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“It’s fine,” I say. “I wasn’t trying to make you cry or whatever. It’s just that those things I saw with my own eyes, but I struggle to believe that he’s Alexei Romanov, the murdered child of Russia’s last Czar.”

“Why is it harder to believe that than it is to believe that I’m a horse-shifting mage?” Alexei’s right eyebrow’s raised, but he’s keeping his hands and arms to himself, so that’s progress.

“Who took you after the show?” Aleksandr asks from the front seat. “I’m less worried about whether you believe us, and more concerned about the reason—”

“Wait.” I say. “Do you all believe that he’s a displaced czar who should be ruling Russia?”

Kristiana turns to face straight ahead.

Mirdza won’t meet my eye.

“You really all believe him?”

Only Alexei will look at me. He’s still staring calmly, his gorgeous, intelligent blue eyes steady, and his enormous, well-muscled yet lean frame casually upright next to me. He isn’t desperate or angry or frantic. He looks. . .assured.

“They believe me because it’s true.”

“Even if it is true, why does none of this surprise them?” Especially Mirdza and Kris.

“They were stuck in their horse form, frozen in time, just like me, and they’re from the same time period.”

“You’re saying both of them—” I point at Grigoriy and Aleks. “Are also super old dudes who should have died. . .” I trail off then, because something very strange occurs to me. “Wait.” I stare at the back of Grigoriy’s head. “Charlemagne?”

Mirdza turns back to face me, her nose scrunched. “I wondered when you’d put that together. I wasn’t afraid to ride him, because he knew to be careful with my leg.”

“The horse you rode—you knew all along that he was really a person pretending to be a horse?”

“He wasn’t pretending. They really do become horses.” She shrugs. “There’s also always a risk of injury, but yes. Grigoriy’s Charlemagne.”

Grigoriy looks supremely annoyed. “I am not Charlemagne. I’m the same person whether I’m a horse or a man. You made up that name, and you persist in calling me—”

Mirdza pats his arm. “Yes, yes, I know. But still.”

I whip my head sideways. “Are you going to insist that you’re not Quicksilver?”

Alexei shrugs. “You didn’t even make up the name, but if you want to use it while I’m in my horse form.” His lips twist and his eyes sparkle. “If it helps you accept it, I’m not opposed.”

For some reason, his mischievous, flirty words remind me—again— that last night, I was scratching him. All over. “I can’t believe that last night, I scratched. . .”

Mirdza’s suppressing her laughter, but Grigoriy, Aleks, and Kris don’t even bother.

“I kept trying to tell you I wasn’t a horse, but you persisted in believing it,” Alexei says. “It’s not my fault. And, it felt really nice. I was a horse at the time.”

I’m going to kill him.

Aleksandr pulls onto the M-11 and I realize we’re all going the wrong way. “Hey, shouldn’t we be headed for the E-95?”

Aleks eyes me in the rearview mirror. “You don’t have identification, right?”

I blink.

“It’s going to take me a little time to pull all of that together, and it’ll be way easier to do it from home.”

Home? I forgot he was Russian. Or, to be more precise, I knew he was Russian, but I didn’t really think about the fact that he had a home in Russia. “Where are we going, exactly?” It feels like everyone already knows everything, other than me.

“Novgorod,” Aleksandr says.

“Still?” Alexei smiles. “That’s good to hear. Plus, it’s not too far away.”