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Aleksandr turns on the television, and it shows riots in Russia. Men who are angry at the elimination of their freedom are now destroying things. Shops with the double-headed eagle of the Russian Tsardom stickers in the windows. People with the United Russia bear symbol on their cars are having their windshields smashed in.

Tensions are running high all around.

We’re still arguing over what to do when Aleksandr’s butler knocks and pokes his head in the room. “A message has come for you by personal courier.” He steps all the way into the room, holding a silver tray. There’s a card resting on top of it. Nothing delivered like that is going to be good, no matter what kind of tray it’s sitting on.

Alexei takes it, lifting the heavy cream envelope slowly. He slides his finger under the flap, waiting for Aleksandr’s butler to leave.

Then he pulls the card out and reads it out loud. “It’s addressed to Alexei Romanov, pretender to the throne of Russia.” Alexei grimaces.

His Majesty, Leonid Ivanovich, hereby requests your presence at a dinner at his personal residence in Moscow. Transportation will be provided.

The details follow, but he wants us to come to his house.

“And at the bottom, he’s hand written something.” Alexei lifts the card so we can all see.

Please do bring your delightful fiancée. My belated congratulations on your upcoming marriage. Tell her I’ll be sure to prepare the finest charcuterie plate.

Charcuterie? I think back on the plastic boxes of crackers and cheese that Boris threw into my cell every day. I might try to wring his neck if I see him again.

“No way,” I say. “We cannot go.”

“I think we should,” Aleksandr says. “We were hoping he’d come to the race.”

I shake my head. “But he didn’t. The one time we wanted him, he didn’t show, and now that he wants us there?” I shudder. “Bad idea.”

“I think we all go,” Aleksandr continues.

“The invitation’s only for Alexei,” I say. “Well, and me too, I guess, but it’s not like I can do much to help.”

“He may not be angry anymore,” Grigoriy says. “I mean, I’m still upset, but maybe he’s not. He did win.”

“I’d think that you, above all others, would want to go,” Mirdza says, her voice characteristically soft. It irritatingly grabs my attention, like she knew it would.

“What does that mean?”

“The palomino mare who won that race—she’s probably being held captive by Leonid.” Mirdza folds her arms. “We could use this chance to check on her.”

“It’s more likely that she’s helping them,” I mutter. “She did her best to win that race.”

“Even if she is, she may not know everything that’s going on,” Mirdza says. “There’s more than one way to be trapped.” No one knows that better that Mirdza and I. Our own mother was held captive without bars or locks for years.

“You think they’ll just let all six of us waltz in to look around?” I frown.

“Nope,” Mirdza says. “But I think people like Leonid rarely even notice the servants.”

Now Aleksandr’s frowning too. “What are you even suggesting?”

“Just a little misdirection. It’s been used the world over for lots of things, from illusionists to spies.”

Neither of which my sister is. “This is crazy.”

“Hear me out,” Mirdza says. “When they go for dinner, I can go too as the maid or the helper. Whatever.”

“They’ve seen you,” I say. “It won’t work.”

“I could dye my hair,” she says.

“I like it how it is,” Grigoriy says.