Prussian Blue3rd Place in the Fiction Writing Contest
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Issue 18
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The dolly’s wheels squealed across uneven tile as I pushed the crate through the narrow plaster service halls. Bare bulbs hung along the ceiling, each halo dimmed by dust, glinting off the salt crust feathering the crate’s edges.
A scream rang out from above, blunted by the narrow corridor. I froze, waiting. The gas mask rasped as I breathed, mechanical in the long silence. I pushed on. “This the last of them, Dmitri?” a muffled voice called. I turned toward the voice, my suit’s rubber seal pressing against my ear. Through my fogged visor I could see her walking up behind me. “What was that scream?” I asked. “Galina’s daughter touched one of the shipments with a bare hand. Galina turned away for just a moment,” she sighed. “She liked the way the dust sparkled.” We worked together, wrestling the crate through the vault door for contaminated art. Inside, dozens of crates bore the name of a museum and its city of origin, art saved from evacuation zones across the empire. Mere days ago a mile-long asteroid struck the potash ponds of a Himalayan plateau. That’s all it took for eastern lands to cease to exist entirely. Reactors had been falling out across our Empire, and the fallout came west on every wind. This city was the last refuge. The Hermitage vault, a shelter for great art against the poisoned rains. Galina appeared at the door, panting. We all straightened as she passed. “She’s with the medic,” she said. “Let’s finish.” I steadied the edge of one of the unopened crates as crowbars strained the lid loose. As the crate split, flakes hissed into the air like poisoned glitter. Inside, gilt frames gleamed through layers of plastic. We shifted one canvas free. Galina’s dosimeter shrilled as it passed over Madonna, her eyes lifted in prayer. She thumbed the alarm to quiet. We logged each work of art, labeled the crates, and sealed the vault. We stripped off our contaminated layers outside the vault, trading them for the military-issue garments Galina handed out. I raised my shirt to the light. It was freckled with holes. “You have burns,” Galina said, pointing her bare finger at my chest. Red welts speckled my skin where the dust had touched. I handed over my ruined shirt, pulled on elastic trousers, then went for the medic. In the kitchen, ministry workers stacked boxes of food. A medic brought over a bowl of rationed water, soap, and iodine. He wrapped my wounds in gauze, his gaze lingering a little too long on the old scars beneath the chest hair. “Here,” he said at last, tossing a museum tourist shirt at me. “Cover yourself. I’m finished with you.” I pulled it on, iodine stinging under the cotton, and stepped into the entry hall. Soldiers hammered boards over the windows outside to keep looters out of the empire’s last great palace museum. Over the clank of nails, a distribution officer droned, “children first with their caregivers, then women, then men,” gesturing at the table and the line already forming. I lined up for my Prussian blue rations, watching a clerk tick names off a clipboard. Yulia, Galina’s daughter, stepped forward in line. Both hands were wrapped in gauze, thick white bandages swallowing her small fingers. She winced as her mother angled one upward, and a soldier forced it into the blue indelible ink. The stain spread dark through the gauze, bleeding toward her knuckle. Yulia held it up for Galina to see, her face rosy with pride, but her mother’s face was stern. Galina’s finger was dipped into the same ink, a mark every soldier and citizen bore, proof to prevent Prussian blue ration fraud. “One pill, three times daily. Split in half for children. This is all you’ll get. Two weeks for adults, four for children,” the officer drawled as the line inched forward. The officer studied Leonid’s sons, who were next to step forward. Their rigid shoulders and set jaws were met with a fleeting look of approval. “And where is your wife?” the officer asked. “She was a nuclear engineer,” Leonid said. “Stationed in the far east.” The officer gave a curt nod. No human life had been recovered that far out. His gaze lingered on the boys, slipping extra capsules into their envelopes before pressing them shut with government seals. I looked away quickly. “Take care,” he muttered before waving the line forward. When my turn came, the officer glanced at my museum ID. He looked up at me through heavy lids before reading my old name aloud. The man behind him made a tick on the list without lifting his head. “What future will you give this country? Can you procreate?” he asked, letting a half dozen capsules slip from his grip, back into the sanctioned supply. I opened my mouth to speak, but Galina’s voice cut through. “I can't bear children, officer,” she said, stepping forward. “I adopted. We are sacrificing ourselves by wheeling in this radioactive—” “I won’t hesitate to take away your rations,” the officer snapped. “Sacrifice is a pointless, stupid word to use now.” He tossed my rations envelope across the table. “Take it. You're lucky to get anything.” ***
Five sparrows circled the vaulted ceiling as hammers thundered outside. With each nail, the birds panicked, wings clicking against the panes as daylight thinned to dark behind the heavy boards.
“Dmitri!” Yulia called. She leaned into the Reception Hall from the adjoining gallery, waving me on. Her dark hair spilled over the railing, falling below her waist. At eight, she was tall and gangly for her age. Her doll dangled at her side, its tulle dress a twin of her own. One of the doll’s cotton fingers was smudged with blue ink, matching the blot seeping through Yulia’s bandages. I glanced over at Galina. Her daughter had taken an immediate liking to me, and Galina didn’t seem to mind, giving a nod of approval. “Come see,” Yulia whispered, pressing her face to the slit of window glass between two wooden planks. From the vantage point, we could peer out on the palace square. Tarpaulin-covered trucks rumbled with floodlights that strobed in the mist off the river. Soldiers jumped down, their respirators glowing pale in the glare. “They look like insects,” she whispered. “You see those box things they’re holding?” Her face pressed close to mine. “They sound like crickets.” “They’re Geiger counters,” I muttered. “They check what’s safe and what’s not. What you touched today,” I nodded at her hands, “wasn’t safe.” Beneath us, soldiers finished walling the palace windows. Their empty dollies clattered down the marble steps, wheels rasping against stone. Beyond, buses unloaded refugees into the white sprawl of a tented city on the outskirts of town. “Do we have to stay here?” Yulia groaned. “Yes, to protect the greatest museum in the empire, and the palace that holds it,” I said. “You are one of the protectors.” Yulia tipped her head back, watching the sparrows circle overhead. Lost, their tiny shadows darted this way and that across the gilded ceilings. “Is there a way out?” she asked. “Always,” I told her. I hesitated. “But for now, being sealed in was preferable.” Days passed. The walls groaned when the wind picked up. In the chaos I had managed only a single black backpack. Inside, I kept a notebook for logging my testosterone and Prussian blue intake, the arithmetic of staying myself. At night, I slept with the straps twisted around my arms. The women and children slept in the east wing, closer to the chapel. The men took the service corridors and staff rooms near the loading dock. I found a stretch of floor in the east wing gallery, beneath a skylight. At night, I’d often see satellites streak across the skylight above. In the darkness I could hear Yulia counting them aloud to her mother. Often I lay awake long enough to hear Galina's whispering, desperate prayers. ***
I knelt with a rag and bucket, scrubbing at a dark stain before it could set. The rag rasped across the stone, echoing in the vaulted room.
Someone had been sick in the night, likely Yulia. She’d been sick a lot lately. I rubbed my jaw, watching the floor lighten as it dried. My beard was thinning into uneven tufts, a ration detail I logged. A dark bullet shot past me. I jumped, watching the sparrow settle on the cracked vinyl of a security guard's chair in the corner. Its wings trembled half-open, puffing up and deflating its body with each breath. I poured a small amount of water into my bottle’s cap and nudged it toward the sparrow. It cocked its head from side to side and after a moment, hopped forward and drank. Another sparrow joined, then fluttered up to a nearby statue’s head where a tiny nest of twigs lay, tucked into the crown of thorns. A strange warmth tickled my nose. Red smeared my fingers when I touched them to my face. I knocked my head back and drew out a wad of tissues from my pocket, twisting them up into my nostrils. Around me, the statues' pale throats lifted towards the sky as well, stone gazes hollow and unblinking. I took a seat on a red velvet-lined viewing couch and tilted my head back. The domed skylight was blanketed with ash. At odd intervals, sluggish, brown-tinged rain droplets slid down, spattering faint shadows across the floor. Clipped pattering shoes on marble broke the silence. “No running," I called out of practice. Yulia flopped on the couch beside me, reclining to gaze up at the skylight. “I keep getting nose bleeds too,” she said, staring up at the sky. She shot her blue-stained forefinger into the air. “looks like snow.” “I suppose,” I muttered. Yulia wagged her forefinger up and down like a talking mouth. “Mama says we are the lucky ones.” I wagged my stained forefinger in the air above her. “Your mother’s right,” I said. “You have long arms. You’ll be quite tall one day.” Yulia turned over onto her stomach, her long hair spilling to the couch. She rubbed her finger across her blue-stained lips. “Mama is making me take extra pills because I’ve been sick. She forces some of hers into my mouth.” “That’s a good thing,” I said, fixed on the pewter skies. “It’s an ugly lipstick color,” she sighed. After a moment, she added, “I heard Mama say another retractor has overheated.” “Reactor,” I corrected. “Where did she hear this?” “On the radio.” I turned to her. “There’s a radio?” Yulia skipped ahead, her doll tucked under one arm, the pink hem of her dress swaying with each bound. We passed through the vast complex of corridors until we reached the wooden doors of the Tsar’s old library. The doors groaned as Yulia pushed them open. Inside, a cluster of museum employees were bent over an old radio set. Galina met us at the threshold, holding her arms out for Yulia. “Go play, Yulia,” she said. Yulia scratched her head aggressively. “But mama, Nikita and his brother are here,” she said, pulling her fingers away from her scalp to point at the boys. A few strands of hair went with them. “And stop scratching your head,” Galina said, yanking the strands from Yulia's fingers. “Out,” she demanded. Yulia gave me a sad glance before she obeyed. The radio crackled. A voice cleared the static. “...Less rations this week than last. Refugees are to remain within designated camps. Medical assistance and Prussian blue tablets will be distributed on-site. Any attempt to breach camp limits will be met with shoot on sight order. The Empire will…” The voice fractured, swallowed into the haze. The museum’s head engineer sat hunched over the set, twisting the antennas as the signal slipped away. “If we don't plan ahead, the refugees will take our food rations,” Leonid said, his voice louder than it was commanding. “Our service was not meant as our entombment.” Voices rose, clashing over Galina’s sensible reply. My hand reached for my shoulder strap, but my pack was gone. I must have left it where I’d been cleaning. Yulia had been waiting in the hall. She trailed after me. I headed back to where I’d cleaned and slowed when I saw it, slumped in the corner. “Were you scared someone stole your bag?” Yulia asked, close at my heels. “Just scared,” I mumbled as I worked the zipper open. Yulia sat patiently beside me. She hummed, rubbing her face into her doll’s painted one, as I checked the amount of T shots and PB pills I had left against my ration log. A picture slid from my notebook, gliding onto the floor. Yulia was fast to snatch it first. “Who’s this?” she asked, holding it out but not handing it back. “My babushka. And me.” She passed the laminated photo over, leaning against my shoulder to keep staring at it. “That’s you?” “Yes. We loved to play her music box and waltz together.” “Why are you in a dress?” “My babushka liked putting me in dresses.” This was met with resistance, but Yulia seemed, after a moment, to find it an acceptable answer. “But you didn’t like dresses. Because you’re a boy,” she said, nodding to herself. “That’s right.” “Your hair was long.” “Not as long as yours,” I said, tossing some of her hair over her shoulder. Her smile faded. She looked down at her feet and asked, “did she die?” I nodded. “A long time ago.” “Mine too. I never knew my grandparents.” She pointed at the picture. “Do you own that music box now?” “Sometimes other family members inherit heirlooms, even if they don’t want it.” I tucked the photo back into my notebook. “Want to see something?” I hoisted her up in front of the statue, careful to leave space between us and the sparrow’s nest. “Wow!” she cried. “There’s a bird in there!” “A baby bird?” Yulia considered this. “No, I think that’s the mom. She’s just sitting there.” “I bet she’s laying an egg.” I lowered her. “Let’s give her some privacy.” Yulia picked her doll up and twirled its hair thoughtfully. “Do I bother you?” Yulia asked. “Mama wants to know.” “Of course not.” “Good,” she said quickly. “I don't have too many people to talk to. Just you and mama.” “What about Nikita?” I asked. “He's around your age.” Yulia shrugged. “He’d rather play with his little brother than ‘some girl.’” I grunted. “Mama doesn't let me bother any other men. Mama says you're an acceptor.” I considered this then corrected, “exception.” “Exception,” she repeated. “Why are you an exception?” “Well, in general, little girls have no business hanging around older men who aren't their fathers,” I said. “That’s what Mama said,” Yulia mumbled, brushing the hair out of her doll's face. She hesitated, then asked, “But why are you different?” “I was born different. But some people aren’t afraid of different people. Maybe that's why I'm your mother's exception.” Yulia’s brows pinched in puzzlement. She studied me. “Mama can't have children. That makes her different. You can't either?” I shook my head. “That's okay,” she said with a shrug. “The army man shouldn’t have gotten so upset about that. You can still adopt.” In the quiet of the museum, loudspeakers drifted in from the street. Yulia’s face froze, mouthing the words she’d memorized in puppet imitation: Symptoms include nausea and bleeding gums. Report to Checkpoint Twelve for tablets. She covered her mouth to hide her blue-toothed grin as a siren’s long mechanical wail filled the halls. ***
Before, I used to live each day waiting for sleep. My testosterone shots had once promised dreams I could control, vivid and full of color. Now, with rationing, my dreams dwindled back to what they were before. Color leached out, my nights reduced to shallow moments without depth.
My thighs were mottled with old injection bruises. I found a patch of unmarked skin, drove the blunted needle in, and wrote the dose. I stared at my notes. There hadn’t been PB tablets to record in weeks. And the burn scars on my chest had refused to heal. Muffled cries echoed through the next gallery, bouncing off red marble walls. “Yulia?” I called. Her cries grew louder, freer. She ran toward me and thrust something into my hand. Before I could process what it was, she collapsed into my open arms, her muffled voice crying, my hair, my hair, my hair. I loosened my grip. Strands of Yulia’s long, dark hair spilled across my palm. “What happened?” I asked. “It’s all falling out.” I tilted my head, trying to glimpse her thinning scalp as she cried harder into the crook of my neck. I let her sob and rocked her, cooing. Then after a few moments, I said, “you know, you’d be just as pretty, even if you had no hair at all.” She pushed away to look at me through wet lashes and blotchy cheeks. “But I like my hair,” she whimpered, staring at the clump in my fist. “Can you put it back in?” I took her hair clip and tucked the extra hair into it, fastening it back in place. She smiled to herself, patient and still. For a moment, the hair stayed put. But she tilted her head, as though the hair was heavy on her tender scalp until the hair slid slowly out. Yulia’s bright expression lasted a brief moment before crumbling under the weight of her sadness. She let out a long sob, crying into her palms. “It’s because of what I did,” she cried. “What do you mean?” I asked. “How could this be your fault?” “Nikita said he knew of a nest too high to see into, and I wanted to show him ours. I thought—” her chin trembled, “--I thought he only wanted to see.” Galina’s footsteps clipped across the hall. Her chapped lips shaped a silent sorry. I shook my head, waving her off. “Yulia?” Galina’s expression was too stern, her hands shaking from all that she was keeping inside. She knelt, joints popping. “Come on honey, you can’t bother Dmitri with this.” “God is punishing me for what I've done,” she cried. Galina held her tight, looking at me over Yulia’s heaving shoulders. “I’ve spoken to his father. We’re chatting with the others in the chapel about this issue shortly.” She plucked the clump of hair from my hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, then led Yulia away. I stared at the strands still stuck to my palm. Black dots swarmed my vision. The checkered marble rippled beneath me. I waited for it to pass, then headed back toward the gallery. There, I caught Nikita, Leonid’s eldest boy, balanced on his tiptoes atop a security chair, stretching toward the sculpture’s spiked crown where the little nest was perched. “What are you doing?” I bellowed. The boy jolted. “What’s it look like?” he sneered. “Hunting for more eggs. Dad says boys need protein.” He climbed down and I heaved the security chair away from the priceless sculpture, careful not to scrape the marble floor. “Where’s the other nest?” I demanded. “I'm not telling you,” the boy snapped. He turned and bolted from the room. I chased after him, catching his arm mid-stride. He let out a yell that nearly matched the ringing in my ears. “Don't be a pussy,” I growled. “I'm going to tell my dad,” he spat, trying to wriggle free. “Then I'll tell him you're a simple-minded fool who can't answer simple questions.” “Dad says you aren’t a real man. He says I shouldn't talk to you in the first place. So you'll be in trouble, not me.” “What room is the nest in?” I growled. Nikita yanked his arm free. “The chapel,” he said, brushing where I’d grabbed him with disgust. “But the eggs in that nest are ours. My dad is finding a ladder so we can eat them. And we’ll beat you if you try to take them from us.” Rage boiled over the nausea roiling in my gut. I slapped him hard. Nikita froze. His face reddened, his eyes narrowed, before he turned and ran silently down the hall. I made my way upstairs, grasping the railing with slow, deliberate steps. A metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. I swallowed it down. At the landing, the stone gave way to inlaid wood, and I followed the sound of voices into the Tsar’s chapel. The chapel’s iconostasis met me first, its saints trapped behind the shut screen. Beneath them, the people argued. Nikita stood at his father’s side, glaring at me. Leonid’s hand rested on his shoulder, his fingers tracing the boy’s protruding bones. “My boys can’t live on cans and pills. They need real food.” “And what’s real, Leonid? The cows are dead, the crops are dead—” the voice of the archivist drowned out as further protests erupted, but Galina stayed focused on Leonid. “They showed me the nest, and I thought of my boys’ health,” Leonid continued. “We did the right thing,” Nikita cut in over the commotion. Leonid was fast to react. He pushed his son with such force that he fell to the floor. “Do not speak unless spoken to,” he said, pointing a finger down at him. “You will not respond like a self-righteous, sniveling little girl.” “What’s done is done,” Galina said, soft but firm. “We must think of the future. If the birds continue to live, they can give us more birds, rather than just eggs for today. Right, Leonid?” He gave her one curt nod. I scanned the chapel walls. On the gilt molding, a small nest clung in a crook. A bird dove down, landing near Yulia. It hopped around, its head flitting from side to side. Startled, she drew back, then uncurled her fist to show the bird the strands of her hair. “You can have it,” she said. The bird hopped to her open palm then snatched a few strands, flying back up to its nest. “That’s very good of you, Yulia,” Galina said, her voice unsteady. The upper corners of her smile twitched. Leonid’s arm was wrapped around her, supporting her weight. She turned to him and barely audible, added, “she thinks God is punishing her for what your sons have done.” The archivist stepped in, slipping an arm around Galina. Leonid loosened his grip as the archivist guided Galina out. The engineer led Yulia through the opposite exit, far from Galina’s muffled cries. Nikita and his younger brother were frozen in place, staring at the clumps of hair left behind. “Go study,” Leonid barked. We all jumped at his sudden demand. “And apologize to Yulia for the eggs,” he said, a tight grip on his sons’ shoulders. “We’re sorry. Correct?” The boys nodded up at him. Nikita and the younger son walked out, hand in hand, to find Yulia. I trailed out the way Galina and the archivist had gone and pressed my ear to the women's bathroom door. Galina's sobs came through muffled, the archivist's voice underneath, too low to make out. “Why don’t you just go in?” Leonid asked behind me. I turned. “Neither you nor I should do that unannounced.” He snorted. He and I glared at each other. “You hit my son.” “He deserved it,” I said. “There’s a lot of bruises on that boy.” “Of course. He’s used to roughhousing.” “Is that what you call it?” Leonid grabbed me by the shirt, lifting me off my feet. “I have to turn my sons into men, men who can survive this world. It’s my job to protect them, my job to mold them and I’ll do it the best I know how.” Spittle landed on my face and I swiped it away, noticing the bloody trail across the back of my hand. He lowered me quickly. I handed him a tissue. “I’ve been carrying extra,” I said. We were silent for a moment. Galina blew her nose in the bathroom. “You shouldn’t be spending time with that girl,” he growled, wiping his mouth. “She’s at an impressionable age. You’ll confuse her.” “And how will I do that?” We both listened. It sounded as if Galina was composing herself. “That child needs more than just Prussian blue pills at this point to ease her suffering.” Leonid took a step closer. I backed up farther into the taped off water fountain. “You really care about that girl?” “Of course I do,” I said. “Then I’ll need you to back me up,” he said. “A few of us men want to head out into the city on Saturday. A voice on the ham radio says rations will be coming in at 5 AM from the border. You’ll help me convince the women. And you’ll come with us. For the good of the people.” “For the good of the people,” I repeated. Somewhere out there, maybe I could find another vial of T. “You know how to handle a gun?” he asked. Whatever brief hope I had dimmed. I managed a nod. ***
I wrote a quick entry in my notebook then stored it behind a statue. Tomorrow I’d be out in the real world for the first time in 30 days. I’d need my backpack as free as possible for the supplies we’d bring back.
I moved through the hall to where the others had convened. Leonid’s voice carried above the murmur. “…just in case I don’t return,” he reasoned as I approached. “I will. Your boys will grow into fine young men. No matter what,” Galina said, her hand clasped over Leonid’s. He bowed his head. Galina forced a smile for my sake, but her face was drained of color. Beneath the pallor a faint bluish cast lingered, as if the Prussian blue pills were seeping through her pores. “Yulia's been looking for you. She knows you're leaving in the morning and would like you to come to the Great Hall. I hope you don't mind.” “Of course not,” I said. Thank you, Galina mouthed. I passed through one gallery then the next that held the great history of our empire, before descending the palace’s grand staircase. A red runner clung to the marble steps. Above, stuccoed ceilings pressed down, crowded with painted clouds and gods. A dizzy spell rose. I drew a deep breath. My fingers grazed the gilded banister as I steadied myself, catching the blood dripping into my palm. I tore a strip of toilet paper from my pocket, packed my nostril, and wiped my hand on my trousers. I took another breath in then held my head high, descending the steps with borrowed flair. The Great Hall opened below, white marble and gold blinding in its expanse. Above, the ceiling was patterned with stucco and gilt reliefs. Each panel was bordered in gold and filled with symbols of the old imperial power. Chandeliers hung in tiers of crystal, snaring the afternoon light into pale prisms across the hall’s gilded columns. The muted skies flared in the late afternoon. Copper light pierced the boarded windows, dust rising in its path, catching and flashing violet as it swirled. On the wall opposite the boarded windows, tall mirrors rose toward the ceiling, doubling the hall’s brightness and sense of scale. Someone walked past the distressed glass. I stopped short. So did the reflection. But I didn’t recognize the person staring back. I’d long avoided any mirror. But I’d finally caught myself. Welts and bruises mapped my body. My jawline, once hard, had softened, unrecognizable as the man I was. Whether it was from the PB or from stretching my T doses, I couldn't tell. All I could see was that my careful calculations couldn't account for the way my body betrayed me. “Hi,” Yulia's small voice carried across the hall. She sat beside the velvet-clad steps that led up to the throne of our final Tsar, its red velvet and gold trim gleaming in the throne alcove. “Hi,” my voice echoed. “I’m sorry about the nest,” she said. “But more eggs will hatch, right?” “Of course, thanks to you. Sparrows don’t linger on death, Yulia. They just go on and lay more eggs.” Yulia propped up her doll on the throne steps. “You’re leaving tomorrow morning. To help us.” “I am.” Yulia rose and shifted on her feet. “I can come and help you. I’m quite strong, you know.” “It’s best if you stay safe with your mother. Anyway, you might not even be awake by the time I return.” Yulia brushed her shoe against the floor, tracing its floral designs. “Can I show you something?” “Sure,” I said, crossing the hall toward her. Each step rang out across the parquet wood. Her bony arms wrapped around a small box, pressed tight to her chest. “I found something pretty. It reminded me of the picture of you with your babushka. I’ve been really gentle with it.” She held the object up to me. My heart skipped as I took it from her. The Faberge music box’s casing glowed a deep cobalt blue, flecked with veins of gilt like cracks in Siberian ice. Along its sides, tiny panels of guilloche enamel shimmered. “Yulia, what have you been told about handling museum artifacts?” I scolded. “I thought… I thought that maybe we could…” “Yulia…” I began, my tone sharp, but I softened as she bowed her head. Sirens bled in from the outside world. A megaphone announcement declared on repeat that Prussian blue was out of stock. I let my tense shoulders slide. “The Tsarina danced to this music box in this very hall. Did you know that?” She shook her head. I turned the music box over delicately, and wound it with its key. The domed lid, painted with a spray of forget-me-nots, opened. Two gilded birds peeked up. They rotated out of the box, bobbing to their delicate song, jeweled wings opening and closing in mock flight. “Oh,” I whispered. “This is a lovely song.” I closed my eyes, imagining my babushka’s warm, cramped apartment. God, how I wish I could hear her voice. I opened my eyes to Yulia’s beaming smile. Blood seeped from her gums, streaking her blue-stained teeth. She shut her mouth tight, embarrassed at remembering. I cranked the music box again then set it on the lowest velvet step of the throne, beside Yulia’s doll. Shots cracked outside, sharp and irregular. Yulia flinched, arms hugging herself. I extended my hand and Yulia nearly ran to take it. She was excellent at the waltz, her little hands clasped in mine, her feet on top of mine, as I counted. One, two, three, four… Two, two, three, four… She laughed, loud and bright. I smiled down at her balding scalp. Her scabs seemed to be worsening. “Don’t you feel just like the Tsar?” she asked, looking up at me. “Yes,” I told her. “I am the Tsar.” “And I am your daughter, the youngest, most beautiful Tsarina,” she declared. We waltzed through the grand hall, gliding through streaks of copper and violet light. The floral floors shone beneath us like a shallow pool. We spun past column, then mirror, column, then mirror, our reflections flashing in and out of sight. With each turn I glimpsed Yulia's reflection, her head swiveling toward the boarded windows where gunshots and shouts pressed closer. The music’s fragile notes trilled against the crescendo of gunfire, so near the boarded up panes seemed to quiver in their frames. Yulia seized both my hands and leaned back on her heels. We spun, round and round. “I’m always dizzy anyway,” she called, laughing. “Me too,” I confessed. We spun, laughing, until finally, we let each other go and fell to the ground, our faces blurring in the whiplash. With wobbly legs, we found each other. The music clicked and slowed as the sirens blared into the hall once more. Giggling, Yulia wiped away the blood from her nose and curtsied. And I, wiping away blood from my own, gave her a deep and courtly bow. |
QUINCY TURNER lives between Connecticut and Reykjavík. She writes about what it means to be human in increasingly engineered worlds.
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