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.
Chapter 24
I could not believe my ears. The prince had actually begun singing, slightly off-key.
I moved back and peeked carefully through the window. Rasputin was still on his feet, though there seemed to be cakes missing from the table. An empty glass stood on the table as well. And Yusupov, that damned upper-class clown, was strumming his guitar and singing lustily. Had he gone faint with worry? It certainly did not sound so. Had he decided not to kill his old friend after all? I ground my teeth. It was hard to tell.
I turned away from the sight, raced up the servants’ stairs, and found Dr. Purishkevich and Grand Duke Dmitri at the top of the stairs that led down to the cellar.
“For the Lord’s sake, what is going on?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper. “To my certain knowledge, the monk has eaten several cakes. And had a glass of wine.”
“Two at least,” said Dr. Lazovert, joining us on the stairs. “We heard him ask for a refill. He is….” he whispered as well, “not a man at all, but the very devil. There was enough poison to fell an entire unit of Cossacks. I know, I put the stuff in it myself.” He looked wretched and stank of fear-sweat and rough liquor.
“Pull yourself together,” I began, but it was too late. The doctor’s eyes had rolled back, and he sank into a stupor.
Purishkevich caught him before he tumbled down the stairs and broke his fool neck. I took his hands to try to revive him.
The grand duke just looked disgusted. At me. “The plan was yours. So what next?”
I finally took it upon myself to slap the doctor’s face hard enough that my own hand hurt from the blow. It was more frustration than medicinal, and either way, it did nothing to revive him.
All the while we whispered together, Yusupov’s thready voice singing tune after tune made its way up the stairs.
“Should we go down?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“No, no, no,” Purishkevich whispered vehemently, “that will give the game away.”
“But surely he is already suspicious.”
“He is a peasant,” said the grand duke, which explained nothing.
I was suddenly a-tremble. After all we had planned—I had planned—for it to come to this? This is the worst possible outcome. Oh, had I but known.
Suddenly the door to the cellar opened, and we conspirators all backed up. I have to admit, I was the fastest. But it was just poor Yusupov, saying over his shoulder, “Have another cake, Father. I will see what is keeping my wife.”
And Rasputin’s voice, somewhat hoarsened, called up to him, “Love and eggs are best when they are fresh!”
“A peasant,” the grand duke repeated, as Yusupov came up to find us.
If the doctor had been trembling, the prince was a leaf on a tree, all aflutter and sweating. “What should I do? What can I do?”
“He cannot be allowed to leave half-dead,” Purishkevich said.
The grand duke handed Yusupov a pistol. “Be a man.”
At that, Yusupov bent over like an old man from the weight of what he had to do, then went back down the stairs, holding the pistol behind him.
We heard Rasputin call out, “For the Lord’s sake, give me more wine.” And then he added, “With God in thought, but mankind in the flesh.”
A moment later we heard a shot. Though I’d expected it, I still jumped in shock. Then a scream. I didn’t think it was Rasputin. Dr. Lazovert sat bolt upright, though I had no idea why a slap and a gunshot couldn’t wake him but a scream did.
“Come,” said the grand duke, “that will have done it.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure, but in this company, it was not my place to say.
Two of them ran down the stairs one right after another, the grand duke first, and the quickly recovered Dr. Lazovert second. Purishkevich stayed behind. And I, trailing a bit later, because I was not actually supposed to be there, came last.
Rasputin had fallen backward onto the white bearskin rug, his eyes closed. There was blood. Much blood.