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The Winter Palace, St Petersburg, October 1763

Andrei Razumovsky and three of his brothers are standing in a row in at the bottom of the great staircase in the Winter Palace, jostling each other as they await a glimpse of the Prince. 

At last he appears at the top of the stairs, dressed in scarlet and gold, hanging back behind his tutor. He has large eyes like their new puppy at home, and a small turned up nose. 

“Why does his nose look like that?” hisses Grigory. 

“It is curling at the smell of you,” Alexey, the eldest, says. 

Andrei wedges an elbow into his brother’s side. “Who cares about his nose?” he says with the bemusement of a boy who has only met with admiration of his looks, and cannot see it as important. 

“He will seem a little strange to you,” their mother had told them before they had set off for the Palace. “He has not seen other children often; I think he is mostly alone. And his father has died. Be kind.” 

It is hard for Andrei to think of a Prince being sad or lonely, or strange. But the Prince is certainly sad. At least, he is crying. 

“Do not distress yourself sire,” the Prince’s tutor is saying. “They are here to see you.” 

“Who are they? Who told them they could come here? I demand that you tell me!” 

“Your mother…” 

“NO! If my mother sent them then I don’t want them here, make them go!” The Prince’s face is running with tears. He seems terrified and Andrei cannot fathom what the matter can be. He takes a step forward, though his brother catches at his arm and the Prince looks at him. 

“What is he doing? Will he hurt me? What is that he carries?” Paul is clutching at his tutor now, like a much younger child might. 

“It is my violin, your Majesty,” Andrei says, and bows low as his mother taught them all to do. “I thought you might want to hear me play.” 

“I just want you to go AWAY!” the Prince shouts, breaking away from his tutor and running back upstairs. 

The tutor looks at Andrei and his brothers, spreads his hands apologetically. “He does not mean it,” he says. “He is just overwhelmed. Perhaps if only one of you were to go to him…” 

Andrei feels his elder brother’s finger poking him in the small of the back. He knows Alexey will not relent. 

“I will go,” he says. 

The tutor smiles. “How old are you?” 

“Ten and a half, sir.” 

“You are closest in age to Paul then, he is nine. Good. His bedchamber is down the corridor there. I will take the rest of you to the great hall; I believe the servants have set up a game of skittles there for you.” 

Andrei watches his brothers depart, pushing and shoving each other as they go. He takes a deep breath and goes in search of the Prince. 

Andrei finds him on a low bench, staring out of the window, his face blotched from his storm of tears. 

“Don’t look at me,” the Prince says, his chest still hitching. Andrei sits down beside him and looks straight ahead as ordered. The Prince picks at the cuff of his coat and takes a shaky breath. 

“I expect Count Panin wants me to apologise to you.” 

“You don’t have to apologise to me,” says Andrei, shocked that a Prince would think to do so. 

“I have a bad temper and sometimes I shout at people. I don’t mean it,” the Prince says, and kicks at the bench. 

“Would you like to hear a song I learned?” Andrei says. He can think of nothing better to offer than music to soothe a troubled soul. The Prince shudders with a final sob and nods, and Andrei draws his bow across the strings and begins. 

The Prince watches and listens and then wipes his eyes and smiles slowly, and Andrei feels as though he is seeing something secret. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to be the person who can make the Prince smile. He finishes the song and stands in silence. 

“Play it again,” says the Prince imperiously, but his face is lit up with enjoyment. 

Andrei plays it three more times before Count Panin comes to fetch him away.

*****

Andrei is sent to the Palace without his brothers from then on, and the Prince is always glad to see him. It is a long, dark winter that year and as soon as he arrives they go to the Prince’s chamber and tuck themselves behind the bedroom screen, feet almost toasting in the fire. Andrei can scrape away on his violin without any of his brothers complaining about the noise, and Paul looks at picture books about soldiers or reads aloud from his book about the Knights of Malta. Sometimes they don’t say anything to each other for an hour at a time. 

“I think this is the place I feel safest in the whole world,” the Prince says one day as they sit there. Andrei, who always feels safe, doesn’t say anything. He fiddles with the strings of his violin. 

“Why do you love music so, Andrei?” the Prince asks. Andrei shrugs. He cannot put into words the wild, bursting feeling he gets when he listens to something he loves. 

“It makes me happier than anything else.” 

“You should become a Palace musician and play to me every day,” the Prince smiles and Andrei smiles back. 

“My father would not approve. He wants me to go into the Navy.” 

“And do you?” 

“It is my duty to. Though I don’t like the hats much,” says Andrei, and they laugh. 

Sometimes Panin takes them outside and makes them play games or race. Occasionally this ends in some good natured pushing and shoving but Andrei is never sure if he can fight with the Prince the way he does with his brothers at home. Any game there ends in them all piled on top of each other, kicking and punching. Andrei decides against it. His temper aside, the Prince is a gentle boy. 

Mostly they are left to their own devices. They play at being Knights or steal into unoccupied rooms and play games with a wooden ball and the portraits on the walls. Five points to hit the nose, two for the forehead, two - with much giggling - to hit a lady’s bosom. 

They run and hide if they hear so much as a whisper of The Empress Catherine. The Prince seems mortally afraid of his mother and any sign that she is nearby sends them scuttling away; down hallways, up staircases, behind curtains, under furniture. It is a great game, and yet it is not. In all the times Andrei visits the Palace, he never sees more than the hem of the Empress’s skirt passing by a door they have concealed themselves behind. 

“Why do we hide from your mother sire?” Andrei asks one day in a whisper, after she has passed them. 

“I do not want her to ever see you. You are mine. You are my secret,” the Prince says to him and Andrei feels a flush of pleasure to be so favoured. 

“Why did the Prince’s father die?” Andrei asks his father one night after a family dinner. His father, having had some wine, tells him that the Prince’s mother had him murdered so she could take his throne. His mother hushes him at once. 

“It is not true Andrei and your father could get into trouble for saying so. Do not repeat this, please.” 

Andrei nods and vows he will not, but he believes his father. 

So now he knows why they hide from her. He wonders if the Prince is frightened his mother will do the same to him. He tries to imagine what he would do if the Prince was attacked. He thinks he would fight to defend him, though he hopes he never has to. Sometimes, if he remembers, he tucks a little folding knife of his father’s into the inside of his coat. 

But nothing happens to the Prince. Nothing at all. Sometimes he seems to Andrei like a character in a fairy story - a forgotten Prince, kept out of sight, unwanted. His father’s throne stolen from him, a terrible wrong to be avenged. Though the servants see to his needs and Panin gives him his lessons, Andrei sometimes wonders if anyone else talks to him at all. 

And he has grown to love the routine of his weekly visits. The two of them barely take breath for talking on those days. They speak in a funny mingling of Russian and French and it feels as though it is a language of their very own. It is not just a duty any more to be a companion to the Prince - it is a pleasure.

But the peaceful rhythm of their friendship is disrupted by Andrei’s parents. 

“I’m to be sent away,” Andrei tells the Prince one day as they play the portrait game. “Five points! I’m to go to school in Strasburg.” 

“That was never five points. Do it again,” says the Prince. “What do you mean, sent away? For how long?” 

“Well, till I am educated. Years I suppose,” Andrei says, and hits the portrait squarely between the eyes. “There now, that’s three points at least.” 

“What?” 

“Father says I have outgrown my tutor, and Alexey is already away at school.” 

“But…” says the Prince, “What about me?” 

Andrei looks at him in surprise. He had not thought it would be a matter of importance to a Prince, where Andrei gets sent to school. Though his visits to the Palace are significant in his life, he always imagined that the Prince does not give him a passing thought when he is not there. 

He is mistaken. 

“Who will play me music now?” the Prince says and suddenly he is crying. Andrei feels a strange swooping feeling in his stomach when he sees the Prince’s tears. He had never meant to upset him. 

“You have all the Palace entertainments sire. You can hear music any…” 

“No one talks with me, no one but you. How can you leave?” 

“Count Panin talks with you, and...it is not my choice to go you know, I…” 

“Who will be my friend now?” the Prince says, and Andrei stops. 

“I will always be your friend,” he says, and as soon as he says it, he knows it is true. 

But the Prince only shakes his head, throws the ball hard enough at the window that a pane of glass cracks, then runs from the room. 

Andrei does not see him again before he leaves.

Kronstadh, St Petersburg, April 1772 (Seven years later)

From his position on the foredeck of the Rostislav, Andrei can see the Prince approaching and marvels at how he has changed and yet stayed the same. He still has the large eyes and the tip-tilted nose he had as a child, but he is much taller, more confident and refined. His uniform is immaculate and fits like a glove, his face is animated, and he is talking to the Captain excitedly in French. Andrei thinks of the last time they saw each other and almost smiles at the comparison. It has been seven years and so much has happened. 

The Captain is almost upon him now and Andrei stands rigidly to attention as the Prince comes closer. He does not expect to be recognised, the Prince will not have time to speak to every single sailor aboard. 

But it seems that the Prince is taking his new position as Grand Admiral of the fleet very seriously, and wishes to inspect each crew member as he goes. His eyes meet Andrei’s appraisingly and he halts for a moment. Andrei’s mouth goes dry. Should he speak? Remind him? But so many years have passed; it would be a miracle for the Prince to remember him at all. 

“This is one of our Lieutenants, sire,” the Captain says. “He recently joined our fleet from England to assist with the campaign against the Turks.” 

“But not English, I think?” the Prince says, narrowing his eyes curiously. He switches to Russian. “What is your name, Lieutenant?” 

“Razumovsky, Your Majesty,” Andrei says in French and the Prince’s eyes widen again. 

“Razumovsky?” he says. He peers at his face and gives a little jump. “Andrei? It is you? This grown man, a lieutenant in the navy - is my old friend?” He smiles with delight and Andrei cannot help but grin back, despite his captain’s frowns. 

“It is sire. I did not think you would know me. I am much changed.” 

“Not so much as all that, though you look splendid,” The Prince says and Andrei manages to keep enough propriety not to reply in kind. 

“Mon dieu this is a fine surprise. You must come with me and tell me what you have done these seven years. We are about to dine at the Captain’s table I believe, and you must sit with me.” 

Andrei says nothing, but shoots a look at his captain, then stares ahead again. 

“There is a hierarchy aboard ship, sire,” said the Captain. “The men must sit by rank. I am afraid we have strict…” 

But the Prince holds up a hand to silence him, and Andrei can see the imperious little boy just under the surface of the courtly veneer. 

“Well then, I shall promote him. Razumovsky is now captain-lieutenant, and he shall have a place set at the table next to me.” 

“As you wish, sire,” said the Captain and Andrei does everything he can to avoid his eyes. 

Not only is Andrei seated next to the Prince at dinner, but the Prince shuns almost everyone else and talks to him intently. 

“I must not take wine, I am afraid,” the Prince says. “Panin fusses about my health and I must abide by his wishes.” 

“You were very unwell I heard, Your Majesty,” says Andrei. Though he looks remarkably well now, for all that the whole country thought he was at death’s door. 

“I had a fever that the doctors could not break. I do not remember much about it, other than my mother sat at my bedside almost every day,” the Prince tells him, as if this is a wondrous piece of information. And Andrei supposes it is. 

Still he is surprised to hear of the Empress’s tenderness. The rumours that had reached him in England were that the Prince had been poisoned, that a mob had stormed to the palace demanding to know that he lived, that the Empress Catherine had not been scheming again. 

“You seem entirely recovered.” 

“I am,” the Prince says and smiles. Andrei remembers how he used to seek out that smile as a child, and how proud he would be to elicit one. And it is an exceedingly charming smile, Andrei thinks distractedly, then admonishes himself. This is the Grand Duke of Russia and the Admiral of the Navy, not some girl to moon over.   

“And what of you Andrei. You have been in battle?” 

Andrei’s face clouds for a moment. “Yes, we won a great victory at Chesma.” 

“I heard of the fate of the Evstafii. You must have had friends aboard.” 

Andrei nods, and tries to think of something to say that is suitable. What can be said? The ship had blown up and killed more than six hundred men in an instant. He would not know where to begin without sounding unpatriotic. 

But the Prince smoothly changes the subject. 

“Do you still play your violin?” he asks.   

“I do, as much as my rough sailor’s hands allow me. Though mostly English sea shanties these days.” 

“I would like to hear them. I remember you playing for hours when we were young. We used to have such fun in the Palace,” the Prince says, leaning forward intently. “It is a shame we lost touch.” 

Andrei remembers how he had cried when his mother told him he would not be going back to the Palace again before leaving for school. He had waited and hoped for a letter or a message from the Prince, but it never came.

“I thought of writing you a letter many times sire,” he tells him, in a rush of honesty. “But I was not sure if it would be appropriate, or...or welcomed.” 

“It would have been most welcome. I thought you had forgotten me,” the Prince says quietly. “And I was too angry about Strasburg to write to you first. Silly of me. My temper always puts obstacles in the way of my happiness, it seems.” 

The Prince’s happiness. He had had no idea. 

“Well sire,” says Andrei in a lighter tone before the silence can lengthen. “It does not signify now. We have found each other again.” 

“Indeed we have,” the Prince says.

****

Andrei is summoned by the Captain the next morning. 

“You are to deliver these papers to the Palace,” he says. Andrei opens his mouth to question the strangeness of this order, but manages to hold his tongue. Instead he salutes and takes the package from the Captain. 

“Well?” says the Captain gruffly, “What keeps you?” and Andrei sets off at a clip. 

It is a beautiful morning and the journey to the Palace takes only a short while, once he has tipped someone with a pontoon to carry him across the river. The whole of St Petersburg shines before him. It is wonderful to be home. 

Almost nothing has changed in the Palace since he was last there. The servants are even the same, although none seem to recognise him. He is taken to a state room and left there for a moment while the footman fetches a Courtier. He smiles to himself as he recognises one of the portraits he and Paul used to play their game with. Leaning forward he can see a dent between the portrait’s eyes and stifles a laugh. 

“You find Countess Rostov amusing?” Count Panin has come into the room behind him, older and stouter, but just the same. 

Andrei turns with a smile. “No, sir. Just laughing at old memories.” 

Panin raises his eyebrows. “Of course, you knew the Palace as a child. Well now,” he holds out his hand. “What have you there?” 

Andrei hands over the package with a bow. 

Panin consults the papers. “All is in order, I think. Do you know the contents of these?” he says, waving them sternly at Andrei. 

“No, sir. Of course not. I was instructed to bring them directly to the Palace,” he says. 

“Well they concern you.” Andrei’s eyes widen. 

“They confirm your promotion to Captain-Lieutenant. In addition,” Panin begins to smile, “You are now a Gentleman of the Chamber, and will be a member of the Grand Duke’s court. How does that grab you?” 

Andrei feels his face flush pink. “I...it is a great honour sir, but how…?” 

“Instructions from the Prince himself,” Panin says. “And I am to take you to him now.” 

He leads Andrei to an inner state room, where the Prince awaits them. He is standing behind an ornate desk, fidgeting with some papers. Andrei remembers now how the Prince was never still unless soporific in front of the fire with a book and bites his lip to prevent another laugh. He is wearing a dark blue coat with silver embroidery whirling and scrolling down the front and up the sleeves, and when he glances up, his dark eyes dance with excitement. Andrei smooths at his worn out uniform and tries to stand straighter as the Prince looks at him. 

“Well, Andrei?” he says. “Does this please you?” 

“It does your Majesty," Andrei says, though pleased cannot begin to describe his feelings. "I hope that I will please you in return.”

“Oh my friend," the Prince says in delight, "Of course you will. I think we shall have great fun.”

****

Life at the Palace is not always fun, however. The Prince’s volatile temper casts long shadows over the court, and only Andrei seems to escape his wrath. When Paul is happy he is irresistible; lively, funny, generous and you cannot help but love him. When he is angry you learn to try to be invisible. 

Andrei sees the aftermath of these tempers and how contrite Paul is, and would love to help him. Andrei knows how to charm, how to bestow sunny smiles and dispel tensions with light-hearted remarks. Born to be a diplomat, his father tells him. Paul has no idea of any of these things. He works himself into tempests, lowering his curly head at his antagonists like a bull, making himself ridiculous. 

More than half the trouble is that the Prince is still forgotten, still overlooked. Though far from a child any longer, his mother still prefers her favourites to perform the responsibilties that - it appears to Andrei - should belong to her son. It seems an outrage that the Prince should have to defer to Potemkin who only sneers at him, Zavadovsky who openly insults him and worst of all, Orlov who the whole court knows murdered his father.

But the Empress prefers their counsel to anything her son has to say.

And as a result of this, it is not seen as a honour to serve the Prince. Quite the opposite in fact. Andrei, used to the discipline and strict hierarchy of the navy, is shocked at the lack of duty or loyalty the courtiers show to their Tsarevich. Even the servants are lax; sending up meals late, not staying to wait on the Prince if Andrei is there to do it, neglecting Paul's rooms.

Andrei puts his foot down about all this immediately. He can see no reason why he cannot run as tight a ship here at court as he did aboard the Rostislav and he goes about it with the same precision. He speaks to the servants earnestly but kindly about their duties, demands that meals are served hot and on time, and attended by at least two footmen. He inspects the Prince's rooms to ensure they are being kept correctly. A couple of the younger footmen begin saluting him when they see him coming. He pretends not to see but it makes him smile.

He negotiates with the Empress's chamberlain to get rid of the worst offenders among the courtiers, who would be only too happy to have a place at the Imperial court instead. Others who fail to attend the Prince when they should find themselves amiably but firmly excluded from Court for a few weeks. It is done with such cheery politeness that they often do not realise at first that they are being punished at all.

The atmosphere of the Court changes in tiny increments for the better and everyone senses it. And yet the Prince still struggles.

“I cannot think how you do it.” The Prince in is blackest, bleakest of moods after an awkward confrontation with an ambassador from Italy. “I do not seem to have any control of my tongue at all.” 

“You do not lose your temper with me.” 

“You never, ever make me angry, Andrei,” he says miserably. “That is no measure of my self-restraint.” 

“You should not take these things so much to heart, sire. When people disagree with you it is not that they dislike you. Only the opinion that you hold.” 

But the Prince remains as raw and tender as a scald. Nothing Andrei says can stop him reacting the way he does to things, he can only comfort him afterwards and help him make amends. Andrei remembers the little knife he used to hide in his coat to protect the Prince with. He needs better weapons now to arm the Prince against the world.

“My mother has done this to me on purpose! She should not have granted him an audience with me, when I was so unprepared. How can I know how to direct government, or to rule, when she keeps me isolated from everything? I have not the first idea how to do this. Not at all.” 

They are in the Prince’s rooms preparing to watch a military parade, the Prince’s favourite thing to do. He wants his own clothing to be as neat and immaculate as the soldiers will be, and Andrei is helping him, trying to distract him from his distress. 

“But you can learn it. You have Panin. There is nothing he does not know about politics,” Andrei says, busy with cloths and polish. 

“Panin. He lies in bed half the day then gives me great long lectures about philosophy. He plods along until I feel l might fidget myself to death.” 

“You cannot dislike him, surely.” 

“Oh I don’t dislike him,” the Prince sighs and throws himself down on his bed. “I am at odds with the whole world today. I should refuse to do anything my mother asks me, she always makes me furious. It is Potemkin too. He advises her to keep me from court, he tells her I am useless. I am sure it was his idea to humiliate me this way, to prove his point.” 

“It need not be like that again. I will insist that every appointment comes through me in future, and I will not allow a meeting unless you are prepared,” Andrei says.

“I hate her,” the Prince says suddenly, and looks at Andrei for his reaction. “There, is that not treason?” He looks so vulnerable all of a sudden that Andrei feels his heart contract. It is all wrong that he should feel this way about her, but who can blame him? She makes him the laughing stock of her court. 

“It is something we should not talk of, I think,” Andrei says carefully.  “Now, here are your buttons, shone up like they make us to do in the Navy. I don’t suppose they teach Princes how to do these things.” 

“Show me again,” the Prince says, distracted by the shiny buttons the way a child would be by a toy. “I love watching you.” 

Andrei smiles. “You make me feel as though I am a conjurer, even when I am doing the most ordinary tasks.” 

“They are not ordinary to me,” says the Prince, lounging on the bed as he watches. They sit in companionable silence for a while. Then the Prince sits up and nudges Andrei with a foot. 

“Andrei?” 

“Yes, sire?” 

“Could you…” the Prince stops. Begins again. “Would you call me Paul? When there is no one to hear, I mean.” 

“I would be honoured to. Paul.” The word on his lips feels as intimate as an embrace and he feels himself being to redden. He bends his head over his task again. “Now here, you see. Use this cloth first to remove the tarnish and then polish it with this clean one.” 

“Yes. I see.”

Peterhof, June 1772

Paul’s household has transferred to the Peterhof Palace for the summer and the endless light summer nights are invigorating everyone. It seems wasteful to sleep when all is so beautiful. Banquets and entertainments go on into the early hours as the golden fountains play, the sky above them streaked with pale blues and pinks the whole night long. 

Paul keeps Andrei with him at all times. They are inseparable. The court runs like clockwork with Andrei's firm guidance, and his vow that no meeting with the Prince now happens until he has been fully briefed has worked beautifully. All this combined with Panin’s aid in careful preparation before meetings bolsters Paul’s confidence beyond anything either of them had thought possible. 

“You have worked a miracle of friendship on me,” Paul says. “I get better from day to day. I feel I can handle the most difficult encounter with you beside me.” 

“It was all within you anyway,” Andrei says bending his head to the papers he is shuffling through, glowing at all this praise. 

“But you have helped me find it.” 

In return, Paul lavishes him with music, ordering the court musicians to learn the latest compositions from Vienna, commissioning performances every evening, and buying him sheet music for his own violin. Andrei is in heaven. 

Often they use their sleeplessness to talk into the early hours about how things will be when Paul reigns. What he will change. Which of his mother’s policies he will overturn. How he will build a great military. Paul even writes essays about his plans, though Andrei hides them carefully. He is never entirely sure even now which of the servants can be trusted, and for any of these papers to fall into the Empress's hands would have terrible consequences.

But tonight there is no preparation to be done, no papers for Andrei to read or arrange. Instead, Andrei and Paul are in the lower garden, swimming in the grand cascade. Paul has ordered the fountains to be left on day and night while the court is there. The Empress Catherine does not approve of this at all, but then she is in Moscow with Count Orlov and can do nothing about it. 

It is glorious fun. Paul and Andrei are high from a night of music and wine and Andrei is hot from dancing, and nothing on earth could be better than a swim in the cool of the fountains. 

In the endless dusk Peterhof looks like something from fairyland, Andrei thinks. Versailles itself cannot be more beautiful. And Paul with his pixie-like face looks as though one of the golden statues which ornament the great fountain has come to life with intent to cause mischief. Andrei looks at Paul, poised for a moment on a step of the cascade before leaping into the pool beneath it, laughing and fearless for once. He grins to see him so happy. 

But he cannot contemplate for too long. Paul swims beneath him catching at his ankles, and he goes under with a splutter. They splash and wrestle, Paul taking gleeful joy in unbalancing Andrei, who is taller and cannot resist so well. Though Paul always bemoans how small he is, he is compact, strong and quick and Andrei eventually has to beg mercy. They face each other, panting and laughing. 

“What are these marks on your shoulder Andrei?” Paul says suddenly, pushing his wet hair out of his face. “Have you been burned?” He traces the scarred skin on Andrei’s shoulder with his fingers and Andrei almost jumps out of his skin at the gentle touch. 

“It is nothing. It was the sea battle I was in at Chesma,” Andrei says. He does not want to think about it. 

“I did not know you had been wounded,” says Paul, his eyes wide. “My dear friend! Was it very terrible?” 

“I did not even feel it at the time. I was part of the skeleton crew aboard a fire ship. My uniform caught fire as we escaped it, but someone beat it out. It happened in a moment.” 

He had not felt it at the time, it was true. But he had afterwards. He closes his eyes against the memory of the ship’s surgeon cutting away his uniform and his skin shearing off with it. He had vomited from the pain. He pushes that memory away, and the ones of the feverish journey home, surrounded by the dead and dying. 

“I wish my mother would realise the effect of her greed for new territory,” Paul says, his face pained. “But it hurts you to talk of it; I will not mention it again.”

It surprises Andrei sometimes how perfectly Paul understands him. He looks at him, sees the droplets of water suspended in his eyelashes, and feels an ache he cannot understand. Like trying to play an unfamiliar tune without the music. Paul takes his hand from his shoulder, and Andrei wonders if he is repulsed by the shiny, tight scars. Paul’s own skin is so unmarked. Perfect. 

Andrei turns away and dives into the water again, striking out down the sea channel. Halfway down he turns and floats on his back, staring up at the pink-tinged moon. The palace windows are all lit up and he can still hear snatches of music and singing, muted in the night air. He hums one of the melodies he catches, a folk tune. At times he can still hardly believe what his life is now, compared to what it was in the Navy. 

It is not until he stops humming that Paul’s cries reach him. 

“Who is there?” he is shouting. He sounds terrified. “Show yourself! Andrei, can you see them?” 

Andrei turns around and swims as quickly as he can back up the channel, the terror in Paul’s voice makes his stomach turn over. 

Paul is standing out of the water when Andrei reaches him, looking down one of the avenues in the lower garden. His face is as white as a mask. He seems stupefied with fear. 

“Andrei, I...I saw someone. I think they are hiding, I think they mean to…” 

Andrei pulls himself out of the water and runs down the avenue, the grass cool and damp beneath his thudding feet. He can see nothing but trees. Back and forth he runs, cursing himself that he has no weapon, not even a knife, but no one reveals themselves. He stops and listens for long moments but cannot sense any movement. 

There is nothing. A mistake. 

“Paul! There is no one here. It is nothing, I promise you. Just shadows, a trick of the light.” 

“Oh, Andrei. Are you...are you sure?” Paul’s voice is almost a sob. 

Andrei watches as Paul comes back to himself, shaking now, covering his face with his hands. 

“I promise you.” 

“I...sometimes I am frightened that…” Paul does not finish, but sits down on the grass suddenly as though his legs have given way.  Andrei walks over to sit beside him. 

“What frightens you?” he says gently. Paul does not answer at first. Andrei waits. 

“The same thing that has always frightened me,” he says eventually. He brings his knees up to his chin and wraps his arms around them. 

“I don’t know if I ever told anyone how afraid I was as a boy. I was afraid all the time. I thought that one day some people were going to come and kill me. A gang would come and drag me away. Like...like they did my father.” 

He hides his face in his knees for a moment before continuing. “I overheard a courtier talking the morning after my father was killed. He said that my father had intended for me to die.” Paul stops, his face still, though his hands grip his legs till the knuckles turn white. 

“I have never heard it said that he intended such a thing Paul. Never once,” Andrei says, feeling his friend’s distress. Paul gives a small shake of his head. 

“I do not believe it now. But then...I was eight years old. Everything safe was gone. I have never felt such fear; I could not stand. I fell to my hands and knees and started to shake. I don’t remember what happened then, I was ill for a while I think. But after that, I had to have a strict routine and never deviate. I thought that if I did the same thing and saw the same people each day, then when something changed or someone was new, I would know that it meant I was to be murdered that day and I would be prepared. It makes little sense, I suppose.” 

“No. It makes perfect sense.” 

“I liked it when you came to visit. You were so ordinary, and you were never afraid of anything.” 

“Ordinary? I’ll have you know I have always been very splendid,” says Andrei, but he takes both Paul’s hands and holds them tightly between his. He remembers Paul’s terrified screaming when he and his brothers had first been brought to visit him without warning. And remembers Paul telling him how safe he felt behind the bedroom screen. He wonders at how little he had understood. 

“I was only unafraid because I had no reason to be otherwise,” he says, looking Paul squarely in the face. “And I am sad that you had no one to share your fears with.” 

Paul looks back at him. “I did not. But I feel I do now.” 

“You do. Always, sire.” Andrei wishes he could gather Paul into his arms. Like he would a younger brother who was distressed, he tells himself. He contents himself with bending his head to Paul’s hands still trapped between his, and kissing them.  He looks up, a little fearful of having shown this affection, but Paul is not angry.

“Thank you,” he says. “Oh my friend, How you sustain me.” 

Andrei feels such a rush of feeling that he cannot trust himself. He releases Paul’s hands and turns away. “We should go to bed. I mean, I should go to bed. You have...the swimming has worn me out.” He cannot be more awkward he thinks to himself. 

“It has been a night of confessions,” says Paul uncurling and standing up. “That is always tiring.” 

Andrei nods in agreement, though he feels he has not voiced the largest confession of all. He follows Paul across the lawn to the steps of the Palace. Paul stops and turns to him a little shyly.

"Andrei, will you...come up and sit with me? Until I sleep. I will feel safer."

Andrei takes a deep breath. "Of course. Of course I will."

"Thank you."

"It is my job to protect you sire," Andrei says. "You do not need to thank me."

And as he promised, Andrei sits with him until he falls asleep, an arm flung above his head, his breathing gentle and even. And for a while afterwards he watches him, in the hope that it will subdue the strange, sweet pain he feels on looking at him.

The Winter Palace, St Petersburg, September 1772

They are back at the Palace after their summer away, and the Empress is furious with the behaviour of Paul’s court. Paul has been called before his mother and Andrei is by his side. 

“Banquets, every evening! Music, concerts, the fountains playing night and day. You have squandered all our money on this?” 

“Hardly all our money,” Paul says sulkily. They are back in their court clothes after a summer of going bare-headed and barefoot and they both feel prickly and uncomfortable. All Paul’s mother’s favourites are there, judging him: Potemkin, Zavadovsky, and Count Orlov. Paul is defensive and stubborn under their gaze. 

“Vast sums of it.” 

“Well I am sure you were not frugal in Moscow yourself. Either I am a Prince or I am not. You cannot expect me to pinch pennies like a peasant. Surely I can live in a way that…” 

“You had fifty musicians a night at Peterhof. Your excesses are inexplicable.” 

“Not inexplicable at all. Andrei here, my dear friend, loves music so much. He assists me in everything and it is such a small thing to do in return.” 

For the first time Andrei feels the full strength of the gaze of the Empress and tries not to quail under it. 

“The debts you have run up are quite extraordinary,” she says. 

“Sell some of your paintings then, or your jewels,” Paul says furiously. “God knows you have enough of them.” 

“Perhaps I shall reduce your household instead,” the Empress says coldly. “Getting rid of this one,” she nods at Andrei, “will save us the cost of a thousand concerts.” 

“You shall NOT get rid of him, how dare you!” Paul has lost his temper entirely and Andrei can do nothing about it. 

“How dare YOU,” says the Empress. “Do not forget that you owe me complete obedience, Prince or no. I will not permit you to speak to me this way. You are almost eighteen Paul and you must learn to run your affairs more efficiently. Otherwise how can I trust you with anything else?” 

The whole room knows that she means the succession - the carrot that the Empress ever dangles for Paul.  Andrei can feel Paul seething beside him. He knows he is seconds from doing something awful - throwing something, screaming insults. Thank God one of the Empress’s greyhounds set up a great howl at that moment as a spark from the fire landed on its flank, distracting them all. 

He makes the most of the interruption, putting his hand on Paul’s arm and whispering to him. 

“Deep breaths and keep your dignity, Your Majesty. You do not want to give her an excuse to punish you,” he says softly. He feels Paul shaking with fury, but the use of the honorific seems to bring him back to himself, and he nods in assent. 

“Well, Paul?” the Empress says, the fuss over and the greyhound attempting to climb into her lap. 

“I apologise for my rudeness Your Majesty,” Paul says and bows low. “I will look to my debts and manage things more wisely in future.” 

The Empress nods her head and dismisses him, but does not for one moment take her eyes from Andrei. 

Outside the room, Paul clasps Andrei’s hand briefly. “Thank you, my friend,” he says. 

“I did not do much," says Andrei, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Oh, I feel exhausted after that scrutiny though. Shall we go to your rooms to eat? I do not think I can face the Court after that.” 

“I have something I must do,” Paul says. “I will come and find you in a while.” 

At a loss, Andrei takes himself off to the room he uses at the Palace. He shrugs off his heavy embroidered coat and flings his wig onto the bed and feels he can breathe again. He lies on the bed for a moment but cannot settle, turning the situation with Paul and his mother over and over in his head without finding a solution. If only she would not humiliate him. Perhaps someone with a different temperament could challenge her or laugh it off, but Paul cannot. It is very difficult. And the presence of Count Orlov must be poison to Paul’s very soul. 

He should unpack his trunk from Peterhof, he supposes; it is in complete disarray, a disgrace after all these years in the Navy. He throws open the lid and begins to sort through the oddments and clothing and becomes absorbed in the task. 

“Andrei,” Paul has come into the room, face pink with excitement. 

Andrei dusts off his hands on his breeches and stands up. “What have you been doing?” he says. 

“Here,” Paul says, and holds out the most beautiful violin Andrei has ever seen. “It is for you.” 

Andrei only stares. 

“Take it!” Paul says, stepping closer. “It is yours.” 

“Paul, you cannot buy me this. After what your mother just....” 

Paul’s eyes snap with anger at the mention of her. “I did not buy it, so she cannot say a thing about it. It was my father’s.” 

His father’s. Andrei looks at the violin in wonder; the rich dark colour of the wood, the delicate sweeping curves of it. Everything about it is perfectly balanced; it will sit on his hand as light as a bird. He can almost hear the sweet, heart-breaking sound it will make. 

“Paul, it is the most wonderful thing but I cannot accept something so precious.” 

“You must, Andrei. I cannot play it and I’m sure I will never learn. It has been hidden away for over ten years so she could not destroy it. She may stop me spending money on you, but she cannot stop me giving you things which belong to me. My father loved to play. Have I ever told you that?” 

“No. You never really speak of him at all.” 

“I…” Paul pauses. “It hurts me to speak of him. But I think of him often. To know that this was being used by you, who truly loves music as he did; it would please him. It will please me.” 

Andrei reaches out and takes it at last. The wood is like silk under his hands as he strokes his fingertips over it, tracing every curl and scroll. He tucks it under his chin, and it rests perfectly against him, just as he had imagined. Paul hands him the bow. 

He draws the bow across and every single string breaks. 

“Well,” says Paul with a grin, “It has not been played in more than ten years.” 

Andrei laughs. “Stay awhile. I shall restring it and then I shall play you whatever you like.” He turns to rummage in his trunk for violin strings. 

“There is a promise,” says Paul, and throws himself into the armchair by the fire. 

Andrei half turns back to him. “Paul,” he begins. But cannot find the words. Then Paul smiles and he knows he does not need any.

St Petersburg, October 1772

It is Paul’s name day and they are driving through the streets of St Petersburg to a musical reception at the Stroganov Palace, to be followed by a ball. As they turn onto Nevsky Prospekt, Paul raises an arm from the carriage and a crowd surges forward with an excited roar. How the people seem to love him! Hundreds of them here, even on such a cold autumn day. Andrei feels a surge of pride in his Prince. His friend. 

Some of the crowd are calling out birthday greetings to ‘the Tsar’ and Andrei lets out a laugh. It is true that Paul is eighteen today, one year away from coming of age, and yet his mother has said nothing, nothing at all about the succession. Paul does not question this of course, not openly; he is her most obedient subject. The people are not stupid though. They love the young Prince and want to see him take his rightful place. 

Andrei is entirely carried away by the goodwill of the crowd for a moment. “Oh, sire!” he whispers into Paul’s ear, “Did you but dare!” 

As soon as the words are out he knows he should not have uttered them. 

Paul turns to Andrei with a half smile on his face and a shake of his head. He takes Andrei’s hand and presses it for a moment. 

“I could never do such a thing, you know I could not,” Paul says. Andrei knows, and wishes he could bite off his tongue. Thank god that the Empress is not by, for that surely would have been his death warrant. He darts a look around at their attendants but cannot tell if they heard anything at all and curses his carelessness. 

He finds himself swept aside on arrival at the Palace as the Empress joins their party. It seems he will not be seated with his friend this time. But he is looking forward to the music very much, as he has heard it is from a new composer from Germany. It will be nice to enjoy it without being on display next to Paul for once, he tells himself, drawing the eye of the crowd. He finds it hard to be still when music is played, and being part of the royal party means at least some decorum. 

“Here is the great friend,” a voice says, and Andrei turns to find the Empress behind him. “The one who spends all his time with my difficult little son. Perhaps I should raise you up to a Prince as a reward, for I cannot think how you put up with it.” 

Andrei bows low but cannot stop himself. “I do not find him difficult,” he says. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he adds. 

She scoffs. 

“How loyal,” she says. “I am sure that will serve you well.” 

“I am his subject, Your Majesty. My loyalty is a given,” Andrei says carefully. 

“You are my subject too, don’t forget.” 

“And yours, of course.” 

“You are a handsome one,” she says, as though this is something loathsome. “Handsome ones are always faithless.” She cups his face in her hand, rings pressing into his cheek. 

What has my face to do with my faithfulness, he wants to say.  He wills himself not to twist away. 

“You will not be his friend always,” she says, as though stating the inevitable. “Just remember that.” She releases him. 

Andrei does not reply, but cannot see why that should be so. 

“We should find you a wife, or an occupation,” the Empress is saying. “You cannot spend all your time trailing after my son, putting ideas into his head.” 

“His Majesty’s ideas are all his own, madam,” says Andrei before shutting himself up. He is only making things worse. 

“Somehow I doubt that,” she says, words as light as thistledown, though her eyes are dark as night. “Dear Paul does like to surround himself with friends much cleverer than himself. Which is not always a wise practice for a future ruler.” She turns away then, and Andrei finds that he is trembling all over. He snatches up a glass of wine from a footman’s tray and drinks it off all at once. 

“Has mother taken a fancy to you?” Paul says, coming over and taking Andrei’s arm. Andrei feels steadier with the familiar touch and the wine in his stomach. Paul looks at him searchingly and Andrei cannot help but smile at him. 

“I think I can safely say she has not, sire,” he says. Paul smiles back. 

“I have to say I am relieved. She does love handsome men and you are...well. I would hate her to take you as…” Paul trailed away and a slight blush rose to his face. “To take you away for other duties.” 

“You are the Grand Admiral of the navy and I am your lieutenant,” Andrei says, reeling slightly from having been called handsome twice in as many minutes. “I am entirely at your command. And I cannot think of any duties I could perform for her majesty that someone else could not do better.” 

“Entirely at my command? What a dangerous thought,” says Paul with a laugh and a squeeze of his arm, and Andrei feels lightheaded with an assault of half-formed images. No. He closes his eyes briefly. These thoughts are so wrong and strange. Perhaps the Empress is right and he should be looking for a wife for himself; he has been chaste too long.   

“Come and sit with me for the concert,” Paul is saying. “I do love to watch you when music is played, how you close your eyes and you give yourself over to it. I think for you it must be like falling in love.” 

“Until I fall in love I cannot answer that,” says Andrei, and then falls silent.

*****

The only difference of opinion Paul and Andrei ever seem to have is about dancing. For Andrei it is one of his greatest joys; for Paul it is a strange humiliation that must either be endured or avoided. 

The ball tonight is no different, despite it being Paul’s birthday. Andrei has not been able to persuade him to dance with anyone at all, and has given it up and left him to sit alone at his table. He has danced now four times without rest, and is flagging a little as he dances the minuet with the pretty newlywed Countess Golitsyn. As the dance ends he bows and moves away, but the Countess is loath to let him go, even though Count Golitsyn is staring at them. 

“Come Count Razumovsky,” she says, “Do not run away. You are such a mystery to the ladies here at court. So young and dashing, yet always closeted away with the Prince. Or hiding that pretty face behind stacks of paper. What on earth do you spend your time doing?” 

“Nothing very mysterious, Countess,” he says, a little flustered that he has been noticed at all. “It is mostly politics.” 

“The Prince studies politics? I thought he would have little use for them. He seems to lead a life free of responsibilities.” Andrei knows she is only repeating the gossip that Paul is stupid and decadent and cannot be trusted with anything, but he feels the sting as though it was a slight against himself. 

“Of course he studies politics, he is very knowledgeable. He knows he must be prepared.” 

The Countess raises an eyebrow at him. “Prepared to take his throne you mean? And you help to...prepare him.” 

Andrei only then realises what dangerous waters they are in. 

“I...I am in need of rest after all this dancing,” he says, stumbling over his words. Why, when he can handle a fleet of visiting Ambassadors so deftly, is he so clumsy when faced with one solitary noblewoman? “I think I shall retire to the balcony to cool down.” 

“What an improper suggestion!” she shrieks, and everyone nearby glances at them and begins to chatter. 

“I did not mean anything improper by it,” Andrei says, confused and annoyed, “I meant to go alone.” But he begins to realise her shrieking is not for him but for the benefit of someone else. Who, he cannot work out. 

He bows quickly and hurries away from her, ignoring looks from the dancers near them, then flings himself into a chair by Paul, mopping his face with a handkerchief. 

Paul says nothing about the Countess. He only says, “I hate the minuet. I think I hate it the most.” 

“I did not enjoy that one quite so much as the others, I must say,” says Andrei, and looks over his shoulder to where the Countess still stares and talks behind her fan to a friend. 

The Empress sweeps up on the arm of Count Orlov, forcing them to stop their conversation and stand up. 

“I can see you enjoyed the dancing very much, Count Razumovsky. How many partners have you left heartbroken, skulking over here with my son? And being so improper with the Countess Golitsyn - you will get a reputation as the biggest flirt at court.” 

Andrei says nothing, but flickers a warning look at Paul. 

“Not quite the biggest,” says Paul pointedly and the Empress’s face tightens with repressed anger. 

“Well you cannot be speaking of yourself. Who would flirt with you, with your face ever in such an unpleasant expression, even on your birthday?” 

Andrei, standing slightly behind Paul, shoots out a hand and grasps Paul’s wrist. He strokes along the pulse point with his thumb, to say remember, remember what we spoke of, do not rise. 

He feels rather than hears Paul take a deep breath and lean into him slightly. Then he breaks away and bows deeply to his mother, and remains there, eyes cast downwards until she departs. 

Paul straightens slowly and they look at each other. 

“You know what she says is not true,” Andrei says. “Any of it.” 

“She is right about my face,” says Paul. 

“No she is not. Your face is never unpleasant,” says Andrei. “If you can believe a terrible flirt.” 

But Paul will not allow Andrei to blow his storm clouds away with jokes, not this time. 

“Who cares if you have flirted? Your behaviour has been just as it should be for a young man. It is her foul mind that has spoiled things. If I Iooked as you do..." Paul stops. "You should go and enjoy the ball,” he finishes. Then pushes outside onto the balcony and throws himself onto a chair. 

He should follow Paul and placate him, he knows. But the music pulls at Andrei just as much as his friend’s distress. Tonight the music is winning. The orchestra is playing so beautifully it thrills right through him, and he has drunk French wine and he is young and he wants to dance. And now the mazurka has begun and he cannot resist. Tomorrow he will devote himself to Paul as he always does, he promises himself. But tonight, just for a few hours, he will give himself over to the music.

He does not see the Empress make her way out onto the balcony with a sweet smile and an apology on her lips, or how she embraces her son, or whispers to him for an hour.

****

“And what were you and the Empress engaged in talking of last night for so long?” Panin asks the next day at breakfast. “I have never seen you tolerate each other for such a time before.” 

Paul looks quickly at Andrei, who says, “I knew nothing of this.” 

“You were engaged in flirting with every female in the room, I would not have expected you to notice anything but your own eyelashes fluttering,” says Panin, chuckling. 

“I was dancing, not flirting. Are you so far into your dotage you cannot tell the difference, old man?” Andrei says, but affectionately. He aches today, he danced so much. The music had been so wonderful. He yawns in his chair by the fire and stretches his legs.   

“She has at last chosen my wife,” Paul says and Andrei’s heart stops. 

“She is a Prussian. Her name is Wilhelmina,” he stumbles over the German name with his Russian tongue. “Here is her likeness.” 

Panin reaches out to take the picture but Andrei is too fast for him and snatches it first. A pretty girl or a flattering picture, who could tell. Either way she looks quite vacant. He opens his mouth to make this observation. 

“I would like to love her,” Paul says, and the longing in his voice stops up all the nasty things Andrei wants to say in his throat. “Mother sees no reason why she would not love me back.”   

Paul is like a thirsty flower under the rain of his mother’s kindness. Andrei cannot come between them; he sees the happiness her attention gives his friend. For all the time it will last for. 

“I agree with her Majesty. I have no doubt she will love you, sire," he says at last. "She is very fine, a future Empress indeed.” 

“Perhaps do not say that in front of my mother. I believe she means to live forever,” Paul laughs, but he is pleased. 

“Prussian,” Panin ponders. “Yes, I see.” 

“Really for reasons of protection...their alliance creates a great barrier against France,” Andrei begins. 

“Of course, yes. Though I almost thought she would consider an Austrian alliance, considering…” 

Andrei and Panin slide comfortably into a discussion of the whys and wherefores of the politics of the choice, Andrei feeling his discomfiture at the news melting away under the pragmatism of Panin’s observations. Paul, chin propped on his hand, dreams into the fire.

*****

November 1772, the Winter Palace, St Petersburg

The negotiations for the impending marriage continue apace. Paul’s portrait is painted and sent off to Prussia. Letters are written, courtesies made. Paul and his mother have never been closer. 

It is a quiet afternoon and Paul and Andrei have slipped away from their duties for a while. Andrei's workload has doubled since being recommended for a future as an Ambassador, and as such has seen many more requests on his time away from the Palace and Paul. It is a good thing, he tells himself, for he and Paul can surely not remain in each other’s pockets as they are now when he is married. 

They have come to the rooms where the Empress keeps her art. Paul takes Andrei’s arm and walks him through the new part of his mother’s collection. She has just been sent fifty new paintings from King Frederick as part of the enticement to marry Paul off to his Prussian princess, and it is like walking through a jewel box. 

“So this is how much you are worth in paintings,” Andrei says. “I had no idea you were so priceless.” 

“It shows how little you know of art,” Paul teases. “What would I be worth in music?” 

“A future Tsar? Oh the whole of Mozart, and at least half of Handel,” Andrei says. But Paul is distracted. 

“Look at this,” he says, eyes shining. He shows Andrei a painting of an impossibly handsome Prussian soldier; shoulders broad and waist neat, long legs encased in leather boots, sword drawn as he gazes boldly out of the picture. 

“Is it not noble and chivalric? Our Russian uniforms are so peasant-like in comparison.” Paul traces the length of the soldier’s leg with a finger and Andrei feels a rush of heat to his face. 

“It is splendid,” Paul says, almost to himself. “I would like my soldiers to wear uniforms like this when I am Emperor. I have a mind to ask my tailor to have one made up for me, just for fun. Can you have him sent for, Andrei?” 

“Of course, I will see to it at once.” 

“You must not tell anyone. If Potemkin hears of it he will go bleating to my mother and she will not pay the tailor’s bill. He hates it when I have any opinions about the military.” 

“I am not in the habit of telling tales to Potemkin, Paul.” 

“I hate that man with all my heart and soul, Andrei,” Paul says. “But he is old, and one day he will be dead and I will be Emperor, and then I will scatter his bones to the four winds so he is never at peace.” 

“That would be revenge indeed.” 

“Are you mocking me?” says Paul, his temper rising. 

“No, sire,” says Andrei. He is always more formal when Paul is upset. “You know I would never mock you. I know your feelings about him and I understand them.” 

Paul nods, his temper retreating.  “And if you were Emperor, what would you do in my place?” he asks. 

“Oh you would not believe what I would do. I would be a monster,” says Andrei, grinning, and Paul grins back and punches him gently in the arm. 

“Andrei the Terrible,” he says. “No, I cannot imagine it. You are not fearsome enough.” 

“What?” Andrei turns and makes the same pose as the Prussian soldier in the painting, holding an imaginary sword, grimacing. “Do not be so sure,” he says and Paul laughs aloud. 

“Enough! je suis effrayé!” he says. Then sobers. 

“I am afraid sometimes I will be seen as terrible, when I rule. That my temper will undermine me.” 

“You are so much improved, Paul.” 

“Yesterday I threw a lamb chop at a portrait of my grandmother.” 

Andrei stifles a laugh; Paul seems genuinely upset. 

“I am not surprised, the chops were disgusting. I will talk to the kitchens again, they cannot keep sending up such rubbish even if it is winter.” 

“You always succeed in making me feel better Andrei,” Paul says, “You are so clear-eyed when you look at a thing, and cut to the heart of it. I wish I could do the same.” 

“Well, do not worry. You will always have me to do it for you,” Andrei says.

*****

When the tailor arrives for the appointment Andrei has arranged, he is well prepared.  Andrei greets him and takes him up to Paul’s rooms while the tailor chatters ceaselessly. 

“The Prince sent such wonderfully clear designs; it was a pleasure, an absolute pleasure. Tell me, is this to be a new uniform for our army? I do think they will look quite something.” 

“I think it is only an idea for now,” Andrei says, pushing open the inner door to Paul’s rooms and ushering the tailor through. “Your discretion will be appreciated.” The tailor nods in his fidgety, precise way. 

“Ah!” says Paul as they enter. “You are here at last.” 

“Of course, Your Majesty. I have looked at your design in great detail.  If you would be so kind as to disrobe, I will measure you. I am sure you are broader in the shoulder than last time I saw you.” 

“No,” says Paul, ignoring the compliment. “I would like to see it on a finer figure than mine. My dear friend Count Razumovsky here will oblige. Andrei is much taller than I.” 

“Paul, I cannot!” Andrei exclaims before recovering himself. “I mean, Your Majesty. Sire. I…” 

But the expectant delight on Paul’s face is too much and he finds himself agreeing. 

“Do you wish me to undress?” Andrei asks the tailor who inclines his head in assent. 

“Please, Andrei,” Paul says, biting his lip, and Andrei’s heart begins thudding. He can barely think. He turns his back to them both, hands trembling as he begins to unfasten the buttons and hooks of his court attire. Paul has seen him undressed dozens of times, he tells himself. There is no need to feel awkward about it. 

Andrei hangs his coat over a chair, smooths it, begins on the fall of his breeches. He feels as though every nerve in his body is on its very edge. Even his own cool hands touching the warm skin of his stomach make him jump; his whole body thrums with the beat of his blood. 

He lays the breeches down too, straightening a crease. Now the shirt, and it falls away button by pearly button, revealing his chest, and his nipples harden in the cool of the room. He hopes that is the worst that happens. 

“That is sufficient,” says the tailor when Andrei reaches his smallclothes. 

The room seems enormous and far too light, and Andrei feels as though he moves like a puppet to the raised platform Paul uses for dressing. He steps up. 

Paul’s eyes go wide and the tailor claps his hands together with joy. “A fine figure indeed, your Highness. You could not have chosen better. Why, the uniform will dance on him.” 

“Yes,” says Paul. “Yes.” He turns away sharply, rearranges the sketches he has made which are laid out on the table. 

The tailor steps forward and walks around Andrei, considering. Andrei jumps as he feels the cold silkiness of the tape measure across his back. “Forty inches around the chest,” the tailor says, and Paul turns back to watch. 

His eyes meet Paul’s as the tape measure is wrapped around his throat. Paul swallows. A moment and it is gone. “Sixteen inches,” declares the tailor. 

And now the waist. Andrei feels a pulse begin to beat low low down in his abdomen as the tape measure tightens against him, silk slipping across his stomach. “Thirty inches around,” says the tailor, his deft hands barely grazing Andrei’s skin. He kneels and Andrei catches Paul’s eye again. Paul blinks rapidly and turns away. 

“Legs apart sir, please,” says the tailor, and Andrei obliges. “Upon which side do you dress?” 

“Left,” says Andrei, feeling his face burn with heat. 

Paul’s shoulders are up, the back of his neck pink with not looking. 

However deft the tailor’s hands are, and how quickly he is working, Andrei starts to feel himself harden. The tailor gives him a quick look and a smile as if to say ‘this happens all the time, do not distress yourself’. But it doesn’t happen to Andrei all the time and he wants to die of shame. He squeezes his eyes closed and tries to imagine himself somewhere else. Somewhere wearing clothes, and where Paul is not watching him. 

Oh, let it subside before he notices. But when he next opens his eyes, Paul’s face is as red as Andrei’s, and Andrei knows he has seen. 

The tailor is up off his knees already and bustling over to a pile of cloth he has brought with him. 

“I took the liberty of putting these together sire, from what you requested in your letter. You described it most clearly. Here sir, just slip these on.” He hands Andrei a pair of breeches in the Prussian style; close fitting and made in rough cotton. A shirt next, stockings. A coat barely pinned together but adorned with brass buttons and braiding. The tailor tugs at him, pinning him, adjusting sleeves, bringing up hems, tightening the coat snugly at his waist. And all the while, Paul’s eyes burn through and through him, as if he was being stripped bare. 

“There,” says the tailor after some minutes of silence. “That gives you the idea. Of course the width of the chest in relation to his waist sets it all off beautifully, and if I cut the coat like so…” a rapid row of pins, “You can see the full length of leg.” He stood back, considering. “Yes, I really do think…” he tails off, waiting for Paul to speak. Paul only stares wordlessly and Andrei wonders what can be staying his tongue. Can he look so ridiculous? 

“I am very pleased, very pleased indeed,” says the tailor, walking around Andrei and twitching fussily at the coat. “I do hope you agree sire. It really looks most splendid. Now…” 

“Leave us for a moment,” says Paul with a wave of his hand, imperious suddenly. “We wish to discuss it without you present.” 

“Of course sire,” says the tailor, making a bow. He leaves the room with a backward glance at Andrei, pride on his face. 

Paul claps his hands at his servant and he too disappears to stand outside the room. He looks at Andrei now, properly, thoroughly, as though looking at something he cannot quite believe. 

“It is better than I imagined it,” he says. “It is magnificent.” 

Andrei cannot think how to respond; he does not feel magnificent. All his quick wit seems to have deserted him. 

Paul opens a box sitting on the table that Andrei had not noticed and lifts out a plumed Prussian hat. It is flamboyant and outrageous and he cannot possibly wear it. 

“No, Paul,” Andrei begins to protest. “I will look foolish.” 

“Just for a moment,” says Paul, not losing his temper at a refusal of his will for once. He crosses the room and steps up on the platform beside Andrei. He lifts the hat but it will not settle upon Andrei’s head. 

“Too small,” says Andrei, relieved. But Paul has lifted a hand and is tugging away Andrei’s wig, casting it aside on the floor. Andrei’s dark curls tumble across his forehead. Paul places the hat almost reverentially on his head. 

“Yes,” is all he says, dropping his hands to Andrei’s shoulders. And the wretched drum beat of Andrei’s body starts up again. 

Suddenly Paul is moving his hands, whispering them down the front of the coat, sending a loose button tinkling to the floor. He encircles Andrei’s waist, hands warm and strong through the thin cotton of Andrei’s shirt. He raises his eyes to Andrei’s. 

“I did not think you were as slender as I, here,” says Paul, moving his thumbs slightly to press against Andrei’s ribcage. “I thought you would be bigger.” 

Andrei cannot speak. The heat that pulses through him is gathering between his legs, and if he does not move away then Paul will feel it, he will feel him. He cannot bear for that to happen. He moves awkwardly, trying to back away and yet not, and sends the hat tumbling to the floor. 

“Perhaps it does not quite fit you,” says Paul, dropping his hands from Andrei’s waist. 

Andrei lowers his eyes to his clothing, makes a big pretence of fiddling with a pin. 

“I think...I think this sleeve has come loose,” he manages, and Paul steps back to look at him again. 

“I will bring my tailor back in before it falls to pieces entirely,” he says. “But, oh, Andrei. How fine my army will be!” 

“How fine indeed,” says Andrei faintly.

*****

A few days later while Andrei is at breakfast, Paul rushes in late, face alight. 

“It is here, it has arrived,” Paul hisses in his ear as he slides into the seat beside him, thrilling with excitement. Andrei’s heart sinks. He knows that he means the uniform. He has been having so many disturbing thoughts and dreams since the fitting that he does not think he should ever be alone with Paul again, never mind undress before him, but he cannot say so. Instead he lingers over his meal, eating more than he wants, spinning it out. 

Paul, who has gulped his breakfast down at speed, cannot bear it and nudges his elbow. 

“Finish up you glutton, for heaven’s sake, I am desperate to see it!” he says, and Andrei knows he can delay no longer. He stands, wiping his mouth with the napkin, and Paul snatches it away from him, throwing it on the table. 

“Come on,” he says, taking Andrei’s wrist and almost dragging him from the room. 

Once in the hallway he looks furtively around, then tugs Andrei into the ballroom. 

“No one will disturb us here,” he says, leading Andrei across the half-dark room, the furniture lumpen under dust sheets. The box with the uniform in it is already there, hidden under one of the sheets where Paul must have concealed it. Andrei almost laughs; he is like a cunning child. 

“Are you sure no one will come in?” Andrei says. 

“I am certain. Please, Andrei!” Paul says. He is almost dancing on the spot. Andrei shakes his head and complies, though the thought of undressing here, in this room full of gilt and mirrors is a little daunting. 

“Close your eyes then,” he says to Paul. “I will surprise you.” Paul obliges, turning to face the wall. 

Andrei feels faintly mortified as he removes his embroidered court clothes and opens the box containing the uniform. It lies there, swathed in thin layers of expensive paper. He tears the layers aside and reveals the coat; dark blue with a slash of red at the collar, brass buttons gleaming. It is so simple, yet so grand and he thinks he will feel a fool in it. Cursing inwardly that he has allowed Paul to draw him into his game of dressing-up, he begins to put it on. 

It seems to take forever, with endless buttons and hooks to fiddle with, and then he must pull on the new boots, button the leggings. Everything hugs his body tightly, it fits him so exactly he can barely take breath.  He straightens the cuffs and adjusts the necktie. His courtier’s wig seems silly suddenly and he takes that off, and then there is nothing left to do. He must look at himself and let Paul see him too. 

He braces himself to look at his reflection, expecting to see an awkward figure dressed in borrowed clothing. He had always looked boyish in his naval uniform, with the unwieldy hats and the short knee breeches, and he does not suppose he will look any different as a soldier. 

But he is wrong. A grown man looks back at him; tall and broad shouldered. He is transformed. 

He must have let out a small exclamation because Paul whirls around to look at him.  He finds himself straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin under Paul's startled gaze. 

“Is it…” Andrei begins. He stops. Paul has lifted a hand to his mouth as if preventing himself from speaking. They look at each other and Andrei’s heart begins to drum a tattoo. He wishes Paul would say something. 

“Does it look as you wished it to, sire?” he says, made formal by nervousness. 

Paul steps towards Andrei, places a hand on Andrei’s chest and looks up at him slowly. 

“Paul…” Andrei says but it comes out as no more than a whisper. 

Paul walks around Andrei once, slowly, running his hand around Andrei’s waist. Andrei’s head reels as he does so; my God, he cannot know the effect he is having. Facing him once more, Paul lifts his other hand and runs his thumb along Andrei’s collar, just grazing his throat, making him dizzy from the touch. 

“It is like the painting come to life,” Paul says at last. He moves closer, though it does not seem possible that he can, and Andrei forces himself to meet his eyes. He tries to think of something to say but his mind is blank. He wants to run and yet he wants to stay exactly where he is. 

They are mouth to mouth, breath to breath. 

“Forgive me Andrei,” Paul says. And kisses him. 

It would have felt chaste, but for the heat of it. It was barely a touch of Paul’s mouth against Andrei’s, but the fire it ignites makes both of them gasp and press closer. Paul kisses him again, harder now, his hands settling around Andrei’s waist, Andrei tangling a hand in Paul’s hair. Paul pushes himself against Andrei and Andrei gives a small gasp and lets his lips open under Paul’s. 

“Oh mon ami,” Paul says breathlessly. “This uniform.” 

“I should have joined the army. My naval attire has not this effect on anyone.” Andrei’s head reels with the soft press of Paul’s lips, the intimacy. He feels drugged with sensation. He places his hands on either side of Paul’s face and kisses him again and again. It seems like a dream that they are doing this in such a public place, but he cannot seem to stop. They kiss on and on, as though a dam has broken and all the caresses they had wished to bestow upon each other must be given now, in this moment. 

“Andrei, is this wicked?" Paul murmurs against his mouth at last. "I think it must be.”

“I do not know, sire. I know we...we cannot continue here.” 

“Yes,” Paul drops his head into the crook of Andrei’s neck for a moment. “But we will continue?” 

“Of course...I...oh Paul I very much desire to, if you wish it.” 

“Mon Dieu, I do.” 

“Then we could...perhaps to your dressing room, I…” 

The palace clocks all begin to chime the hour at that moment, drowning out anything further they might have said. It is 10 o’clock and time for Paul’s public appointments. 

“I must go. Hide this for me,” Paul says, tugging at the sleeve of the uniform. “I have appointments until late afternoon. I will ask for dinner in my rooms. Come to me there tonight, promise me.” 

Andrei feels like weeping. “I have to travel today Paul, I will be away for days.” 

“Oh! Andrei, no. Please, can’t you rearrange?” 

“I cannot think how, it is a diplomatic trip.” 

It is for my mother I suppose. How does she manage to thwart me without even trying?” 

“It is bad luck indeed,” Andrei says, his words much milder than his expression betrays. 

“It feels as though it will kill me,” Paul says passionately. “I will write to you every day you are gone until you return. I do not know how else I will occupy myself.” 

“Nor I,” says Andrei, catching at Paul’s hands. “I can hardly believe...this.” 

“But my God I have wanted it. I do not know how long,” Paul says, and Andrei feels a heady rush of delight. 

Paul pulls Andrei towards him once more. “Here. One more time before I go.” 

Andrei lets all restraint go as he kisses him goodbye, feels Paul melt against him. Oh the exquisite frustration of it. They break apart again breathing hard and Paul does go this time, shoving him gently away, fleeing across the ballroom floor to reach the State room before someone notices his absence. 

Andrei slumps back against the table and rubs a hand across his face. He feels half euphoric, half afraid. What have they begun, he wonders. And how on earth will it end.

*****

Letters, November 1772

“...I have a headful of ideas that it would be sweet to confide in you.” 

* 

“Farewell, I embrace you. Write me a note if you can, it will delight me…” 

* 

“Je vous aime bien et que je voudrais vous parler. Portez-vous bien et soyez gai. Adieu, je vous embrasse.” 

* 

“Farewell, my dear friend, I love you with all my heart.” 

* 

“Wear you well, my friend and come back as soon as you can. My heart needs to unburden.” 

* 

“I make a thousand wishes for you and I. Your faithful and sincere friend, P”

*****

Paul was true to his word and writes to Andrei every single day of their separation; such dear, affectionate letters. Though Paul words them carefully, Andrei finds them so intimate that he hides them in the lining of his violin case. He reads them often on the journey, biting his lips to hide his smiles. 

He is back in St Petersburg at last and it has never looked so beautiful, deep in snow as the winter bites. It is night by the time he arrives back at the Palace, and he is weary and crumpled from the journey, but there is a concert about to start in honour of the Empress’s favourite, Count Orlov, and Andrei must be seen to attend. 

He tidies himself as best he can and enters the Palace’s concert hall. Tired as he is, knowing that Paul is here somewhere sustains him.  He cannot see Paul through the press of people, though he knows he must be here. How frustrating to be so close but yet unable to find him. 

The crowd parts a little and Andrei sees him at last, deep in conversation with his friend Saldern. Andrei’s heart leaps. Oh let him look up. 

Paul does, and Andrei catches his eye. He breaks into a smile, but Paul is holding up a hand, his expression saying ‘not now, not now’ while not breaking his conversation for a moment. Then he turns deliberately away, and Andrei feels cold all over with the sliding suspicion that Paul had made himself hard to find on purpose. 

He backs away quickly, disappearing into the crowd, thoughts racing. Perhaps Paul’s letters had not been carefully worded; perhaps he had wanted them to convey friendship alone. Perhaps he is frightened at what they have done. His heart thuds. Oh God, what has he been thinking? How could he have misjudged it so wildly? Andrei leans against a pillar, dark panic taking over him. No, it will be fine, he tells himself. It can all be forgotten. He can be happy as no more than a friend; he can be happy just serving Paul as a Courtier. 

Just let him not be banished, posted elsewhere, sent out into the cold. Not that. 

He must compose himself, he thinks. Just as he is always telling Paul to do. 

“My friend.” A voice just behind him. “Oh, Andrei, you have returned!” 

Andrei turns to see him. “I have Your Majesty,” he says, and bows. 

“‘Your Majesty’?” Paul repeats. “Andrei...What is wrong?” 

“Nothing is wrong. It is the correct way to…” 

Andrei trails off. Takes a breath and starts again.

"It is the correct way to address you. I cannot insist that the Court treat you with respect when I am so casual with you myself. I should set an example." Even to his own ears, his words are stiff and pompous, but he cannot take them back now.

"How can you..." Paul stops, puts a hand against his mouth. "You are my friend. You know that I asked you especially to call me Paul."

Andrei opens his mouth to reply but Paul has already turned from him. The music has struck up for the performance and suddenly there is a footman there, ushering Paul to his seat, and Andrei for once must scramble for a seat in the back with the other courtiers. His head is spinning. He wants to run, to be alone for just a moment to compose himself, to compose his thoughts. But the concert must be endured.

It is just the sort of entertainment that Andrei finds a terrible bore, even when he is not entirely distracted. Tumblers and jugglers and mimes and no decent music to speak of at all. Why tonight of all nights? Andrei’s usual sunny temperament has all but deserted him. He fidgets in his seat, forgetting to laugh when he should, drumming fingers on his knee. He can hardly restrain himself from running to Paul, dragging him outside so he can explain himself. Why he was so stuck up and strange with him. Oh, will this never end?

At last there is a break in the play and the idiotic performers tumble off-stage. Andrei covers his face with his hands briefly. He must make amends somehow. He must make Paul...the Prince...see that their friendship can be as it was, that he expects nothing, that what happened was a moment of madness and nothing he will try to repeat. My God, all this is making him unwell. He must get his feelings under his control somehow. He stands to claim a drink from a passing footman; God knows he would like to drown in wine tonight. He drains the glass back immediately and wipes his mouth.

He feels a hand on his arm.

"I did not know you thought so little of our friendship," a voice says in his ear. "And yet here you are, drinking wine as though nothing is wrong."

Andrei turns to see Paul there and loses all resolve to behave with calm and reason at the sight of him.

He shakes his head. "I am drinking wine because everything is wrong," he says.

“You regret it,” Paul says, lowering his voice. “I feared this.” The hurt on his face is like an open wound.

 “No!" Andrei whispers urgently. "I do not regret a thing. The very opposite. But just now...you waved me away. I thought perhaps you did not want me to…” he looks at his hands. “I have been too familiar perhaps.” 

“Just now? But it was only Saldern. I did not want to speak to you for the first time with him there. He would have dragged you into some dreadful long conversation and I want you to myself. Andrei,” Paul says, catching at one of his hands. “You did not think…” 

“I...didn’t know,” Andrei says, hope leaping inside him. Paul takes the hand between both of his. 

“How could you ever be too familiar with me? You who knows my every thought? Why, you are almost a part of me.” 

“Paul,” says Andrei, his voice uneven. “Oh, thank God.” And Paul crushes his hand tightly. 

“Damn this concert for that blasted man. I wish we could…” Paul begins, but the concert is beginning again and they are being ushered to their seats. 

“Sit with me, for God’s sake,” Paul whispers, as he follows a footman to his chair and the dreaded play begins again. And goes on, and on and on.

Paul leans over to him during a particularly noisy round of applause. “I cannot stop thinking of you,” he says in Andrei’s ear. 

“And I of you,” Andrei murmurs back, turning his face slightly so his mouth brushes Paul’s cheek, and watches Paul’s eyes go dark. 

“This is a torment,” he says. “It will go on another hour at least.” 

Andrei shakes his head. It feels as though they are being punished. He shifts in his seat and his leg nudges against Paul's, who shoots him a look. He clenches his fists by his sides. He has stood endless night-watches aboard ship with more patience.

A singer comes on then and begins a comic song which he knows from experience has around forty verses. No - enough. If they upset the Empress and Orlov then so be it, he will take the blame. He leans over to Count Panin.

"Sir, I am afraid I must escort His Majesty to his chamber. He is suffering a bout of faintness and it would not do for the Court to see him unwell."

Panin's eyes widen. "By all means, Andrei. I will call in to see him when this ends."

"No need sir, I will take care of everything. If I do not send for you then you can rest easy that he has recovered." Panin subsides and nods him away.

Andrei takes Paul’s arm and leads him from the room. 

“I am shocked at your lies Andrei,” says Paul once they are outside. 

“But Paul you do not look at all well,” Andrei says innocently. “Your face is flushed, and…” he places a hand against Paul’s cheek, “You are terribly warm.” 

Paul closes his eyes at the touch. “You do not know how I have missed you,” he says. He looks around him, then reaches up and presses his lips to Andrei’s. Andrei’s whole body sings. 

“Paul,” he manages. “We shouldn’t. Not here...” 

Paul steps back from him, beckoning him, and they almost run along the candlelit corridor to his rooms. They are like the children they once were, hiding from the Empress, ducking into the rabbit warren of the Palace, laughing. 

They reach Paul’s bedchamber and Paul shuts the door, leaning against it. They are both out of breath. 

“I’m too hot,” says Paul, pulling off his coat and wig. “They always bank the fire so high in here.” 

Andrei follows suit, though it is not the fire which heats him. He runs his hands through his hair till his curls stand on end. 

“I have so much I wish to talk to you about,” Paul says crossing the room to Andrei, taking his hand. 

“I am all ears,” says Andrei, though he wonders how much earnest discussion he is capable of taking in. Paul smiles his secret smile at him then; half shy, half mischievous. 

“Not everything I have to say is in words,” he says, and pulls Andrei down to sit on the bed with him. They stare at each other. 

“I almost do not know how to begin,” Paul says. And Andrei, who cannot resist helping Paul in all he tries to do, shows him. He leans forward and kisses him, first on the forehead, then the cheek, and then at last, on his parted lips. 

Paul sighs and wraps himself around Andrei. They kiss slowly, intensely, mouths opening, exploring, Andrei sliding fingers into Paul’s golden hair. Paul lets out small gasps as he kisses him, and Andrei can feel his hardness against him, oh god, so tempting, so delicious. He has never wanted anything more. But he cannot touch him, it is not his place to. 

Andrei is not an innocent of course - years at boarding school and in the Navy certainly disabuses you of that - but this is Paul. His future ruler. He cannot push him, he cannot take the lead. He must wait for Paul to be ready to explore, to finally slip a hand inside his shirt, or unfasten a button or run a finger over naked skin. The trembling frustration he feels is part of the delight of kissing him. But oh he would like more, just a little more. He forgets himself for a moment and arches against Paul. 

“You like that, you like my leg there,” says Paul breathlessly. 

“I like everything you are doing,” says Andrei and Paul pushes him back against the piled pillows, leaning his full weight against him, his breathing going uneven as Andrei presses up against him.  His eyes are impossibly dark and Andrei bites down on a groan of pure abandonment.

“Hold me close, hold me close to you,” Paul gasps and Andrei does, arching against him again. Paul rocks against him as they kiss deeper still and oh god, the heat of him, the weight of him, his mouth, his warm red mouth, Andrei cannot…

Paul tenses and cries out, his head buried in the crook of Andrei’s neck. It is too much for Andrei, the feel of Paul shuddering against him. Any restraint he had been able to hold onto melts away at the very thought of what he has made his Prince do, and he...he...oh how good it feels. 

They lie as they are, entangled, Paul breathing softly into Andrei’s neck, until Paul sighs and rolls away. Andrei props himself up on one elbow and looks down at him. 

“That is what you had to say?” 

“That was it,” Paul says, lifting a hand to stroke Andrei’s face. Andrei takes his hand and kisses the fingertips. Paul looks up at him.

“I hated you being away. I thought you might change your mind, about...this. You frightened me when you were so strange earlier.” 

Andrei shakes his head. “Never. It was all I could think of. I hope you do not mind about the lie I told to get us away, I know you hate untruths.” 

“What is one small untruth to get out of spending an evening with Orlov? He lives the greatest lie of all; that he did not murder my father. In the face of that, what you said was nothing.” 

Andrei only pushes the hair back from Paul’s face and says nothing. He does not want Paul to think of this just now. 

“You won’t leave me again,” Paul says. 

“Well, I have diplomatic duties now - I cannot always be with you. And you will be married soon.” 

“I meant in your heart. Your heart cannot leave me.” 

“No. It will not.” Andrei is utterly certain. “My heart will always be yours. Even if you work yourself into a rage and tell me to march myself to Siberia.” 

“I will try not to do that,” Paul says quite sincerely and Andrei smiles. “I believe we will be together in everything we do, whether public or…” Paul leans his head against Andrei’s shoulder. “Or private.” 

“Yes. For as long as you want me.” 

Paul frowns slightly. “Don’t say that. I will always want you.” Andrei smooths the frown away with a caress. 

“Would you like me to arrange some supper? You have not eaten,” he says. 

“And neither have you, I am sure,” Paul sighs and stretches. “No. I have no appetite. And I do not want you to disappear again.” 

“I did not want to disappear in the first place,” says Andrei. “But I did my duty. And now this is my reward.” In answer, Paul pulls him close again.   

“It is strange how being with you does not feel wicked at all,” he says afterwards. “It is not like when I lose my temper or think hateful thoughts about my mother - then I know it is wrong, because it feels wrong afterwards. But everything about you is dear and noble and true and kissing you can never feel wrong.” 

“I am glad,” says Andrei, kissing the hollow of Paul’s throat. “For I do not wish to stop, even if God himself told me not to.” 

Paul shakes his head at him, smiling, then grows serious. 

“When I am Emperor, I will keep you here with me. I will give you...” Paul begins. 

“No,” Andrei says. “Do not give me things. Do not make me a favourite like Orlov or Potemkin. You are not your mother. I am happy to be your friend and adviser, I do not want a thousand serfs and a silly title in exchange for...this.” 

They lose the thread of their conversation amid kisses and sighs and touches. 

“No, I will not be like her,” Paul says after a while. “In anything.” 

The clock above Paul’s mantel strikes twelve and Andrei sits up to leave. 

“Are you leaving me at midnight, like some creature in a German fairy tale?” Paul asks. 

“Did you not know I turn into a frog after midnight?” 

“You will not look so very different then,” says Paul and Andrei chuckles. 

“Stay,” Paul says. “No one will care. And if they ask you can say you were tending to me while I was unwell. It is true; feel how hot I am.” 

Andrei gives in then. He cannot resist Paul when he is in a mischievous mood. 

“So you are,” he says, leaning over him and pressing a hand to his head. “How distressing. I must think how I can cure you.” 

Paul smiles and blows out the candles.

*****

Though that December was as dark and cold as any other, Andrei can only recall it as a golden time. It feels as though he and Paul can conquer the world together. There must have been days of boredom, of snowstorms, of Paul’s bad temper, of illness or worry, but Andrei cannot remember them at all. 

What he does remember is sitting at Paul’s desk for hour after hour, the two of them thrashing out foreign policy with Panin. Teaching Paul to play a song on his father’s violin. Snatching secret kisses in hidden corners of the Palace, hot and urgent or slow and sweet. A sleigh ride across St Petersburg through glittering powdered snow. The night Paul decided he would like to get very drunk on vodka to see if he liked it, and they had ended by rolling on his hearthrug, crying with laughter until Paul had been very sick indeed. Andrei had mopped him up and helped him to bed before passing out himself, and waking up with Paul's arm around him.

Paul spends hours working on a set of essays on military policy which he plans to publish. The thought of this twists Andrei with anxiety, but Paul is convinced that his mother will support him in the endeavour.  She has been so attentive and kind of late. And so Andrei bends his head over the papers, editing, refining. If Paul wants to do this then so he should. And really, why should he not? He is the Crown Prince, the Tsarevich. It is to be expected that he would have thoughts on the military. And to see him so engaged, a tiny frown dipping between his eyes and a look of deep concentration on his face, is delightful to Andrei.

As are so many things about him, Andrei admits. Though he cannot and will not admit it, he has lost his heart entirely to his Prince. Paul only sees what they do in private as an extension to their friendship, an expression of feeling which spills over into touches and embraces. And that is enough for Andrei.  His devotion is his secret, and one he will always keep. 

*****

The Imperial Russian Court is no respecter of happiness however.

Paul has published his essay and his mother has requested that he come to her that afternoon and discuss it. Paul is thrilled that she is taking his thoughts seriously at last. Andrei feels some foreboding about all this, but Paul is so happy, clasping Andrei about the waist, chattering nineteen to the dozen about all the ideas he wishes to put before her, all the while kissing him all along his jaw and throat until he is dizzy and cannot think about anything much at all.

All that changes as soon as they are shown into the Empress's grandest state room and find themselves under the scrutiny of the Empress and her entire council.

"How dare you write this," The Empress says, flinging the printed essay at Paul's feet. "It is part of a conspiracy against me, I knew I could not trust you."

Andrei feels utterly wrong-footed.  They are being ambushed.

But Paul is standing his ground.

"I do nothing of the sort mother, I only meant to..."

"You will address me properly in this room," she storms.

"Your Imperial Majesty," Paul says, and Andrei hears the edge in his voice.

"This is not a conspiracy? You are entirely against my campaign in Turkey, my expansion into Persia; from anyone else this would be treason. Tell me how it is not?"

"Of course it is not. But I disagree that..."

“The people support these wars," Count Orlov interrupts. "The Russian people want Russia to be great. How can we do that if we do not conquer new land?"

“I do not recall asking for your opinion, Orlov,” Paul snaps, getting closer and closer to losing his temper. 

“Nor I yours," Orlov retorts, but the Empress holds up a hand to him and he stops.

Paul does not.

“The Russian people want their fathers and brothers and sons not to die for a pointless cause. I do not understand what you think we gain from this. Have you not enough territory? You have seen not even an eighth of what you rule over now! Why do you want more? The foreign policy my father drew up…"

"Your father knew almost nothing about..." Potemkin begins.

"Let me finish, sir," says Paul.

With a huge effort he contains his anger and turns back to his mother. "You may keep me away from court, forgotten and disregarded, but the Russian people remember me. And they would expect me as a future Tsar to have an opinion on this. I thought you would have the decency to take me seriously for once. I thought you were arranging my marriage because you understood that I am a grown man at last, with my own opinions. I come of age in a few months. One day I will rule and..."

"Oh, one day you will rule? So sure of yourself. I believe I have still not quite decided that," the Empress says.

Paul looks as though he has been slapped. 

"I don't understand you. Why must you reduce everything to the succession? Why cannot we discuss...why must we talk of this in front of, of these people." Paul cannot keep the hurt from his voice. It is almost unbearable to Andrei. The Empress merely looks at him with distaste. Paul tries again.

"If you would only read it, properly. It is not so very different to the opinion my father had about it. You must have supported his policy, the peace he brokered with the Prussians."

"As if that idiot," she spits with contempt, "would have known anything about how to run a war campaign."

"He did not rule long enough to have the chance," Paul retorts, and Andrei freezes with horror.

“With all due respect, sire,” Nikolai Panin, his tutor’s nephew, begins, “Your father…” 

“My father has never been afforded the respect due to him,” Paul says, his words falling like ice into a glass. “Not by anyone in this room.” 

There is a silence; a terrible one. Andrei clenches his fists at his sides. Paul has never been so close to publicly accusing his mother. Please, please let him keep his temper. 

“I think that is quite enough, Paul,” the Empress says at last, her face patched red with fury. 

“Whereas I don’t think it is nearly enough,” Paul says. They look at each other for a long moment. Then Paul turns on his heel and strides from the room.   

Andrei makes to follow him, but the Empress stops him. 

“You still devote yourself to him, I see,” she says. “You are determined, that is clear.” 

“I am his friend, Your Majesty.” 

“Friend?” she smiles, slowly, like oil spreading. “You have more hold over him than a friend. I have tried to warn him of you, but he will not hear it. You are his obsession.” 

Andrei’s heart begins to thud. Have they somehow been discovered? Could a servant have been whispering? But no, no. It cannot be. The Empress would not trouble to warn him if they had been found out, he would just have been removed from court. She does not know; though she perhaps suspects. 

"I know it is you putting this nonsense into his head about his father," the Empress says. "You wish to set him against me. He would never have dared publish this, a year ago. But you are behind him, pushing him. Conspiring."

“No, Your Majesty, I am not, and I have no intention of any such thing.” 

“A boy who looks like you should not worry his head about politics so much,” she says, changing tack. “Why do you not pester my maids of honour instead? They would welcome it. You are such a charming flirt.” 

She has raised her voice so the whole room can hear. Andrei’s eyes sting with shame. Why must she make him out to be a rake? To humiliate him, he supposes. 

“The little Countess was telling me such a funny story about you professing your love to her at the ball. She almost half believed you.”  The room laughs and chatters. 

It is not at all true, but Andrei cannot think how to say so. It seems dishonourable to the Countess to deny it. He hopes that no one speaks to Paul of it, although most know that Paul dislikes such gossip. 

“I hope that the Countess does not think I behaved improperly towards her, for it certainly was not my intention.”   

The Empress, bored of her sport, lifts a hand and waves him away. “Go, then. Run to my son. The tail that wags the dog,” she says, and Andrei bows and hurries from the room, trying to ignore the laughter that follows him.

Andrei does run to him. He finds him on the floor by the fire in his bedchamber, behind the screen, just as they used to sit as boys. His face when he looks up at Andrei shatters his heart into a thousand pieces.

"Why must she despise me so, in front of other people?" he says. "I cannot understand it. I have never done anything..." he cannot finish. Andrei drops to his knees beside him and wraps his arms around him. As much has he has always tried not to say anything against the Empress - for Paul can hate her one day, then love her with all his heart the next - he cannot hold his tongue just now.

"She is cruel and you do not deserve it. And the way she talks of your father is not right. I'm sorry."

 "If he were here..."

If Paul's father were here. This is the hole at the centre of Paul, this is the thing that Andrei cannot fix. This is the source of Paul's tempers, the cause of all his fears, the need that his mother preys upon. Andrei would pour his whole heart into him if he could, if it would make a difference. But it would not. Instead, he holds him tightly.

"My father says you are very like him," Andrei says eventually and Paul raises his head to look at him. 

"Politics did not come naturally to your father. He was too honest, he could not dissemble and manipulate. But Paul," Andrei takes hold of his shoulders and looks him in the eye. "He had great ideas for reform and there is no reason why you cannot see some of those reforms come to be."

Paul does not say anything, but some light has come back into his eyes.

"You can honour him, sire. As soon as you have the opportunity, you can put things right."

*****

Of course the argument is gossiped about in Court until none of the facts remain. 

“Is it true you are in love with the Countess?” one courtier asks Andrei, “That you begged her even despite her husband?” 

“Did Paul truly draw his sword upon Orlov and threaten to avenge his father?” asks another. 

Andrei despairs of it all. He cannot think what to smooth over first. The rumours about himself can wait, he thinks. First the Empress and Paul must reconcile in some way. 

But the Empress works faster than Andrei anticipates. Within a week she sends a note, all apologies to Paul, inviting him to meet with her. They ride out in her gilded sleigh together for hours, talking, even in the freezing winter weather. 

Andrei cannot think what they can be discussing so long. He worries, he paces. He walks the same circuit of his rooms over and over. At last he hears sleighs drawing up and goes to the top of the staircase to see Paul arrive. 

“My wife is to come in the spring!” Paul calls up to him before even a greeting, pulling off his gloves and hat and giving them to a servant, but too impatient to take off his fur coat. “Mother has confirmed it. We won't marry until my name-day, but she will be here, at court.” 

His face is pink from cold, his eyes bright, bursting with the news. His mother has worked her charm on him again.

“I will come down,” Andrei calls. He bounds down the stairs two at a time, and Paul grasps his arm and rushes him down a hallway. 

“Yes, May, they think. Or June. And you are to go to fetch her,” Paul tells him. “Mother has said so.” 

“She wishes...me?” Andrei says in confusion. 

“Yes, you. You are to command one of the ships that will bring the Princess’s party here. It will take a number of weeks I’m afraid, but it is an honour that my mother is entrusting to you. You will get to know the Princess very well on the sea voyage, I imagine. I hope, very much, that you like her.” 

Oh, Andrei realises. This is how it will end. This is how she will part us.  

Andrei sees it all now, how the Empress has boxed him in. He will accompany Paul’s wife to be; they will spend many weeks together, and this is how rumours begin. He has already been given the reputation of womaniser and a rake - my God if only he had realised, he would have crushed the gossiping as quickly as it had begun. It had not seemed important. But now if the Empress chooses to, she can drip the poison of doubt in Paul’s ear at any time she feels the need. 

And yet he cannot refuse this assignation. It is his duty. 

There is nothing to be done, he realises. He cannot speak against the Empress; he has no proof of what she plans, and she and Paul are so close just now he will think Andrei is being disloyal. He cannot shun the company of the Princess or make her dislike him - that would merely make a different wedge between Paul and himself. 

He looks at Paul’s eager face watching him, and tries to imagine being banished from court by him in a terrible argument, knowing the horror and upset that would claim him after such a scene without Andrei there to comfort him. Or perhaps it would come in a letter. Or perhaps he would never be told, just barred from his friend’s presence entirely one day, with no warning. 

It would feel like going blind. 

Mon fidele ami, Paul calls him. How cruel that she would choose to do it this way, to make her son lose the only bit of trust he has. It will break Paul’s heart. 

For now he kisses Paul’s mouth, sweet from cold. “I cannot set off for her until the ice thaws in spring. So we have a little longer before I bring you your wife,” Andrei says. 

Paul reddens but smiles, breathing a warm sigh against his mouth, his breath clouding out in the icy air of the unheated hallway. 

“You will tell her good things of me?” he says and Andrei’s heart breaks a little more. 

“Of course I will Paul. I have only good things to tell.” 

“But, my temper...and I am not tall or handsome…” 

“Tall? You are the Prince, sire,” Andrei says. “You will rule all of Russia. If that is not stature enough for her then I do not know what is.” Seeing Paul’s expression, he relents, taking his hands. 

“I will tell her of your kindness. Of your concerns for the wellbeing of your people.  How well you treat your friends. How you have been so good to me. How you have indulged me in my passions...I mean in music,” he adds with a mischievous smile and Paul shakes his head at him, laughing. 

“I will tell her all those things, and more. But some things,” Andrei says, sliding his hands under Paul’s furs and around his waist, enjoying the way his breath catches as he does so, “Some things she will have to find out for herself. Like how it feels to do...this,” he brushes his lips over Paul’s mouth, gently at first then more insistently. 

“Or the sigh you give when you are kissed here,” he presses a kiss just below Paul’s jaw, and Paul does indeed sigh. 

“Or the way this feels.” And they do not speak for a long, long moment as he holds Paul close. 

“Some things are not to be told, but to be discovered,” he murmurs as at last they release each other. 

“Oh,” Paul sighs, resting his head against Andrei’s chest. “I must go. Did you get my note? I have arranged for us to have supper together in my rooms this evening.” 

“I did. And you ended it ‘Je vous embrasse,’ and I intend that you will, many times." 

"Is that so?" Paul laughs.

"A ruler should always keep his promises to his subjects,” Andrei teases.

Just as he will keep his promises to Paul. That he has his heart, and that he will be with him as long as Paul will let him.