"Q.E.D." Part 18
Every history textbook he had ever read had a timeline, eitherprinted vertically in the margin or spread horizontally over twoadjoining pages. And along this line, humankind's experience isdivided into stages of development, and we journey along a straightpath, passing neatly from age to age. But history is not linear, hethought, despite all of our attempts to make it so.
History is pleated. Constantly folding back on itself.
"What do you know of Catherine the Great?" she asked.
Instead of looking at his grandmother, Nikolas summarized his historytext to the plate of food in front of him. "She... was the Germanwife of Tsar Peter III, who was killed shortly into his reign. Shetook over as Empress, and was responsible for continuing thewesternization of Russia first started by Peter the Great. She wassucceeded by her son, Paul I."
"Yes. She was a Romanov by marriage only, yet she was the greatestruler among them." She frowned. "Peter III was unworthy of his name.He was weak and simple and threatened to undo all of the reforms thatPeter the Great set in motion. Fortunately his wife, Catherine, lovedher adopted country of Russia, and she vowed to care for its peopleas if they were her own. But in those days, as it is today, it wasdifficult for a woman to seize power alone, and so she called uponthe Orlovs for help."
Helena leaned back in her chair. Her words recounted the events inthird person, but her eyes betrayed a first person narrative. "TheOrlov brothers, Grigori and Alexie: one held her heart, and the otherwielded her sword. Alexie Orlov led a coup which effectively disposedof her husband, allowing Catherine to take the throne." She shook herhead, "If only he had completed the job. He should have killed notonly Catherine's husband, but also her ingrate son, Paul."
She leaned forward, tracing the delicate patterns of the lacetablecloth with her finger. "Catherine had wanted to pass the crownon to her grandson, whom she had raised and groomed to follow in herfootsteps. But Paul would have none of that, and he became Tsar afterCatherine's death. He reigned for five years, leaving behind his"Rules of Succession", a document which insured that no woman wouldever sit upon the Russian throne again."
Her face twisted in disgust, as if she could taste the bitterness ofher words. "It should have been me, you know."
Nikolas looked up at her abrupt return to the present. But Helena wasno longer lecturing him. She was addressing other powers, whosepresence only she could sense.
"It should have been me that took over after Mikkos died," sherepeated, "I WAS THE TSARINA!"
Helena's fist hit the table, scattering the remains of her dinner.She stood up and started to pace, unaware of the delicate china shecrushed beneath her feet.
"Mikkos was weak, obsessed with that damned weather machine. Insteadof chasing castles in the air, he should have taken his rightfulplace in the Winter Palace! He forgot who he was, and in doing so,condemned us all to life on this wretched island."
She spun around and faced Nikolas, jabbing at him with an accusatoryfinger. "And your father was no better. All Stavros wanted to do wasto play with his newest 'toy': Laura Spencer. He was so busy wavingher in his brother's face that he lost sight of his destiny.Fortunately, after you were born, I had no use for Stavros or yourmother anymore."
She knelt down by Nikolas and caressed his face with the palm of herhand. It was the same hand that held him when he was a small child,and comforted him when he cried. But he did not recognize its icytouch.
"Nikky," she said, "It's all up to you now. You have to complete thejourney back to St. Petersburg. You have to finish what AlexanderCassadine started." She smiled and squeezed his hand. "Russia is myhomeland, and I hate to see her suffer, stumbling along undertransitory governments. I want to return Russia to her former stateof glory. I know you can do it, Nikky. You and I could rule togetheruntil you are of age..."
Nikolas pulled away from her, both physically and mentally. Hewatched the events unfold before him as sleeping eyes would observe adream. And he continued to participate in the nightmare, hoping hewould awaken soon.
"What about my uncle? He is my regent."
"Stefan is of no concern of mine," she replied, dismissing her otherson with a wave of her hand.
"I will never agree to this," he said. "You can keep me locked awaymy entire life and I will not change my mind."
Her smile broadened, exposing her teeth in a predatory manner. "And Ithink that you will, with the proper 'encouragement'."
"What have you done?" he asked.
"Patience, my prince," she replied. "You see, I have my own Orlovsworking for me. Only they are not brothers and one does not knowabout the other. As a matter of fact, one is not even aware that I amusing him in this way." She laughed. "It is a delicious joke, and Ilook forward to telling him of it. But not until he completes hisfinal task..."
She rose to her feet, and walked toward the door. "I apologize forthe mess," she said, looking back at the scattered chards of china,"I will send someone to clean this up in the morning. In themeantime, sleep well my prince.... I love you."
The metal door scraped shut behind her, and he flung his crystalgoblet at it. Unsatisfied with the dainty windchime sound itproduced, he grabbed the large serving plate and threw it at thedoor. Its angry reply burst forth as it shattered... "ESCAPE"!
He circled the apartment, tearing down the tapestries, pushing asidethe furniture, looking for any sign of a secret passage. He knewthere had to be one somewhere. How else could Alexie have smuggledhis diary out into the caves before he died? He searched for hours,running his fingers along the walls, looking under every rug. Hecrawled into the fireplace, and spied the lever which opened theflue. He pulled it, releasing a shower of soot on his head, chokinghim and burning his eyes. That appeared to be its only function, andhe could never fit through the narrow opening that led to the roof.He closed it again and walked into the bedroom, exhausted.
"WHERE IS IT!?" he demanded of the smiling woman in the portrait.
Angered by her silence, he retrieved a knife off of the table andstabbed it into the painting. Flakes of oil paint fell around himlike multicolored snow, as he shredded the canvas, exposing the wallbehind it. But it was barren.
Nikolas sank down onto the bed, defeated. His tears carved tinyfurrows down his soot-stained face, and fell in black drops on thetorn canvas in his hands.
"I'm sorry," he murmured to Catherine's ruined face. And she lookedback at him with her kind eyes, and forgave him.