place, the spoon plunging inside her own mouth, the Mother and Child watching her serenely from golden frames. The image is so natural, so inevitable, it unnerves her. Then she overhears her motherâs lady-in-waiting whispering in German: âI expect the princess will take no issue with conversion. I understand Lutherans do not hold to the apostolic succession, isnât that so?â
Silence, please, she wills her mother. She is about to step in, protest that she sees no great conflict between the faiths, not that it is this womanâs business to inquire. The proper retaliation is forming in her mind, taking shape in her mouth. But for once, her mother is too busy craning her neck at the ceremony.
âHow did you enjoy the service?â Peter says, when their paths conjoin in the church garden. She is aware of his attention solely on her now, a fresh interest to his gaze. In the gauze of the afternoon, the yellow smudge on his cheek is more evident as a bruise and, underneath it, she notices tiny red bumps beading from chin to ear. She wants to share with him the extent of her rapture, show him the place inside her where this countryâs beauty has already nestled. Her fingers are making their way there, up her rib cage to the place her heart beats the loudest.
âActuallyâ¦â
He leans in. âBarbaric, is it not? Lutheranism is so much more civilized, orderly. Do you not find it to be the case? Even so, back in my beloved Kiel, they had to drag me to church by my heels.â
Her fingers flutter down and away. Idiot, she thinks, then allows the word to dissipate. Instead, she looks down at the dangling face of Saint Catherine. She can feel the resolve of this saint coursing from her rib cage all the way to the top of her head.
âThere she is. Let me make the proper introductions.â The empress is steering her away from Peter and toward a group of older women. And Sophie is swallowed by them: does the young princesse have a talent for music? Does she play faro? Because that is how they pass time between Lenten vigil services until the amusements are allowed to begin again.
âI am utterly devoted to faro. Back home, I am called the âphilosopher of faro,ââ she says. And they are all laughing and nodding and agreeing, so she must be charming them with her excellent French. Was it not the king of Prussia himself who turned to her at dinner to say that her intelligence and wit were surprising in one so young? It is then it occurs to her: she will earn her Order of Saint Catherine. For now it was gifted to her for marrying Peter, but she will perform extraordinary acts for this country. The comet told her so.
Yes, she answers them now. She is passionate about dogs and horses. Do they ride? She finds it simple to say silly things expected of her, to hide the scope of her true intentions. You were meant for greater, George said to her. In fact, it is almost too easy.
Â
Tanya
PRESENT DAY
The Order of Saint Catherine is enshrined in a glass box in the center of the room, the red moiré sash rippling around the pendant on its bed of black velvet. It radiates brighter than any of the surrounding pieces. Iâm aware of this preternatural glow even as Iâm rushing around this auction preview greeting the arrivals at the elevator bank.
The Worthingtonâs fifth-floor gallery is dappled by silk-covered knees and shiny elbows, chandelier earrings, matte lips. The sparkle of precious stones. Once in a while, I hear someone trying to pronounce the consonants of a Ukrainian artist and giving up. Guests are holding effervescent wines and our catalogues, eyes scanning the centerpiece, then turning to the sculptures and the landscapes on the wall.
The preview is my favorite part of the season, when I can catch my breath and survey the art Iâve gathered, arduously, piece by piece, from far-flung corners of the world, arrayed before me in all its breathtaking
Silence, please, she wills her mother. She is about to step in, protest that she sees no great conflict between the faiths, not that it is this womanâs business to inquire. The proper retaliation is forming in her mind, taking shape in her mouth. But for once, her mother is too busy craning her neck at the ceremony.
âHow did you enjoy the service?â Peter says, when their paths conjoin in the church garden. She is aware of his attention solely on her now, a fresh interest to his gaze. In the gauze of the afternoon, the yellow smudge on his cheek is more evident as a bruise and, underneath it, she notices tiny red bumps beading from chin to ear. She wants to share with him the extent of her rapture, show him the place inside her where this countryâs beauty has already nestled. Her fingers are making their way there, up her rib cage to the place her heart beats the loudest.
âActuallyâ¦â
He leans in. âBarbaric, is it not? Lutheranism is so much more civilized, orderly. Do you not find it to be the case? Even so, back in my beloved Kiel, they had to drag me to church by my heels.â
Her fingers flutter down and away. Idiot, she thinks, then allows the word to dissipate. Instead, she looks down at the dangling face of Saint Catherine. She can feel the resolve of this saint coursing from her rib cage all the way to the top of her head.
âThere she is. Let me make the proper introductions.â The empress is steering her away from Peter and toward a group of older women. And Sophie is swallowed by them: does the young princesse have a talent for music? Does she play faro? Because that is how they pass time between Lenten vigil services until the amusements are allowed to begin again.
âI am utterly devoted to faro. Back home, I am called the âphilosopher of faro,ââ she says. And they are all laughing and nodding and agreeing, so she must be charming them with her excellent French. Was it not the king of Prussia himself who turned to her at dinner to say that her intelligence and wit were surprising in one so young? It is then it occurs to her: she will earn her Order of Saint Catherine. For now it was gifted to her for marrying Peter, but she will perform extraordinary acts for this country. The comet told her so.
Yes, she answers them now. She is passionate about dogs and horses. Do they ride? She finds it simple to say silly things expected of her, to hide the scope of her true intentions. You were meant for greater, George said to her. In fact, it is almost too easy.
Â
Tanya
PRESENT DAY
The Order of Saint Catherine is enshrined in a glass box in the center of the room, the red moiré sash rippling around the pendant on its bed of black velvet. It radiates brighter than any of the surrounding pieces. Iâm aware of this preternatural glow even as Iâm rushing around this auction preview greeting the arrivals at the elevator bank.
The Worthingtonâs fifth-floor gallery is dappled by silk-covered knees and shiny elbows, chandelier earrings, matte lips. The sparkle of precious stones. Once in a while, I hear someone trying to pronounce the consonants of a Ukrainian artist and giving up. Guests are holding effervescent wines and our catalogues, eyes scanning the centerpiece, then turning to the sculptures and the landscapes on the wall.
The preview is my favorite part of the season, when I can catch my breath and survey the art Iâve gathered, arduously, piece by piece, from far-flung corners of the world, arrayed before me in all its breathtaking
Similar Books
