course Leonid wouldnât have known to call it a drawing room then. Across the room, a young girl in a sleek black dress and a frilly apron looked up and smiled.
âIs that . . . is that one of the grand duchesses?â young Leonid whispered to his uncle.
Ivan seemed to be doing his best to hide a smile.
âNo, just one of the maids,â he whispered back. âSee her feather duster?â
Leonid had not. Not exactly. As much as heâd noticed the feathery thing in Clothildeâs hand, heâd thought it was yet another adornment, an oversize bracelet perhapsâsome luxurious fashion that had not yet reached his village.
And, indeed, no one used feather dusters there.
âEven maids at the palace are that beautiful?â young Leonid asked, his eyes widening with amazement.
Ivan laughed.
âThis one is,â he said.
Clothilde was beautiful; it wasnât just Leonidâs memory playing tricks on him. Against her crisp black dress, her long, dark hair glistened in the sunlight coming through the perfectly polished window. Her green eyes were warm with laughter, because of course sheâd heard Ivan and Leonidâs whispers. Her smile was more for Ivan than for LeonidâLeonid hadnât seen that then, but he did now. It didnât matter. Her eyes stayed kind when they alighted on Leonid in all his gawky, gaping awkwardness.
She walked toward Ivan and Leonid, and gave an exaggerated curtsy. Then she reached over and boldly brushed the hair from Leonidâs forehead.
âFresh from the countryside, I see,â she said. âIâm Clothilde. Pleased to meet you.â
âFresh from France?â Ivan ventured to guess.
Clothilde laughed, in a way Leonid hadnât understood back then. There was an edge to it.
âThat is what the tsarinaâand Iâwould like everyone to believe,â she said.
Leonid would learn later that Clothilde had once been an ordinary Russian Masha, but it was more convenient to take on a French name and accent. French maids made more money; they were less likely to be fired, no matter how bad they were at dusting or pouring tea.
Back then, fresh from the countryside, Leonid could never have imagined trying to be anyone but himself. He never would have imagined that he could be anyone but himself: an ordinary peasant boy.
Leonid got lost in his thoughtsâhe missed whatever Ivan said back to Clothilde. Heâd probably missed half the conversation the first time around too.
But he still remembered what Clothilde had said to him next.
On the wall, she was turning toward the impossibly young, naïve peasant Leonid. She was about to speak. . . .
âBe careful here, little country boy,â she said. âDonât go falling for every pretty girl you see. I saw you first.â
Leonid could remember how that had made him feel when he first heard those words. He felt claimed . He felt like Clothilde was really saying, Iâve fallen in love with you just as much as youâve fallen in love with me. This is my promise: Weâll be together forever. We were fated for this moment. We were fated to be as one.
Now Leonid saw how completely Clothilde had been teasing him. It had been cruel, really, to flirt so outrageously with such an innocent.
But what if we were fated? Leonid wondered. What if Clothilde somehow sensed it, even then?
Could they still be fated now? Could they have been meant to share something that transcended even Leonid being yanked out of time?
âStop,â Leonid told the wall, because he remembered that heâd stumbled over his own feet walking away from Clothilde that first day, and he didnât need to watch that. Also, he needed to do something before he lost his nerve. âShow me where Clothilde is right now.â
âThere isnât any such thing as ânowâ in a time hollow,â the wall whispered back to him.
âI mean in 1918,â Leonid