my work, we should arrange for an evening of whist and chatter. Perhaps my secretary might contact yours,” Grisha added, knowing Zubov had no secretary.
    Zubov reddened and Grisha heard a few low chuckles, momentarily drowning out the rapid notes of Così fan tutti .
    But the boy recovered quickly enough. “Why wait? We all want to hear of your newfound desire to defile Catherine’s Christian empire. Or is it even Catherine’s land anymore? Are you not emperor of the south?”
    The laughter stopped. Grisha still heard crunching and slurping as some of the older courtiers focused on their meals rather than the unfolding political game.
    Grisha bowed again, not as deeply. “As I’ve told Her Imperial Majesty, that title is nonsense and I’ve asked its use be stopped even in jest. Empress Catherine is still in charge here, is she not?”
    â€œOf course,” Zubov sputtered. “It’s treason to suggest otherwise.”
    Zubov’s monkey emitted what sounded like a taunting bray and Zubov shooed him away. The creature retired to a corner where water and peanuts awaited him in sparkling china dishes. Once Zubov was banished, Grisha would make the monkey a pet for one of his niece’s children.
    â€œI would be happy to share the plans,” Grisha said, “if it pleases the empress.”
    Grisha had staged such performances before and always she’d rewarded him with a smile and a gleam in her eye. When he held Catherine’s attention, Grisha held the world. He turned to her, confident once more in his own charisma.
    But she was focused on Zubov, the smooth lines of his face, his broad shoulders and biceps shown to full advantage under the velvet. Grisha knew he couldn’t divert her romantic attentions easily and yet he’d hoped she would find him a more powerful distraction.
    â€œI would like to hear Prince Potemkin’s plans,” she told her favorite. “How clever of you, teasing to coax him to speak. I believe I’ve employed similar tactics over the years. Our two minds are as one.”
    She wanted to help Zubov save face. Grisha tried to stuff the jealousy down his throat. At what point would she wake from her dream, as Titania had in Shakespeare’s comedy, and see the boy for the jackass he was?
    Catherine sat back in her seat and twirled the fan to the side, addressing Grisha once more. “Please speak, giaour .”
    The word was one of Catherine’s favorite endearments, a term for a non-Muslim. He had heard the phrase