The next day, early in the afternoon, as Nesta was reveling in the simple pleasure of having the time to read and the choice of a hundred different novels to read and was nonetheless completely unable to pick a single one, the doorbell rang and one of the maids came to tell her that there was a caller who was asking for her. 

By the time the maid had helped Nesta to change into an appropriate day dress–sky blue with white lace–Nesta could hear voices from downstairs. Anatoliy and their guest, whose voice Nesta recognized as that of the Crown Prince.

Kirill had come to call.

Disappointment rose up within her that it was Kirill, and not Nicolai, who was calling, but she quickly quelled it, and in its place came a bit of satisfaction. Anatoliy's plan was going well.

When Nesta swept down the stairs, her blue skirts rustling prettily as she went, she found Anatoliy and Kirill waiting in the sitting room. Neither of them looked particularly at ease in each other's company.

"Miss Rennell." Kirill got to his feet as Nesta entered. "How are you this afternoon?"

"Much the same as I was yesterday," Nesta replied, a bit more sharply than she intended.

But Kirill smiled, as if she'd made a joke. "I wondered if you'd like to join me for the afternoon? There's a special exhibit on at the Royal Museum with portraits from private collections. I thought we could get dinner after, if you'd like."

Nesta glanced at Anatoliy, who shrugged, leaving the choice up to her.

So, Nesta smiled. "I'd love to," she told the prince, glad that the maid had helped her to change into something suitable for an afternoon out. "Let me just grab my coat."

✦————✴————✦

The Royal Museum was located on one of the innermost islands in Zaryevsk, just across the lagoon from the royal palace, which loomed in the background like a shadow above the world.

The construction of the museum, Nesta remembered, had begun only a few months after she arrived in Zaryevsk. The museum had been built from imported white marble that stood out against the grey-tan sandstone of the rest of the city, and its style would have been more at home in southern Kirovka or Solniya, with its gilded onion domes and corbeled arches. 

"Hideous, isn't it?" Kirill remarked as he helped Nesta down from the carriage. "One of my father's pet projects. The old museum was perfectly fine–nicer, actually–but he had it torn down and this monstrosity built in its place."

Nesta made a face. "Would it be rude of me to say that perhaps your father's interest was misplaced?"

Kirill chuckled. Alone, away from Anatoliy and Nicolai and Andriy, he was easier to be around, less intense, less brooding, more of a gentleman. On the carriage ride over, he'd played tour guide, pointing out parts of Zaryevsk that Nesta was less familiar with, like the Royal Botanical Gardens, the homes of the rich and famous, bits and pieces of architectural and cultural history. It had been nice. No, more than nice. It had been enjoyable, and Nesta was starting to find that she rather enjoyed the Crown Prince's company. Not in the same way that she enjoyed Nicolai's company, but perhaps like she might enjoy the company of a friend. Not that she had any of those.

"My father has a bad habit of misguided interest in less-than-brilliant ideas. This was one of them."

"I see," Nesta said. What he said aligned with what she'd heard people saying on the streets and in the clubs, that the king was not the greatest ruler that House Morozov had ever seen, that he tended to get distracted by pet projects and optics. Of course, none of this was said above a whisper, and certainly not where the Provost Guards or other authorities could hear.

"Shall we?" Kirill asked, offering Nesta his arm and gesturing with the other in the vague direction of the museum's front doors.

Nesta smiled and gingerly placed her hand in the crook of Kirill's arm. He really was incredibly tall, she realized now that she stood beside him. Some people might even have used the word hulking, an impression that wasn't lessened at all by the fact that Nesta was shorter than average. Tiny, some people might have said. Kirill stood head, shoulders and part of his chest above her, which made her feel strangely delicate and graceful.

Together, they made their way up the gravel path, flanked by obsessively-manicured lawns and ornate flower borders. The people they passed were all dressed to the height of fashion, perambulating beneath the grey sky, as much on display as the statues placed at artistic angles in various places on the grounds.

Nesta had been quite pleased by her blue dress and matching cloak, but now she felt underdressed. It might have been the nicest day dress she'd ever worn, but the other women they passed put her wardrobe to shame.

"Relax," Kirill whispered in her ear, making her jump. "You're lovelier than all of them put together."

Nesta's cheeks heated, more out of shame than because of his flirtations. It was getting harder for her to remember that she was just doing a job, that the princes were not her friends, but her targets. And Vassa... She felt guiltiest of all about Vassa. Vassa wasn't her target, but Nesta was going to end up hurting her too, in the end. Maybe even more than her brothers.

Guilt was an ugly, oily pit in the bottom of her stomach as Kirill held the door open for her.

The main lobby of the museum was a work of art in itself, and Nesta almost took back the unkind things she'd said about the outside of the building–almost. It really was a blight on the cityscape.

A massive mosaic spiraled out from the center of the room, and it took Nesta a moment to realize that it was a map of the world, with the continent of Noravya depicted at the center. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling were shaped like clouds, with each individual crystal painstakingly cut into the shape of a raindrop.

"I have to admit, I like this part," Kirill said with a wry smile. "The map isn't accurate, though. The artist catered to my father's vanity and depicted Noravya as the center of the world, and Kirovka as larger than it actually is, but..."

"But you can appreciate the beauty?" Nesta ventured.

Kirill smiled. "Indeed. Shall we go find this exhibit we came all this way to see?" He offered her his arm with a flourish and an unexpectedly impish smile. Nesta wondered if Anatoliy had ever seen Kirill like this, if he'd still think the prince was too serious and too soldierly if he did.

She took his arm, and she couldn't help but feel a little lovely, a little desirable, as people stared at them as they swept across the giant map.

"The exhibit is of portraits taken from people's private collections," Kirill said as they walked. "Including some from my family's personal gallery. I don't really know much about it, actually. I'm hardly an art connoisseur. But I've been gone for a while, so I don't really know what's on in the city anymore, and when I asked Vassa where I should take you, she suggested this."

Was it Nesta's imagination, or were his cheeks a little red? If she hadn't felt so guilty, she might have found it kind of cute.

Still, despite her unease, she couldn't resist needling him a little. "You asked your sister where to take me? I suppose I owe her a thank-you."

"Oh, please, don't," Kirill blurted. "She'll be insufferable. There'll be no living with her for at least a month!"

Nesta laughed. "Fine. I'll keep it to myself."

"Thank the Saints," Kirill muttered as they crossed beneath a corbeled archway and into a long, brightly-lit gallery. Portraits hung every few feet on bare, white walls, with plaques underneath that told visitors who the portrait was of, who'd painted it, when it had been painted, and who had loaned it to the museum.

"Is this a relative of yours?" Nesta asked, stopping in front of the closest portrait, one of a rather stout, grumpy-looking man whose outfit suggested the portrait had been painted a good two centuries ago.

Prince Ivan Morozov, the plaque read. Second son of King Aleksander II, from the Royal Collection.

Kirill winced. "Unfortunately. He was killed in a hunting accident two months after this portrait was finished. He was drunk, and, somehow, he managed to ride his horse into a river. Legend has it, the horse was fine. He wasn't."

Nesta snorted. "How very princely of him."

Kirill laughed quietly. "Indeed. My mother is fond of using him as an example whenever Nicolai acts out."

"What about when you act out?" Nesta asked.

Kirill glanced at her, his expression a bit sheepish. "I don't generally act out. In fact, the last time I did was when I ran away to join the navy."

"Quite the act of rebellion, indeed," Nesta quipped.

Kirill rolled his eyes. "You remind me of my sister. Saints help us if you and Vassa ever decide to gang up on the rest of us."

"I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment," Nesta said.

"Oh, it's a compliment," Kirill said earnestly. "Vassa is my favorite person in the whole world, in fact. If I compare you to her..."

"Then it's a compliment," Nesta repeated. His earnestness was so sweet, as was his love for Vassa. Another thing she shouldn't admire so much about him to make this even harder.

And there was the guilt again.

Nesta pulled away from Kirill and walked further down the row of portraits in an attempt to distract herself. She stopped in front of a painting of two women–sisters, according to the plaque, although Nesta couldn't see the resemblance. The eldest was short, stout and clad in an alarming, chartreuse gown with far too many ruffles, while the younger was small, fair and somewhat plain. She wore a much less alarming shade of grey-blue that faded into the background.

"Ah, yes," Kirill drawled. "The Solniyan princesses. Princess Irina and Princess Aliona. Irina is the one who looks like a green toadstool. Aliona, poor girl, is the one Irina bullies mercilessly. We hosted them for a few weeks, and Irina was unbearable. They're my mother's nieces, you know, and my mother kept pushing me towards Irina, hinting that I should marry her."

Nesta made a face. "Your mother wanted you to marry your first cousin?"

Kirill shrugged. "It's often done among royal families. Not so much in Kelmark, or so I've heard. My parents are second cousins once removed, I think, or something like that. Anyway, Irina is awful–and still unmarried, which must irk her to no end."

"What about Aliona?" Nesta asked. There was a skittishness to the younger princess in the portrait, and Nesta wondered if the artist had used his own creative license, or if he was very, very good at capturing people's personalities. He'd certainly succeeded at making Irina look as awful as she sounded.

Kirill shrugged. "She was so damned shy that I couldn't tell. But she dances well, and she's prettier than she looks in that picture. I think the artist was told to try to make Irina look better and so he made poor Aliona look rather sullen. It's Solniyan custom for the eldest child to marry first, and no child can marry until their older siblings have."

Nesta made a face. "But if your eldest is like Irina..."

Kirill laughed. He had a very nice laugh, Nesta thought. "Poor Aliona is going to be waiting a lifetime. Irina scares away any man who comes within arm's reach of her. Their younger brother, the tsarevich, can't marry until both of his sisters do, which, at this point is never going to happen. It's something of a political nightmare, apparently."

"Poor thing," Nesta murmured. "Aliona, I mean. I'd bet she'd love to get married, just to escape her sister."

"Now, you're just being cruel," Kirill drawled, but he was smirking. "We mustn't. Aliona isn't that bad, poor girl. It's her siblings who are awful. Irina is, well, Irina, and Pyotr, the tsarevich, is a spoiled brat. I pity Aliona, honestly, I do. If it weren't for that stupid custom, I might have proposed to her when they came to visit, just to get her away from her family."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't marry her," Nesta said, making her voice a little husky, a little seductive. "If you had, I wouldn't be here with you. And I'm having fun."

Kirill gave a heavy sigh, not the response Nesta had been expected. "I've always known that I'd marry for the good of the realm," he said morosely. "And Aliona is better than most. If Irina ever marries, and my mother puts the pressure on again, I might end up making her an offer after all. Besides, it's not like there are many other eligible princesses in countries that we need an alliance with."

"Who else is there?" Nesta asked, because she didn't know what else to say.

Kirill shrugged. "In Noravya? No other princesses, aside from Irina and Aliona. And Vassa, of course, but I'm hardly going to marry my own sister. If I don't marry a foreign princess, I'll have to marry some Kirovkan noble girl. And most of them are as bad as Irina, in different ways." He shuddered.

"That's... not ideal," Nesta said, fumbling for the right thing to say and falling short.

"Look, I know I shouldn't be leading you on like this," Kirill went on as if she hadn't spoken, and Nesta's eyes widened. He thought that she wanted him to marry her? Oh, if only he knew. 

"You aren't," she said mildly. "Being completely honest, I have no interest in marriage. Ever. I refuse to give ownership of myself to a man." The words not again were on the tip of her tongue, but she choked them down. 

Kirill looked rather like she'd smacked him in the face. "And here I thought all noblewomen were obsessed with making the perfect match." Nesta could tell he meant it as a joke, but it was perhaps truer than either of them wanted to admit.

"Well, luckily for you, I'm not all that noble," Nesta said bluntly. Whatever story Anatoliy was telling people, Nesta doubted they believed it. Anatoliy was clearly from a prominent family; she'd figured that much out on her own. His family tree would be too well known. No, more likely everyone thought she was some sort of scandalous distant relative–a bastard, or perhaps the child of a bastard.

Kirill's smile was crooked. "Lucky you. Unfortunately for some of us, we don't have a lot of choice in the matter." His sigh was painfully heavy.

Nesta glanced around frantically for a distraction, but there wasn't one. They were practically alone in the gallery, aside from the paintings and the attendants. So, Nesta did the only thing she could think of and grabbed Kirill's hand, dragging him onto the next painting.

And then immediately wished she hadn't.

The portrait was of a young lady, or rather a girl, perhaps ten or eleven. The girl was tiny and unremarkable, with mousy blonde hair and too-big brown eyes. Indeed, everything about her was rather mousy. 

Nesta's heart stopped beating, then started again, racing now like it was trying to escape her chest. Her mouth tasted like copper.

"The Lost Princess of Kelmark," Killian said, somewhat wistfully. He was reading the plaque beneath the painting, Nesta realized. "Do you know, I can't remember her name. Nobody ever says it. I don't think I knew it even when she was alive."

Nesta said nothing. She couldn't speak.

"It was the strangest thing. It was like nobody knew she existed until she was gone, and no one could ever say, with any certainty, what happened. Some people say she died in the Risings. Other people say her father killed her out of spite, rather than let anyone else have her. And other people say she simply... vanished. That, after the Risings, once the palace fell to Eamonn's forces, they went to find her, but the nursery was empty, and there was no trace of her. Those stories always came from the most credible sources. The others were just... gossip. But how does a princess just disappear without a trace?"

Nesta managed to unstick her jaw. "Magic?" she said, hoping it came across as a joke.

Kirill snorted. "Must be."

Nesta fought not to jump when he set his hand on the small of her back and steered her on to the next painting.

"You know, back when the princess first disappeared, Nicolai and I used to pretend that we were the ones who'd find her. Inevitably, she was always imprisoned by some sorcerer or dragon that we had to defeat." He chuckled to himself, but Nesta didn't relax. If anything, she was more tense than before.

"Ah, this one's a good one," Kirill said, gesturing at the painting they now stood before. "Me, Nicolai and Vassa. As I recall, we spent a whole day posing and getting scolded by our nursemaids, and then Nicolai and I tried to kill each other as soon as they let us get up. Something about Nicolai kneeing me in the back. He claims it was an accident, I say it was on purpose, and whenever we bring it up, Vassa tells us to shut up before she kills us both. I believe I was about eleven at the time, Nicolai was eight or nine, and Vassa was only four or five."

Nesta peered at the picture. "That's you?" she asked, pointing at the chubby-cheeked child who was clearly the eldest. Kirill had been a particularly adorable child, she realized. And Nicolai still had the same cheeky smile he'd had as a boy, if this painting was to be believed.

"It is." Kirill winced. "Unfortunately. I'd like to think I'm a bit more mature now, but... Well, there are still plenty of days where I feel like killing my brother. Not literally, I hasten to add. People sometimes take me seriously when I say things like that, when, really, it's no more than some good-natured torment of my beloved siblings."

Nesta forced a laugh. "I didn't think you meant it seriously." She'd seen the way they were together at tea, and she'd heard the genuine affection in his voice when he spoke about his brother...

Which put a bit of a wrench in Anatoliy's plans for her to drive a wedge between them.

The more time she spent with both of them, the more sure she was that they would never turn against each other. Kirill was too loyal, too responsible, and Nicolai was too warm and kind. And Vassa... Vassa was fiery enough that she'd never stand for her brothers to be driven apart, let alone break with them herself.

And Nesta's job had just turned from difficult to potentially impossible. 

Word Count: 25758