The Lantern by the Drugstore

Title: 1001 Nights: Tales of Napoleonic Wars. The Tale of Ghosts.
Rating: PG
Characters: Duke of Wellington, Grand Duchess Maria
Warnings: pure fantasy based on several real facts. ^_^;;

Russia, March, 1826.


 He thought that in more than fifty years of his life he’d lost the ability to be truly surprised by anything.  When he saw the Russian capital he realised that it was not so. Like a dream, a mirage it rose out of the fog and snow to greet him, its beauty both harsh and gentle: the magnificent Imperial Palace that seemed transported here from the southern gardens of France or Italy, towering over the wide expanse of cold, grey river, which even bound by granite seemed angry and swollen and ready and wanting to destroy what lay in its path. Several times, in privacy of his sumptuous rooms he caught himself staring thoughtlessly out of the window at the blocks of broken, melting ice speeding with the current. 

 He got up early, too early, again and though he knew the Palace was already awake, its vastness negated whatever life might be brewing in the servant’s or court’s quarters. He wrapped himself in a cloak and stood, again, looking out onto the river, where only ice could be made out, for the morning had barely turned grey at the edges.
 He stood like that until he felt a tugging on his sleeve. Maybe he would have been surprised at the little Princess, or Grand Duchess as was proper to call her, being here in his quarters unsupervised but at that particular moment it only seemed natural. He looked at the dark-haired child, feeling an unbidden smile touching his lips.

‘Good morning, Your Majesty.’
‘Good morning, Your Grace,’ like her family, the child spoke impeccable French and had been taught almost impeccable manners. Almost because the Imperial family doted on their children and the Dowager Empress spoiled them rotten. ‘Why don’t you look like your portrait?’ Arthur almost winced remembering the somewhat unfortunate work of Dawe.
‘Well, Your Majesty, it shows me during the war, when I was younger. When people get older they change.’ And did he really change that much in ten years that he did not look like his portraits anymore? Or was Dawe even worse than he thought? The child though seemed satisfied with the answer. She nodded thoughtfully and then ran to the French windows that opened onto a small balcony. Before he could stop her she was jerking the lower bolt open. ‘Come, help me!’ She ordered with the force of a child, rather than an Emperor’s daughter. He walked over to the window but paused: it was cold outside and he did not want his wonderfully warm quarters to get chilly.
‘Help me! It’s important!’ She reiterated, and obeying out of some foolish reluctance to argue with the child, he did. The cold air burst in on them, biting his skin and slithering under his cloak. The child only grinned and ran out on the balcony, her cheeks suddenly pink and eyes shining. He hurried after her: God forbid some accident befell her while she was in his ‘care’ and why the hell did he not return her to her governess the moment she came into his rooms. 

 Her hand was small and fragile and warm when he took it in his, and her fingers tightened round his so naturally, that he suddenly felt a stab of pain thinking of his children and all the years he was away when they were growing up. ‘Now look…, ‘ she said solemnly, and he did, marvelling at what could have driven a five year old child to try and show him her city, not her toys or her pets. As if in answer, she continued importantly: ‘My friend always told me that when my friends come to Saint-Petersburg for the first time, I must show it to them.’ Arthur looked down at the girl with curiosity.

‘Your friend? You honour me, Your Majesty, but you should be careful when you choose your friends: you do not know me at all.’
The girl looked at him like he was an idiot: ‘But I do. My friend told me stories about you, when we sneaked in to take a look at the paintings for that big room. I just didn’t recognise you at once, because you did not look like your picture.’
‘Your friend?’
‘Yes, Aleksandr Ivanovich. Oh, he always told such interesting stories! He said that at nights when its storms, the ghost of the Bronze Horseman gallops around the city,’ she shivered. ‘But he never told me where he hid his arm,’ she frowned, ‘I miss him. I want him to come back.’
Arthur couldn’t answer, a strange numbness coming all over him. He looked at the river again, dark and threatening, and the ghosts of the young city seemed to dance over the broken ice.