parties, stumbling home at dawn. Responsible to no one but myself.
âHi, honey, just checking in,â I say into Carlâs voice mail just before heading down into the subway. Heâll pick up eventually; I just have to be loving, persistent.
Marriage stops time for lack of markers like this. Marriage, a thing that had once felt so inevitable, so stable, was now turning out to be the biggest mystery of my life.
Â
Catherine
FEBRUARY 1744
As the grand dukeâs birthday ceremony drones on, Sophie is staring at the best-looking man she has ever seen. He is wearing hunting insignia and is handsome in the soft, easy way of recent aristocracy, as his hands are rough and callused and his fingernails are studded with dirt. As he passes to the empress the red ribbon on which hangs the Order of Saint Catherine, he winks at Sophie. It gives her strength, this show of commiseration from the empressâs favorite.
Sophie and her mother are now âprincesses of the blood, my blood,â declares the empress, swinging the medallion over Sophieâs head. It dangles over her left nub of a breast, clanging against the bone of a nonexistent hip. She examines the medalâs center, stares at the seated woman portrayed there. The fair-haired saint appears to be watching her, approving. The history of the honor is briefly explained to them: established thirty years ago by Tsar Peter to honor his wife, Catherine, for rescuing kidnapped Cossacks with her own money, the Order is bestowed by the court upon every woman of high rank who either performs extraordinary acts for the love of her country or marries into the royal family. Surely the German princesses are familiar with the martyr Saint Catherine of Alexandria, a woman who dared to challenge a pagan emperor in order to save doomed Christian souls?
âOf course,â her mother chimes in even though the question is directed toward Sophie.
In the middle of the explanation, the empress loses her footing, and Sophie notices that this Razumovsky, as she hears him called, rushes to steady her. His hands, his fingernails rimmed by those soiled moons, fall at the small of her back. The empress leans into him, a brief suture of skin, and a vague frisson of yearning courses through Sophie.
In the far corner of the palace hall, Sophie sees her future husband whispering with one of her ladies-in-waiting, a series of unpleasant laughs ringing through the hall. This merriment is to be expected of a man the day he turns sixteen, she supposes. And he does look more attractive in the light of day, the snowy paleness not as noticeable, his uniform lending him an appearance of height. She wonders if she will lean into him in that same catlike way, and if such an insubstantial frame contains enough strength to bolster her. Next to Razumovsky, the empress looks relaxed and happy. She whispers something in his ear.
And the ceremony welcoming her into the Russian court is over. Sophie waits for further instructions. âCome,â or âFollow me,â Razumovsky finally gestures to her. She is bidden to follow the procession toward the bells of a nearby church past the frozen corpses of trees, the famished earth, the faceless row of soldiers. As they trample, Sophie notices the empressâs brown silk hoop skirt is pressed against his thigh and wonders if this is marriage, two bodies constantly intersecting.
The church is inundated with smoke. Swirls of incense make it hard to look around properly, but when the fog dissipates, she finds the place beautiful. So much more ornate than what she is used to, so different from the austere rigidity of the churches she has known. Entire panels of icons lined behind the nave, the blinding gold of the candle stands. She finds the music pulsing with emotion, the incantations of the priest might as well be poetry. In the sanctuary, the empress opens her mouth to accept the Sacred Gifts, and Sophie can envision herself in the same
âHi, honey, just checking in,â I say into Carlâs voice mail just before heading down into the subway. Heâll pick up eventually; I just have to be loving, persistent.
Marriage stops time for lack of markers like this. Marriage, a thing that had once felt so inevitable, so stable, was now turning out to be the biggest mystery of my life.
Â
Catherine
FEBRUARY 1744
As the grand dukeâs birthday ceremony drones on, Sophie is staring at the best-looking man she has ever seen. He is wearing hunting insignia and is handsome in the soft, easy way of recent aristocracy, as his hands are rough and callused and his fingernails are studded with dirt. As he passes to the empress the red ribbon on which hangs the Order of Saint Catherine, he winks at Sophie. It gives her strength, this show of commiseration from the empressâs favorite.
Sophie and her mother are now âprincesses of the blood, my blood,â declares the empress, swinging the medallion over Sophieâs head. It dangles over her left nub of a breast, clanging against the bone of a nonexistent hip. She examines the medalâs center, stares at the seated woman portrayed there. The fair-haired saint appears to be watching her, approving. The history of the honor is briefly explained to them: established thirty years ago by Tsar Peter to honor his wife, Catherine, for rescuing kidnapped Cossacks with her own money, the Order is bestowed by the court upon every woman of high rank who either performs extraordinary acts for the love of her country or marries into the royal family. Surely the German princesses are familiar with the martyr Saint Catherine of Alexandria, a woman who dared to challenge a pagan emperor in order to save doomed Christian souls?
âOf course,â her mother chimes in even though the question is directed toward Sophie.
In the middle of the explanation, the empress loses her footing, and Sophie notices that this Razumovsky, as she hears him called, rushes to steady her. His hands, his fingernails rimmed by those soiled moons, fall at the small of her back. The empress leans into him, a brief suture of skin, and a vague frisson of yearning courses through Sophie.
In the far corner of the palace hall, Sophie sees her future husband whispering with one of her ladies-in-waiting, a series of unpleasant laughs ringing through the hall. This merriment is to be expected of a man the day he turns sixteen, she supposes. And he does look more attractive in the light of day, the snowy paleness not as noticeable, his uniform lending him an appearance of height. She wonders if she will lean into him in that same catlike way, and if such an insubstantial frame contains enough strength to bolster her. Next to Razumovsky, the empress looks relaxed and happy. She whispers something in his ear.
And the ceremony welcoming her into the Russian court is over. Sophie waits for further instructions. âCome,â or âFollow me,â Razumovsky finally gestures to her. She is bidden to follow the procession toward the bells of a nearby church past the frozen corpses of trees, the famished earth, the faceless row of soldiers. As they trample, Sophie notices the empressâs brown silk hoop skirt is pressed against his thigh and wonders if this is marriage, two bodies constantly intersecting.
The church is inundated with smoke. Swirls of incense make it hard to look around properly, but when the fog dissipates, she finds the place beautiful. So much more ornate than what she is used to, so different from the austere rigidity of the churches she has known. Entire panels of icons lined behind the nave, the blinding gold of the candle stands. She finds the music pulsing with emotion, the incantations of the priest might as well be poetry. In the sanctuary, the empress opens her mouth to accept the Sacred Gifts, and Sophie can envision herself in the same
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