Zoya hopped down from her perch, prepared to dose him for the night. He was pained to find that after the events of the day, he was looking forward to a little oblivion.

“Fate,” Nikolai said as he opened the door to his bedchamber. “Faith. I fear we are in unknown territory, Nazyalensky. I thought you’d raise a louder protest to skewering me.”

“What is there to object to?” Zoya asked, rearranging the chess pieces the twins had left in disarray. “If the thorn wood is gone, our hopes crumble to dust, we return to the palace empty-handed, and we get through this party or summit or whatever you want to call it to the best of our ability.”

Nikolai sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled off his boots. “And if it is there? If fate has been guiding us all along?”

Zoya lifted a brow. “Then you’d best hope fate thinks you’ll make a good king.”

Nikolai had been told hope was dangerous, had been warned of it many times. But he’d never believed that. Hope was the wind that came from nowhere to fill your sails and carry you home. Whether it was destiny or sheer desperation guiding them onward, at least once they reached the Fold, he would have answers.

“We’ll send a decoy coach to Keramzin,” he said, “and travel in disguise. If we really do intend to dig a pit in the middle of the Fold, I don’t want it done under the Lantsov flag.”

“Do you think the Shu knew who we were? An attack on the king—”

“Is an act of war,” finished Nikolai. “But they weren’t after me. I don’t think they had any idea who we were. They were hunting Grisha, and they found three of you.”

“So far from the borders,” said Zoya, lingering in the bedroom doorway. “I feel like they’re taunting us.”

Nikolai set his boots by the side of the bed. “I owe you an apology.”

“You owe me an entire crop of them. Why start now?”

“I meant for the other night in Balakirev. For the bell tower.” He should have said something before, but the shame of hurting her had been more profound than he could have imagined. “Zoya, I’m sorry. For what I did—”

“It wasn’t you,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Don’t be daft.” But she stayed in the doorway.

“We cannot work side by side if you fear me.”

“I don’t fear you, Nikolai.”

But how much longer would he be himself?

Zoya crossed to the bed and sat down on the corner. Her elegant fingers made a smooth pleat in the blue silk of her kefta. “I asked how you do it all, but I’ve never asked you why.”

Nikolai wedged himself against the headboard and stretched out his legs, studying her profile. “I suspect for the same reasons you do.”

“I very much doubt that.”

He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to will away his fatigue. It had been a day of too many revelations, but if Zoya was willing to sit here with him alone, in the quiet of this room, and if what he said might heal the breach between them, then he was not going to squander the opportunity.

But how to answer? Why did it matter to him what became of Ravka? Broken, needy, frustrating Ravka. The grand lady. The crying child. The drowning man who would drag you under rather than be saved. This country that took so much and gave nothing back. Maybe because he knew that he and his country were the same. Nikolai had always wanted more. More attention, more affection, something new. He’d been too much for his tutors, his nannies, the servants, his mother. No one had quite known what to do with him. No matter how they cajoled or what punishments they devised, he could not be still. They gave him books and he read them in a night. He sat through a lesson in physics and then tried to drop a cannonball off the palace roof. He took apart a priceless ormolu clock and reassembled it into a ghastly contraption that whirred and dinged without surcease, and when his mother wept over the ruined heirloom, Nikolai had looked at her with confused hazel eyes and said, “But … but now it tells the date as well as the time!”

The only person who could get the young prince to behave was his older brother. Nikolai had worshipped Vasily, who could ride and wield a saber, and who was allowed to sit at state functions long after Nikolai was sent off to bed. Vasily was important. Vasily would be king one day.

Everything his brother did, Nikolai wanted to do too. If Vasily rode, Nikolai wanted to ride. When Vasily took fencing lessons, Nikolai begged and pleaded until he was allowed to join. Since Vasily was to study statecraft and geography and military histories, Nikolai insisted he was ready for those lessons too. Nikolai only wanted his brother’s notice. But to Vasily, Nikolai was little more than a constantly gabbling, mop-headed barnacle that insisted on clinging to his royal hull. When Vasily favored Nikolai with a smile or a bit of attention, all was calm waters. But the more Vasily ignored his little brother, the more Nikolai misbehaved.

Tutors took jobs in the wilds of Tsibeya. My nerves, they said. The quiet will be good for them. Nannies gave up their posts to tend to their ailing mothers on the coast. My lungs, they explained. The sea air will be a tonic. Servants wept, the king raged, the queen took to her bed with her headache powders.

One morning, when he was nine, Nikolai arrived at his classroom feeling very excited about the mouse in a jar that he planned to release in his teacher’s bag, only to discover another chair and desk had been set out, and another boy was sitting in them.

“Come meet Dominik,” said his tutor as the dark-haired boy rose and bowed deeply. “He will be getting a bit of education with you.”

Nikolai was surprised but delighted, as he had no companions his own age in the palace at all—though he grew increasingly frustrated as Dominik flinched every time Nikolai tried to speak with him.

“You needn’t be so nervous,” Nikolai whispered. “Mitkin is no fun, but he sometimes tells good stories about the old kings and doesn’t leave out the bloody parts.”

“Yes, moi tsarevich.”

“You can call me Nikolai if you like. Or we could come up with new names. You could be Dominik the … I’m not sure. Have you done any heroic deeds?”

“No, moi tsarevich.”

“Nikolai.”

“Be silent, boys,” said Mitkin, and Dominik jumped again.

But for once, Nikolai stayed quiet. He was busy devising how he might get Dominik to talk more.

When Mitkin stepped out of the room to retrieve a more detailed globe, Nikolai scurried to the front of the classroom and placed the mouse he’d found roaming the eastern wing beneath the fur hat Mitkin had left on his desk.

Dominik looked utterly terrified, but Nikolai was too excited to take much note.

“Wait until you hear the shriek that Mitkin makes,” Nikolai said. “He sounds like a scandalized teakettle.”

Tutor Mitkin did indeed scream, and Nikolai, who had meant to sit stone-faced, couldn’t restrain his own laughter—until Mitkin told Dominik to come to the front of the room and hold out his hands.

The tutor took a slender birch rod from his desk, and as Nikolai looked on in horror, Mitkin slapped it down on Dominik’s palms. Dominik released a small whimper.

“What are you doing?” Nikolai cried. “You must stop!”

Nikolai called for the guards, shouted down the hallway for help, but Mitkin did not stop. He smacked the rod against Dominik’s hands and forearms ten times, until the boy’s flesh was a mass of red welts, and his face was crumpled and wet with tears.

Mitkin set the rod aside. “Every time you act out or misbehave, Dominik will be beaten.”

“That isn’t right! It isn’t fair—the punishment should be mine!” But no one would raise the rod to a royal prince.

Nikolai protested to his mother, his father, anyone who would listen. Nobody seemed to care. “If you do as Tutor Mitkin tells you, there will be no more trouble,” said the king.

“I heard that little whelp mewling,” said Vasily. “It’s just a few lashes. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.”

The next day, Nikolai sat quietly in his chair. He broke his silence only once, when Mitkin stepped out of the room.

“I’m sorry for what happened yesterday,” he told Dominik. “I will never let it happen again.”

“It’s what I’m here for, moi tsarevich. Please do not feel badly.”

“You’re here to learn to read and write and add sums, and that is all,” said Nikolai. “I’ll do better. I vow it.”

Nikolai held to his promise. He kept silent every day after that. He did not sneak into the kitchen to steal almond paste. He did not disassemble anything valuable, run through the portrait hall, set any fires. Everyone marveled at the changes wrought in the young prince and applauded Tutor Mitkin for his ingenuity.

What they didn’t know was that, amidst all the quiet and calm, Nikolai and Dominik still somehow managed to become friends. They devised their own code to communicate in their lesson books and built toy boats with working sails that they launched in the abandoned water garden where no one ever ventured. They gave each other titles that changed with every day, some grand—Dominik the Bold, Nikolai the Just, and some less so—Dominik the Farter, Nikolai the Spider Squealer. They learned that as long as they didn’t trouble the calm order of the palace, no one much cared what they did, and that if they appeared to be working hard at their studies, no one bothered to check whether they were memorizing dates or trying to figure out how to build a bomb.

When he was twelve, Nikolai asked for extra reading in chemistry and Kaelish history and retired to the library every afternoon for hours of quiet study. In fact, the reading and essays took him little time at all, and as soon as he’d sped through them, he would disguise himself in peasant roughspun and sneak out of the palace to visit Dominik’s family in the countryside. He worked in the fields, learned to fix handcarts and farm equipment, to milk cows and gentle horses, and when he was thirteen, he took his first slug of home-brewed spirits from a beaten tin cup.