Archive of Our Own

From the moment America fell into the sea, he had made up his mind: he would rather die than board an English ship.

Pride was part of it. Spite, too. But what truly drove his resolve was the need to make England see his defiance. England believed he could do as he pleased with the Thirteen Colonies, and the Thirteen Colonies intended to show him otherwise: the days of blind obedience were over, and they were never coming back.

Ever since his people had dumped the tea into Boston Harbor, England had not shown his face. Last month, a letter had arrived, belated and brimming with rebuke, ending with a demand that Alfred return to London and apologize to the King before the entire House of Lords. America was not the sort to sit around waiting for disaster. He burned the letter and sailed out, planning to lie low for a few days, only to be caught in one of the Atlantic's most savage storms, which tore his ship to pieces. He clung to a plank and drifted through the waves all night. By sunrise the skies had cleared, brilliant and golden, but there was no way home.

His pride was only slightly bruised: See, you're not as good at mastering the waves as your mother country.

Still, he had to give England credit. Had England not forced him, with near-religious rigor, to learn everything a sailor should know, he would likely be at the bottom of the ocean by now. Those evenings by the fireside were still etched deep in his memory: a compass and a brass telescope spread out on the rug before him, England holding up a sextant, teaching him how to measure the angle of stars above the horizon.

The seawater grew warm under the broiling sun. Alfred licked his cracked lips, tasting tiny grains of salt, the swallowed brine still burning in his throat. A seagull swooped down and pecked at his hand resting on the plank. America winced.

"Don't eat me," he said weakly, wiggling his fingers. "I'm filthy, I stink, and I'm covered in salt."

The bird cocked its head, tapped its beak against his fingernail, and flapped away. America closed his eyes, exhausted, his injured ribs screaming with pain. He clenched his jaw. No. He would never again submit to England's tyranny.

As the sun began its westward drift, a ship appeared on the horizon.

At first it looked impossibly small, like a model on a chart table, the ensign a mere speck that gradually expanded into a field of blood red: the flag of the Royal Navy.

"Kill me now," America muttered. He shifted on the plank, gripped its sodden edge, and lowered himself beneath the surface, shivering from the cold. He took several deep breaths, held the last one, and plunged his head underwater.

The ship sailed past without stopping.

America surfaced, coughing up seawater, and collapsed onto the plank, utterly spent. The temperature was dropping. His legs were numb, every inch of him ached, and his voice was too hoarse to call out.

He knew he could not hold on much longer.

At sunset, misfortune struck again. Two English brigs appeared on the open sea. Alfred rubbed his eyes hard, certain he was seeing things, but they did not vanish. Panicking, he choked down his despair, hauled himself onto the plank, and gripped his scabbard. He would not go quietly. Not while he still had breath in his body.

Just then, a third ship crested the horizon from the north. She was a ship of the line, her pennant flying high from the masthead. Riding the windward advantage, she swiftly overtook the brigs, her rigging gleaming in the sunset's halo, her broad hull burnished to pure gold. She was larger than any vessel America had ever seen, and from her foremast flew an unfamiliar flag: a blue cross on a white field. The two English ships shifted their heading and slipped away in silence.

America knew this ship had spotted him too: she was bearing down at full sail, cleaving the water, white foam churning along her waterline. Her ornate figurehead shimmered in the fading light, and figures crowded along her rails.

A voice boomed from the quarterdeck, and a rope came hurtling into the sea.

America swam for it with everything he had, clamping his scabbard between his teeth, and seized the line.

He was hauled from the water in one swift motion, tracing an arc through the air before slamming down onto the deck. A clamor of voices erupted around him. America wiped the water from his face and looked up to see rows of legs clad in long silk stockings. He raised his eyes further.

Nearby, with his back to America, stood the tallest man he had ever seen, tall as a clock tower. He wore a sky-blue overcoat with a white scarf draped oddly around his neck, its long hem swaying near his calves. A basket-hilted sword hung at his waist, its scabbard inlaid with fine scrollwork.

A man in a red vest who looked like the boatswain addressed Alfred in a language he could not understand.

"I mean no harm," America said, raising his hands. "Thank you for saving me. I'd like to know, is he the captain?"

The man in the fine coat, still with his back turned, took a few steps forward. Now America could see what lay before him: several sailors stripped to the waist, kneeling, and the thing in the man's hand: a whip with nine knotted tails. America recognized it as the cat-o'-nine-tails, the instrument used to discipline sailors, notoriously agonizing, and a shudder ran through him. Moments later, the hissing crack of the lash and screams of pain sounded in unison.

The boatswain conferred in whispers with the man beside him, then asked in French: "Who are you?"

America had never been any good at French. He explained who he was, but suspected they had not understood, because the boatswain suddenly lunged forward and snatched away his sword.

America scrambled upright and grabbed for it. "That's mine!"

He clung to the end of the scabbard. The boatswain punched him squarely in the face. America crashed onto the deck, stars bursting in his vision. The boatswain barked an order, and several men seized Alfred by the arms, hauled him to his feet, and began dragging him below.

"Wait!" America shouted, struggling. "You've got it wrong! I want to see the captain!"

The sailors smirked and said nothing. America stung with indignation: they were not taking him the least bit seriously. He craned his neck desperately toward the man in the scarf, hoping he might intervene. Just as Alfred was about to be shoved down the stairs, the man turned his head and looked over.

He had beautiful, cold, violet eyes.

The boatswain marched America all the way down to the brig on the lowest deck, unlocked a brass padlock with a ring of rusty keys, and pushed him inside.

America fell face-first onto a bed of dry straw, picked himself up, and glared at the man. The boatswain locked the iron grate without expression and strode away. America gripped the bars and rattled them with all his might.

"You can't do this," he shouted. "I want to see the captain!"

The footsteps faded up the stairs. America sighed and sank to the ground in defeat. Through the gaps between the hull's planks, he could see dusk settling over the sea, the water burnished gold. He could only guess how far he was from the American coast.

After nightfall, the hold grew bitterly cold. His soaked shirt clung to his skin as he huddled in a corner, arms wrapped around himself, shivering. In the darkness, rats scrabbled and rustled. He thought of the captain with the violet eyes, and bitterness welled up inside him: he might as well have boarded the Royal Navy ship.

When First Officer Yevgeny Kravchenko came to report, Russia was in the captain's quarters reviewing the ship's log. They had pulled a castaway from the sea that afternoon, but he had been busy disciplining the mutinous sailors and hadn't even managed a word with the man. By the time Russia returned to his cabin that evening and ate a hasty meal of pea soup and salt pork, the first officer was already knocking at his door.

"The boatswain says he can't determine the man's identity because his French is atrocious," the Petersburger reported with a look of disdain, presenting a long, slender object. "This is his sword."

Russia grasped the hilt, drew it, and frowned: the blade was rusted. "Where is he?"

"In the brig."

"Take me to him." Russia stood and closed the ship's log.

Following Yevgeny, he descended to the middle deck. In the lightless, cramped space, sailors sprawled across their hammocks, snoring thunderously. On the deck below, gunners polished cannonballs with diligence while the surgeon and the chaplain conversed softly by lamplight. At the very bottom of the ship, the foul stench of bilge water and rotting timber hit them full force. In the dim light, a small figure knelt in one corner of the cell, arm thrust through the iron bars, desperately trying to feed a scrap of moldy biscuit to the prisoner in the next cell.

"Don't bother," Russia said. "He's been dead for a while."

The figure flinched and whipped around. It was a boy, fifteen or sixteen years old, golden-haired and blue-eyed, with delicate features, dressed in a grimy linen shirt. Russia nodded to Yevgeny, who stepped forward and unlocked the cell door.

The boy erupted: "You've got some nerve! I haven't done anything and you throw me in here! It's filthy, there are rats, you absolute—"

A sharp crack: the back of a hand struck his right cheek. The boy staggered, clutching his face, eyes wide with shock.

"You will not disrespect Captain Braginsky," Yevgeny barked, raising his hand to strike again. Russia caught his wrist.

"Enough," he said sharply. "Don't let me catch you laying another finger on our guest."

"G-guest, Captain?"

"This is England's most treasured little colony," Russia told him. "If you injure him, the Royal Navy will hunt us to the ends of the earth. I'd rather not face that fate."

Yevgeny's face went white. "Go see if the steward has anything left over from supper and send some to my quarters," Russia ordered. "And have someone draw a bucket of hot water."

Yevgeny stamped his foot, muttering under his breath, and left.

Russia turned to the boy and walked toward him. The boy stared, his gaze traveling from the jeweled medals on Ivan's chest, to the ornate tasseled epaulettes, to the gold-threaded collar, curiosity mingled in his expression. Russia felt a flicker of surprise: it had been so long since anyone had looked at him with anything but fear or anger. He drew a silk handkerchief from his pocket and held it out. "Wipe your face."

The boy took it and dabbed at his bloodied lip. "How did you know who I am?"

"When I was in Moscow, I saw your portrait at the English envoy's residence," Russia said, leading him out toward fresher air. "You were probably five or six years younger then, but this was easy enough to recognize." He gestured at the wayward cowlick above the boy's forehead. The boy fixed him with a stare. "You're Russia."

Russia said nothing to confirm or deny it. "For the past two days, Royal Navy ships have been multiplying out here, as if searching for something," he said with a meaningful pause. "Turns out it was a little lost bird."

The boy's face flushed crimson.

"You're hiding from England, aren't you?" Russia said, cutting straight to the heart of it. "There were two English ships ahead of us. They couldn't have missed you. You must have hidden from them yourself."

The boy swallowed, his eyes darting past Russia to the staircase, as though ready to bolt at any moment. "Are you going to hand me over to him?"

"This is your chance to convince me not to."

The boy lowered his head, the cowlick drooping with it. "He wants me to apologize for something that isn't my fault," he said, gnawing at his lower lip. "I won't do it."

"England thinks I'm just throwing a tantrum," he went on, his voice rising, "but I'm not. I'm done. I'm done doing everything he says, following every order. Done with one tax after another. Done with the way he treats me, as though what I think doesn't matter. I won't back down this time. I'd rather die than change my mind."

In those large blue eyes, defiance and dignity flickered like flames. For an instant, the dim, silent corridor seemed to blaze with the light of his gaze.

"What a speech," Russia said softly. "I can hardly wait to see England's face when he hears it."

"So, did I convince you?"

Russia smiled faintly. "What should I call you?"

The boy extended his hand in an imitation of adult formality and cleared his throat with exaggerated seriousness. "You can call me Alfred."

Russia took the hand and shook it. "Hello, Alfred," he said. "I'm Ivan Braginsky. Welcome aboard the Saratov."

Russians had a strange way of doing things, Alfred thought as he changed clothes in the cabin after his bath. They seemed elegant on the surface, like France, yet could be startlingly crude in practice, with temperaments that shifted like the weather. One moment they threw you into a cell without a word; the next they were plying you with hospitality. Long ago, he had heard England speak of Russia. England had not said much about the man himself, only that it was a very large, very cold place.

He set his scabbard on the bed and was just about to pull off his grimy linen shirt when there was a knock. The first officer who had slapped him walked in. Alfred retreated a wary step. "What do you want?"

"Your clothes," the Russian said. His English had a thick French accent.

Alfred lifted the top of the stack and stared, stunned: it was a deep blue satin gown, its cuffs edged with a delicate white ruffle. "You've made a mistake," he stammered. "I can't possibly wear this."

"No mistake," the first officer said, grinning. "Captain's orders."

Alfred went scarlet. "Then you can tell him to go to hell!"

At that moment, the door opened again and Ivan walked in. His gaze flicked between the two of them, and he shook his head, said something in Russian, and Yevgeny slunk out with the dress.

"I apologize," Ivan said, looking at Alfred. "Yevgeny was joking with you. He's like that. Enjoys his pranks. Please, wear whatever you like." He pulled open the wardrobe and gestured inside.

While the boy rummaged through the contents, Ivan leaned against the desk and asked, "What exactly happened between you and England?"

Alfred's shoulders stiffened. "He seems to think he can do whatever he wants with me."

"Strictly speaking, that is the case, given that you're his colony."

"But I have my own rights, don't I? Just because I'm part of the British Empire doesn't mean I have to obey his every command. It's wrong. I am independent, and he should respect that."

He pulled out a silk shirt, grimaced, and hung it back. Ivan said lazily, "I'd advise against using the word 'independent' in front of England. He won't be too fond of it. In fact, don't say it at all. Yes, you'd better remember that."

"Ha, found it!" Alfred straightened up with a whoop. In his hand was a clean linen shirt. He turned to Ivan, his face reddening again. "I need to change now."

Ivan obligingly turned around, stifling a laugh. He had not expected America to be such a bashful little thing. No wonder his head was full of naive, impractical ideas. England had sheltered him too well. Listening to the rustle of fabric behind him, he asked, "So, how do you plan to get back?"

A baffled pause. "Uh... aren't you going to take me back?"

Ivan nearly rolled his eyes. "Are you done changing?"

"Yes," the boy said. Ivan turned around. This was probably the closest fit in the entire wardrobe, and still the sleeves hung past his hands. Alfred had to roll back the ruffled cuffs, exposing slender wrists.

"Come," Ivan said. "Let me show you the ship."

Alfred had accompanied Arthur on sea voyages more than once and was well versed in ship construction and life at sea, yet what he saw still amazed him. The Russian vessel was like a lumbering beast, conveying an impression of sheer mass, nothing like the nimble English frigates that darted through narrow waterways. Beyond her broader, heavier hull, the timber she was built from was sturdier, likely to withstand the brutal weather of northern seas. He also noticed that where English frigates carried long guns suited for ranged combat, the Russian ship was armed with large-bore cannon clearly designed for close quarters.

"Do you go to sea often?" Alfred asked.

Ivan stepped onto the stairs, his scarf trailing behind him as though it had a life of its own. "No, actually. Her Imperial Majesty only recently ordered me to explore new sea routes and engage in maritime trade. This ship was finished just last month, at Kronstadt."

Alfred followed him up to the main deck and gulped the brisk sea air. Overhead in the darkness, masts and yardarms formed towering crosses, sails snapping in the wind. He nearly tripped over something and looked down to find an officer of the watch passed out drunk. Alfred was appalled: had such a thing happened on an English ship, the man would have been lashed to the gratings and flogged within an inch of his life. Dereliction of duty was an unforgivable offense in the Royal Navy.

"Here we are," Ivan said, pushing open a door. Alfred stepped inside.

The captain's quarters were spacious and opulent, so large it felt like entering a country manor. At the center stood a round mahogany dining table already laid with white linen, the light from a branching candelabra spilling over spotless silver. The bed, also mahogany, stood before the stern gallery windows, its headboard carved with fine gilded scrollwork. A writing desk sat against the bulkhead, a silver candlestick anchoring a chart that sprawled across its entire surface. Alfred browsed the shelf of books with their worn spines, then looked up and caught his breath.

A vast portrait hung there. A woman sat upon a throne, her face full and beautiful, clad in a brocade silver gown and a crimson robe, a pale blue sash of St. Andrew crossing her breast. In her right hand she held a golden scepter; her left rested on a velvet cushion bearing the imperial orb. She gazed to her right, as though contemplating some distant, infinite world beyond the frame. Alfred stared, struck speechless by the formidable authority she radiated.

Ivan gave a soft laugh beside him.

"That is my Tsarina," he said, his voice proud and tender. "And the person I most revere."

"She's... she's very beautiful," Alfred said, and instantly felt foolish. Mercifully, Ivan was gazing at the portrait with such adoration that he hadn't noticed.

The cabin door opened, and the cook brought in supper course by course until the table was full: smoked meat, smoked fish, and dark rye bread, plus a bowl of golden macaroni tossed with minced meat and cheese. Alfred fought to conceal how ravenous he was, but Ivan seemed to see right through him and smiled. "Sit. Help yourself."

Alfred settled into a chair. Ivan spooned macaroni onto his plate. "Try it. You can only get this on a Russian ship."

Alfred eyed it dubiously, sniffed it cautiously. At least it smelled better than some of England's more inventive concoctions. He took one bite and immediately devoured the rest. Ivan hadn't touched his own food; he sat across the table, arms folded, watching.

"So," he said, once Alfred had wiped his mouth with a napkin, "returning to our earlier topic. It's quite a distance from here to the Americas. What exactly are you prepared to offer in exchange for my making the trip?"

Alfred froze. "I don't know," he said, realizing that everything he owned, strictly speaking, belonged to England. He had no land, no house, no property of his own. It had never bothered him before, but in that moment it rankled. "I can protect you," he said.

Ivan nearly choked on his rum. "And what will you protect me with," he asked, amused, "your gun with no spare powder, or that rusted sword?"

The boy's face went red. He lifted his chin, tilting it as high as it would go, as though this alone might strengthen his bargaining position. "I may have nothing," he said stiffly, "but if you help me, I will never forget it. For as long as I exist in this world, if you ever face danger, I will repay your kindness."

Ivan blinked, taken aback. He had not expected such a mature declaration from the boy. "You can't make promises about things that haven't happened yet."

"Please," Alfred lowered his eyes. "I have nobody left," he added quietly.

Ivan had been speculating about what had transpired between him and England; it was now clear that the situation was far graver than he had imagined. His fingers tapped softly on the table as he weighed the whole affair: if the Royal Navy caught up with them, and eventually it would, some form of confrontation was inevitable. Would he hand over the Thirteen Colonies? He looked at the boy's countenance. Was a nebulous promise worth the risk?

"I'll need to think about it," he said.

Alfred's eyes brightened. To his mind, the absence of a flat refusal was already a good sign. He sprang to his feet, bowed crookedly, and bumped his hip against the table corner. Mimicking the servants who attended England, he said clumsily, "I... I can help you change your clothes."

Ivan was genuinely amused this time and shook his head. "You are my guest, not a servant." He pointed to the hammock on the opposite bulkhead. "You'll sleep there tonight."

He called for someone to clear the unfinished dishes and wipe down the table, then sat at his desk to write in the ship's log until drowsiness crept over him. For a moment he forgot there was someone else in the cabin and reached up to unwind his scarf. Then, from behind him, came a voice: "What happened to your neck?"

Ivan spun around so sharply he nearly knocked over the inkwell. Alfred saw his expression darken and took a step back. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to pry. I was just asking."

Ivan's hand went instinctively to the scars on his neck. He stared into the boy's eyes, searching for any trace of revulsion, but found only a flicker of alarm in those clear blue depths. His racing pulse gradually slowed, and that flash of raw exposure faded with it.

"It's nothing," he said slowly. "That was a very long time ago."

He turned back to his writing, unable to believe he had let his guard slip before a complete stranger. Something about the boy disarmed him. Ivan filled the rest of the page before setting down his pen. Behind him there was no sound, yet he could feel Alfred's gaze still fixed on his back.

The next morning, Ivan came up to the deck. It was a calm, clear day, the sun warming the ship's wheel. He rechecked the route: their original plan called for a brief stop at Port Royal in Jamaica the following evening to resupply, then continue south. The problem was that England would learn their whereabouts and dispatch the fleet to pursue them at full speed. With the wind in their favor, the Royal Navy could overtake them in as little as two days. And they would be deep in the complex waters of the Caribbean, where nearly every nearby port was a British colony.

Ivan spread out the chart and pondered. They could head for South America, try to put in at French-held Martinique, or perhaps Puerto Rico. But if England discovered he had brought the Thirteen Colonies to French soil, the outrage would only multiply.

The deck creaked, and Ivan squinted in the sunlight to see Yevgeny climbing up to the quarterdeck. "Good morning, Captain." He smiled broadly, showing a row of teeth.

Ivan rolled up the chart and nodded. "Any news?"

"Our young friend has been making himself useful," Yevgeny said, pointing below. "Caught a few traitors for you."

It took Ivan a moment to realize he meant Alfred, and the surprise left him speechless. He handed the wheel to the boatswain and followed Yevgeny down to the lower deck. A ring of men had gathered. Ivan pushed through and found three sailors kneeling on the planks, hands bound behind them, defiance written on their faces. Alfred had been standing beside them, but the instant he spotted Ivan, he bounded over like a small hound.

"I heard them plotting a mutiny," he said, a touch of pride in his voice.

The guilty flush on the sailors' faces told Ivan everything he needed to know. "How did you find out?"

"I heard them whispering," Alfred said. "When I asked what they were talking about, they wouldn't tell me. So I said I wanted in, and I made up a story about a huge stash of treasure I'd buried under a coconut tree on Saint Lucia. They told me everything right away."

Ivan did not know whether to laugh or cry. "All right," he said. "Go wait for me up on deck. I'll deal with them and then come find you."

Alfred's eyes went wide. "Deal with? You're going to kill them?"

"What would you suggest? A promotion?"

Ivan's hand was already on his sword hilt.

"But they haven't actually done anything yet! They only talked about it. You can't just—"

Ivan caught Yevgeny's eye, and the first officer understood at once. He seized the boy under both arms, hoisted him off the ground, and carried him topside. Ivan could hear Alfred's furious protests all the way up, kicking and flailing.

He sighed inwardly.

Twenty minutes later, after he had ordered the watch officer to dump the bodies into the sea (each throat cleanly slit) and scrub the blood from the planks, Ivan returned to the wheel. Alfred sat on the quarterdeck steps, sulking. Ivan slid his sword back into its sheath and walked over. "I owe you a thank-you."

Alfred looked up, eyes blazing. "If I'd known, I never would have told you! How could you do that? They hadn't actually done anything. I thought at most you'd lock them up for a few days, punish them somehow—"

"They already had the idea. It was only a matter of time before they acted," Ivan said flatly.

The boy bit his lip, stubbornness carved across his face.

"Listen," Ivan softened his tone, "if I hadn't killed them today, do you know what they would have done? First, they would have recruited more of my crew to join them. Then, one rainy night, they would have crept into my cabin, driven a dagger into my heart, and declared this ship their own."

The boy's face went ashen. "From the moment the thought of betrayal entered their minds," Ivan said, "they were no longer my subordinates. They were traitors. And there is only one way to deal with traitors: crush them like ants."

He strode up to the quarterdeck and took the wheel from the helmsman. Alfred remained where he sat. Slowly, his head dropped. After a while, he rose, went below, and returned to the captain's quarters. Yevgeny appeared at Ivan's side.

"Interesting little fellow," he remarked.

"I can hardly believe England raised him," Ivan said, shaking his head. "He seems to have lived his whole life inside a fairy tale." He turned to his first officer. "You've seen him now. What do you make of him?"

Yevgeny gazed out at the golden waves, squinting against the glare. "I don't think he's as simple-minded as he looks," he said. "I chatted with him this morning. He's sharp and clever, always observing his surroundings. If he's already memorized every nook and cranny of this ship, I wouldn't be surprised. He is English-raised, after all. Just as dangerous."

Ivan did not disagree. "Keep an eye on him for me. If anything seems off, report it immediately."

Yevgeny nodded. "Aye, Captain."

By nightfall there was still no sign of Alfred, and Ivan began to worry. After finishing the ship's log, he stepped out onto the deck. It was an overcast night, stars and moon hidden, the sky black as lead. The helmsman slumped against the wheel, half asleep, then snapped upright when he heard Ivan's footsteps and guiltily dropped his gaze.

Ivan searched the entire deck. Nothing. He was beginning to wonder if Alfred had jumped ship when, from somewhere above, he heard a faint sound of crying.

He looked up. Someone sat in the crow's nest, tucked into the shadow of the sails. Unless you looked carefully, you would never have noticed.

"Are you coming down on your own, or do I have to come up and fetch you?"

No response. Ivan resigned himself with a sigh, grabbed the rigging, and climbed the mainmast. He had already discovered that the Thirteen Colonies could be spectacularly stubborn. At the top, he swung one leg over and squeezed into the narrow space alongside Alfred. There was just room enough for two. Alfred sat wedged against the railing, the night wind blowing across his face, the tracks of still-damp tears gleaming on his cheeks.

"Don't tell me you're grieving for those three traitors," Ivan said. "If so, you're wasting your feelings."

For a long time Alfred said nothing. Then, in a congested voice: "This morning you told me that the moment someone has the thought of rebellion, he's already a traitor and must be dealt with quickly."

Without thinking, Ivan replied, "Yes."

"Do you think that's how England sees me?"

The question caught Ivan off guard. "I overheard some of his officers talking in private," Alfred went on. "That's exactly what they called me. What they called all of us. They said we were a pack of wretched traitors. In March, we dumped all the English tea into the harbor as a protest. One of the soldiers stationed there said we'd have to pay for it." He swallowed, and the sound was loud in the silence. "He said England would never let it go. Was he telling the truth?"

Ivan was quiet. He had dealt with England before and knew his nature well. He knew the officer had spoken the truth. He wanted to say that if it were him, he wouldn't let it go either, but looking into those young eyes, he could not bring himself to say it. Finally, he said: "I'm sure you know England better than I do."

"But you're a warrior," the boy said, resting his arms on the railing and pillowing his head against them. "Yevgeny told me you've fought in many wars. Your swordsmanship is formidable, isn't it?" A pause. "Will you teach me?"

Ivan blinked, caught off balance. "Why the sudden—"

"If England decides to punish me, I can't just sit and wait for it," Alfred said earnestly. "Please?"

There it was again, that look like a puppy with its ears drooping, and damn it, no one could resist that. "Go get your sword," Ivan relented. "And here's your first lesson: never be parted from your weapon. Not even when sleeping or resting."

They went back down to the deck one after the other. Alfred fetched his sword from the captain's quarters; he had polished it the night before. He drew it, and the blade flashed cold in the dark.

"One advantage," Ivan said, drawing his own, "is that I learned my swordplay from France. If you use it in a duel, it'll give England a nice little surprise. Or rather, a shock."

Alfred grinned, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "Let's go," he said, bouncing on his toes.

They began circling each other like two predators, holding their breath, probing for openings. Without warning, Alfred struck, fast and hard. Ivan raised his blade to parry. Steel met steel with a ringing clash, and sparks scattered between them.

"Not bad," Ivan said, breathing hard. Alfred's attack reminded him of England: the same approach, clean and decisive, driving straight in the moment he saw an opening. Ivan fell back a step and thrust.

He deliberately controlled his force, but the tip still sheared through a lock of hair by Alfred's cheek. Alfred couldn't dodge in time and slammed backward into the gunwale, rebounded, and came at him with a barrage of cuts and slashes. Ivan twisted his wrist, deflecting each blow with ease.

"Is that all you've got?" he taunted.

Alfred pressed his lips together, blue eyes burning. He drew a deep breath and thrust straight for Ivan's left side. Ivan neither dodged nor flinched. The blade sliced through his coat with a hiss. Alfred froze in astonishment, and in that heartbeat Ivan counterattacked: two swift cuts, and Alfred's wrist went numb. His sword clattered to the deck.

Ivan's blade rested steadily on Alfred's shoulder, the point touching his throat. "You lose," the Russian said.

Alfred's chest heaved as he gasped for air. After a long moment he gave a reluctant nod and raised both hands. Ivan sheathed his sword, picked up Alfred's, and handed it back. "Your technique is quite good, actually. I don't think the problem is skill. You are not determined enough."

Alfred struggled to slow his breathing and quell the sting of defeat. "Excuse me?"

"You weren't giving it everything you had," Ivan said. "I could feel it. You were holding back the whole time."

Alfred felt a surge of indignation. "That's because I didn't want to hurt you!"

"No, that's not what I mean. You're too cautious, too restrained, as though you're trying to save something for the next fight. But it doesn't work that way. You must bring everything you have to every single encounter, or you will never win."

Alfred sat down on the steps, a stubborn ember of defiance still glowing inside him. "I've never actually dueled anyone before," he admitted.

"You're too careful with yourself," Ivan said plainly. "Always worrying about getting cut, falling down, or looking ungraceful. But the person facing you may be an enemy intent on taking your life. He doesn't care how he looks. He wants victory, and for that he'll give up an arm, a leg, even his own life."

Alfred said nothing, but Ivan could see the words had shaken him.

"Forget yourself," he said. "And then you will win."

Alfred breathed heavily. After a long pause he asked, "Is England a good swordsman?"

"One of the best," Ivan said, bending down to pull him to his feet. "Which is exactly why you need to keep practicing."

Alfred raised his sword before his face, staring at his own blue eyes reflected in the clean blade. He inhaled deeply and steadied his racing heart. Ivan raised his own sword, his gaze deep and still, danger lurking within. The night wind lifted his pale gold hair, and Alfred stared at those curved lashes, those softly contoured eyes, that elegant nose, transfixed—

A tremendous clang, and pain shot through his wrist. Alfred yelped. His sword hit the deck.

"You lost focus," Ivan scolded. "What were you thinking about?"

"Sorry." Alfred stooped to retrieve his sword, grateful the darkness hid his burning cheeks. He raised the blade again, gritted his teeth, and lunged. Steel clashed in a rapid series of bright, ringing notes, almost musical. Gradually Alfred discovered that Ivan's technique, seemingly rough-hewn, was endlessly inventive in its details, full of deceptions, unmistakably French in origin. Alfred dodged and parried and managed to hold out fifteen minutes before going down again.

"Better," Ivan said with a smile. "Much improved."

Alfred tried not to look too pleased. "That move just now, what was that? I want to learn it."

"That's called—" Ivan spoke a stream of mellifluous French, stepped to Alfred's side, and motioned for him to raise his sword. "It means feinting an attack in one direction to draw the parry, then switching to the true attack at the last instant."

He closed his hand over Alfred's sword hand and guided a thrust that veered at the final moment, the point flicking sharply upward. It all happened in an instant. Alfred's eyes widened. Ivan drew him back in a smooth retreat. Alfred could smell him now: an earthy sweetness laced with pine, evoking snow-covered, solid ground. It was a scent he had encountered neither in damp Boston nor in warm Virginia.

"The next one combines footwork with a lunge. It's an advanced technique that works by circling quickly to the opponent's flank or rear," Ivan explained. "Spread your feet, turn sideways a little, and then—"

He stopped. "You're distracted again. What's going on?"

Alfred hadn't even heard him. Ivan caught his chin and turned his head by force. Alfred snapped back to attention and met that direct violet gaze, his breath catching.

"You don't always have to wear it," he said.

Ivan frowned. "What?"

"Your scarf," Alfred said, very softly. "You can take it off. I don't mind. Not at all. And I don't think you need to mind either."

Ivan went still. Memories buried deep surged to the surface. He thought he heard the Mongol horns again, echoing through the ruins of towns. He remembered the first time he had studied the scars in a mirror, the deep, sickening revulsion he'd felt toward himself. He remembered the fear and disgust on the faces of court attendants who caught a glimpse, as though they were looking at a monster. From that day on, he only removed the scarf in his own home, and only to sleep. Wearing it made him feel safe, protected, and gave him the illusion that none of it had ever happened.

He looked down at Alfred. "I feel more like myself when I'm wearing it."

He took the boy's hand again and went on teaching him the swordplay he had learned from France, until Alfred was too exhausted to continue and begged for mercy. Ivan slid his sword into its sheath, turned around, and found Alfred already sprawled asleep on the deck.

Ivan let out a silent sigh, bent down, gathered the boy in his arms, carried him back to the cabin, laid him in the hammock, and tucked a blanket over him. He could not help brushing a strand of gold hair from the boy's forehead, studying that face. He would never admit that in that moment, something stirred in his chest.

As they sailed toward the Caribbean, the heat intensified. Sailors stripped to the waist, baring sun-bronzed chests under the merciless sun. Ivan came up on deck early to find Yevgeny and Alfred sitting on the afterdeck, where Yevgeny appeared to be teaching him how to play Karnöffel. Something Yevgeny said made Alfred grab for the long whiskers on his chin. Yevgeny roared with laughter.

Remarkable, Ivan thought. Only two days ago Yevgeny had been slapping him and threatening to teach him a lesson. Alfred seemed to possess the ability to make anyone grow fond of him in a short time. Before long Alfred ran back to the captain's quarters, and Yevgeny strode to the helm.

"Clever kid," he said. "But a sore loser. I worry what he'll be like when he grows up." A brief pause. "He really likes to win."

Ivan grunted. "When did the two of you become best friends?"

"You told me to watch him, Captain. I was just following orders." The first officer flashed a grin. "He's been complaining quite a bit about how England oppresses the colonies. Taxes, garrisons, soldiers firing on crowds, that sort of thing."

Ivan raised the brass telescope and scanned the sea for a time. The sky was brilliant, sunlight glinting everywhere on the water. "Anything worth noting?"

Yevgeny was silent for a moment, then snapped at a sailor tying off a line above them. "Catch you slacking off again and you'll answer to me."

He turned to Ivan and lowered his voice to the rapid murmur reserved for confidences. "I think he enjoys making his own decisions, not answering to anyone. He's beginning to realize that the world extends far beyond the boundaries England drew for him. And once you see that, you can't go back to being told what to do. So a war is inevitable."

He paused, then went on, "I don't think Her Majesty will allow us to intervene."

Ivan handed him the telescope, looking thoughtful. "Perhaps we won't need to."

Just then, a shout rang out from the deck: "Land ho!"

Ivan went to the rail. Sure enough, a dark speck had appeared where sea met sky, like a smudge, steadily expanding until the outline of a town took shape. The chalky white walls of San Cristóbal stretched endlessly, shining in the sunlight, overlooking the entire harbor. Lush sugarcane fields carpeted the island. From the bell tower atop the San Juan heights, the blood-and-gold flag of Spain whipped in the wind.

"Reef the mainsail," Ivan told Yevgeny. "Helm to port. Have them ready to drop anchor in the harbor."

The sailors scrambled to secure the lines. Ivan went below. Alfred was sprawled on his bed reading and startled at the sound of footsteps, sitting up hastily. "I'm sorry, I went through your books without asking, but I was just so bored."

"It's all right," Ivan said. "We'll be docking soon. Have you been to Puerto Rico before?"

Alfred shook his head. "I've only heard of it. Isn't it Spanish territory?"

"It is." Ivan opened the wardrobe and began rummaging. "But English spies are everywhere, so we can't let our guard down." He pulled out a waistcoat, considered it, and put it back. "And you must stay by my side the entire time. No wandering off. Understood?"

"Understood," Alfred drawled.

Ivan continued searching, pushing aside a dress, a long coat, and a waistcoat. His hand stopped, then drifted slowly back to the dress. He pulled it out in one motion.

"Here." He tossed the dress to Alfred. "Put this on."

Alfred held it up, stared, and went first white, then crimson. "No!"

"You heard what I said," Ivan replied, turning and bumping the wardrobe shut with his hip. "We can't risk the English recognizing you. This is the only way to ensure that even if they look you straight in the face, they won't know who you are."

"But—but—"

"Hurry. We don't have time." And sure enough, in the next instant came the clank of hardware and the shudder of the hull as the crew dropped the heavy anchor.

Alfred clenched his jaw. He unfastened the waistcoat, pulled the shirt over his head, and stripped it off. He was slender, his frame carrying the thinness of youth, his lines smooth and supple. In the shafts of sunlight that slanted through the cabin, his skin and hair turned golden, and Ivan felt the urge to reach out and touch, to discover how warm he was. The thought startled him. He swallowed, mouth dry.

Alfred stepped into the dress. The deep blue satin swept to his feet, just concealing the breeches beneath. The fit was surprisingly good: the neckline fell near the collarbones, baring a sliver of pale skin, and the waist tapered elegantly. Ivan fastened the sash at the small of his back and had the furiously blushing Alfred pace back and forth, studying him from every angle before nodding with satisfaction.

"Suits you just fine," he teased. Alfred glared at him.

Ivan found a bonnet in the wardrobe, plopped it on Alfred's head, and tied the pink ribbon under his jaw. Alfred pouted beneath the brim. Ivan took his hand, the satin skirt whispering across Alfred's shoes. "Remember: no wandering off."

He led Alfred out of the cabin and up onto the deck. He thought he heard Yevgeny suppressing a laugh behind them. Ivan walked calmly toward the dock, the clamor of the harbor flooding his ears: ship bells, the clang of the forge, cables slapping in the water, hawkers shouting their wares, children shrieking at play, and the keening cries of gulls overhead, all woven into a lively, thriving symphony. Ivan stepped onto the gangway, where two Spanish sentries stopped him and demanded identification.

Ivan produced the trade permit issued by Her Imperial Majesty. The Spaniards logged him, then their gazes shifted to Alfred. "And this is?" one asked in halting French.

"She's with me," Ivan said, squeezing the fingers that twitched in his grip. "Regrettably, she is mute, so I must ask you to spare her the interrogation. I assure you, she will be at my side the entire time."

The Spaniards studied them for a moment, then nodded. "Welcome to Puerto Rico."

Ivan held Alfred's hand and walked on. While his crew busied themselves restocking the ship with fresh water, food, and other necessities, they had time to explore San Juan.

The town center was bustling. Narrow alleys teemed with people in bright clothing. Craftsmen worked in open-air shops, sentries paced the battlements, and from time to time a carriage clattered off toward the distant cathedral. Vendors' stalls lining the cobblestone streets overflowed with spices, textiles, and trinkets, the salt air threaded with the fragrance of guava and papaya. Alfred had entirely forgotten his grudge. He poked his head out from under the bonnet, gawking this way and that, now and then reaching out to touch something.

"A necklace for the lovely young lady, sir?" a French merchant called. "That pretty neck deserves a pearl choker."

Ivan pulled Alfred close by the shoulder and steered him away from the eager stallkeeper. "No, thank you."

They continued on. Several heavily made-up women approached, throwing coquettish glances at Ivan. The bolder ones hooked their arms through his and tried to steer him down a side alley. Ivan declined politely, extricated himself, quickened his pace, and escaped.

Then, without warning, the crowd ahead slowed. Ivan rose on tiptoe. His blood turned cold: two English soldiers in scarlet coats, muskets slung over their backs, clutched a sheet of paper and were questioning passersby one by one. Ivan seized Alfred's wrist and pulled him into the shadow of a nearby building. It was the back of a stable, the ground strewn with heaps of dry straw.

Ivan sat down on the straw, hesitated a moment, then lay back and drew Alfred down on top of him, holding the boy against his chest. Alfred's eyes went wide.

"Shh," Ivan whispered in his ear. "Don't move and don't make a sound."

Alfred looked at him uncertainly. Slowly, trust won out over hesitation, and his body relaxed. Ivan gathered him into the crook of his arm and listened for sounds on the street. The soldiers' rough voices carried in broken Spanish, growing louder with every step. Ivan's hand slipped silently behind Alfred and undid the sash at his back.

The footsteps drew nearer. Ivan leaned close to Alfred's ear again.

"I'm going to kiss you," he said, so softly only the two of them could hear. "Your cheek. Is that all right?"

After a long moment, Alfred nodded, trembling. In the next instant, soft lips brushed his right cheek. A kiss as light as a feather. He couldn't help looking up. Ivan's face was so close that Alfred could count every one of those fine, quivering lashes. He realized, with a flutter, that Ivan had closed his eyes.

He buried his face in the scarf. Ivan's lips lingered on his cheek, barely touching. The hand at his back unfastened one button, then another, easing the fabric off his shoulder, and closed around his shoulder blade, engulfing it in that broad palm. Ivan's fingertips were cool, yet Alfred's skin prickled with a flush of heat.

The footsteps reached them and stopped.

Alfred imagined what they looked like to the English soldiers: shoulders and back bare, the dress fallen to his waist, tangled in another person's embrace. An involuntary shiver ran through him.

"Oh, for the love of Christ," came a voice in a crisp English accent. "Let's go."

The footsteps resumed, and the soldiers left without a moment's delay. Their conversation drifted away, and only after it had faded to nothing did Ivan open his eyes and lift his hand from Alfred's body.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough. "I couldn't think of anything else."

Alfred swallowed, meeting his deep gaze. He could have sworn he saw a surge of desire flash through those violet eyes, but it vanished in an instant, and Ivan had recovered his composure, calm and controlled as before.

Ivan stood him up, refastened the buttons and the sash, straightened the bonnet, and led him out of the stable and back onto the main street, as though nothing had happened. They walked all the way to a terrace near the fortress and sat down.

The Caribbean sun blazed. Ivan couldn't resist tugging the scarf loose to let out a breath, then pulling it tight again. Beside him, Alfred asked quietly, "What happened to your neck?"

Ivan lowered his hand. He was grateful that the plaza was thronged with people; it dulled the sense of vulnerability.

"It was a long time ago," he heard himself say. "I was wounded in a battle."

"Are you very old?" the boy asked. "As a nation, I mean. As old as England?"

Ivan chuckled softly. "I'm certainly much older than you."

"I saw the drawings in your bookcase drawer," Alfred went on. "You're really good. Those gardens and fields look so real. Is that your homeland?"

"No," Ivan said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. "Where I come from, the winters are very long, and spring and summer last only a few months. Usually the cold returns before the flowers have a chance to bloom."

He felt the boy studying him from beneath the bonnet. A sudden fear of what Alfred might say next made Ivan change the subject. "And you? What do you most want to do?"

"You mean aside from fixing things with England?" Alfred thought for a moment. "I don't know." He tilted his face toward the high blue sky. A line of gulls streaked across the clear depths of his eyes, and in that moment Ivan saw the longing written on his face. "Maybe go up. Up among the stars. I know it's impossible, but I can never stop wondering what's on the other side of the sky."

Ivan thought back to those nights at sea. Stars traced silver-blue arcs overhead, the sky blazing with light: the white brilliance of Venus, the dazzle of Saturn, Jupiter hovering near the horizon. The prow followed the North Star's fixed point and sailed through the heavens as though bound for the edge of the world. Yes, he had imagined the same thing.

"I don't think it's impossible," Ivan said.

Just then, a carriage bearing some dignitary tore around the corner and onto the plaza. The horses shrieked, hooves kicking up clouds of dust that left Ivan coughing. The carriage thundered toward the palace behind the cathedral, and when the dust settled, Ivan found the space beside him empty.

He lurched to his feet, forcing himself to stay calm. His first thought was that the English had snatched Alfred, but that seemed unlikely; they would have taken him too. Which meant the boy had run off on his own. He'd been distracted ever since they left the stable.

A pang of guilt: had he overstepped? He recalled the feather-light kiss, the softness of skin beneath his fingertips, and something deep inside him wound tight and heated. No. He had done what he had to do. Otherwise they would both be locked in a cell right now, waiting for the Royal Navy to ship them back to England.

Where had the boy gone? Ivan scanned the street from the terrace. Not a blue dress in sight. The plaza swarmed with traders and dark-skinned African slaves. He couldn't have gone far in so little time.

Ivan came down from the terrace and searched every inch of the fortress, working up a sweat, but the boy was nowhere to be found. A spark of anger: why was it so hard for him to follow orders? In that moment, he sympathized with England. Through the deepening dusk, the great vesper bell on the hilltop tolled six times. He was running out of time.

Ivan raised his eyes to the bell tower on the heights and went still.

Maybe go up. Up among the stars.

The bell tower was the tallest structure on the entire island of Puerto Rico.

He set off at once, climbing the slope. By the time he was halfway up, the anger had evaporated, replaced by resignation. The tower loomed closer; he could make out its timber crossbeams, the pale gray base, and the octagonal shaft. He climbed the stairs all the way to the bell chamber beneath the summit. Sure enough, before he had even drawn near, he spotted a figure hugging his knees in the shadow of the great bell.

"Didn't I say not to wander off?" Ivan scolded, mounting the last step.

Alfred turned to look at him, his face dark with despair and threaded with quiet defiance. "I'm not going with you anymore," he said.

"What? Why?" Ivan said, startled. "How are you planning to get back?"

Alfred looked down and plucked at the hem of the dress, crumpling it into wrinkles. The cowlick swayed in the breeze above his head. "I'm going to turn myself in," he said softly. "The Spanish will notify England. He'll send someone for me."

Ivan raised an eyebrow. "I thought you'd rather die than give in."

"But if I stay with you, I'll put you in danger. I can't do that. England has posted notices everywhere. If he finds out I'm with you, he'll take it out on you."

He handed over a sheet of paper, mumbling, "I pulled this off a wall in that alley."

Ivan glanced at the notice, balled it up, and tossed it aside. "You are not putting me in danger."

"But—"

"Listen," Ivan sat down beside him and looked into his eyes, "if England wants to come after me simply for giving you a ride, then let him. I am not afraid of him. I've made up my mind to take you home, and I intend to keep my word. You're still very young." His hand clenched at his side. "This isn't something you need to carry alone."

Alfred gazed at him for a long time. "Weren't you young too?" he asked softly. "When you were hurt."

Ivan sat beside him and looked out through the rectangular opening at the distant bay, the same opening through which the bell's tolling spread across the island. For one fleeting moment, he truly considered leaving America behind and sailing away. Why wade into this mess? But then he remembered a time, very long ago, when he had been the same age and had wanted desperately for just one person to say, This isn't your fault. If someone had, perhaps he would not be the way he was now.

"You should treasure this time," Ivan said quietly, "no matter how unwilling it makes you feel. Someday you'll look back on it and miss it."

Sunset plunged swiftly behind the hills, bathing the harbor in gold, the crests of the waves red as blood. Night seemed to arrive in the blink of an eye, settling over the whole sea. The moon rose and scattered shivering fragments of light across the dark glass of the water. Ivan leaned back against a wooden beam, stretched out his long legs, the tassels on his boots trembling in the sea breeze. Moonlight fell on his pale throat, and the shape of the scars showed faintly. For one instant Alfred wanted to know what they felt like under his fingers, but was certain he would never be allowed to touch.

He gazed at the Russian's face. Something he could not name fluttered in the pit of his stomach. There was something about Ivan that drew him in, like the Russian land he had never seen: beautiful, cold, mysterious. When he looked into those eyes, now and then he could glimpse old shadows stirring, and in those moments he lost track of time. It was like standing on a cliff edge, peering down at churning surf, or walking unarmed into a dark, deep lair. Danger and fascination, inseparable.

"Back in your homeland," he swallowed, cheeks warm, "is there someone you're in love with?"

Ivan looked up. "Why do you ask?"

"Those women today. You turned them away. Is that why?"

Ivan sat up straight. "No, they were—" He studied Alfred's face and stopped. Surely England had never taken the boy to a brothel. He chose his words carefully. "I'm simply used to being alone."

The boy said nothing, and something dimmed in his expression. Ivan assumed he was still fretting over the notice and ruffled his hair.

"Don't worry," he said. "I promise, I won't let you fall into England's hands. Let's go. I think I hear the ship's bell."

Back aboard that evening, Alfred pestered Ivan into telling him about the drawings. Besides the gardens, Ivan had painted many animals, white and furry like ghosts, roaming across glaciers surrounded by endless snow. When Alfred asked where it was, Ivan smiled.

"The Aleutian Islands," he said. "We also call it Alaska. Thirty years ago, a man named Vitus Bering financed an expedition. We sailed for days and nights and set foot on that land. I will never forget what I felt the first time I saw it. The pure white glaciers and the deep blue ocean melted into one another. I had never seen snow so clean. When the sunlight struck it, I thought for a moment I had arrived in heaven."

Afterward they went up on deck, and Alfred used Ivan's pistol and empty rum bottles for target practice. His marksmanship was extraordinary, practically every shot hitting its mark, and Ivan was deeply impressed.

The next day they changed course and headed north. The oppressive heat gradually eased. The sea was calm, and the Saratov glided along at six knots. When the wind shifted north, Ivan ordered the staysails and the fore and aft courses taken in, the fore topsail furled and lashed to one side. He stood on the main deck, savoring the unobstructed view of the sea drenched in twilight. At this speed, they would reach the American east coast in two more days.

The red sun sank in the west. A bank of cloud on the horizon was edged in pure gold, and the immense dusk filled the sky on every side. Ivan handed the telescope to Yevgeny and listened to him swap Moscow gossip with the boatswain. Eight minutes earlier, when Ivan had checked the cabin, Alfred lay curled on his bed, fast asleep. Ivan yawned and looked at the darkening deck. Perhaps he ought to rest as well.

Just then, a shout came from the stern: "Sail ho!"

It was Yevgeny's voice, laced with rare alarm. Ivan's heart sank. He took the stairs in long strides and snatched the telescope. In the circular field of view, a three-masted ship barreled toward them at full speed, flanked by two small bomb ketches, as though they had materialized from thin air.

"Come about and beat to windward," Ivan told the helmsman. "See if we can shake her."

The helmsman swung the bow. Sailors swarmed the yardarms, wheezing as they loosed the lines and let the mainsail sheets drop. The wind was rising, and the darkening sea churned. They sailed hard for a while, and Yevgeny peered through the telescope again. The muscles beneath his eyelids went white.

"Damn it," he hissed. "It's the Royal Navy."

Ivan took the telescope from his sweating hands. No, he didn't even need it anymore. The ship was closing at astonishing speed; already he could make out the trident in the figurehead's grip and the Cross of St. George flying high from the bowsprit. It was indeed the Royal Navy.

"What are our odds?" Ivan asked.

Yevgeny kept wiping the sweat from his upper lip. "Hard to say, sir. Hard to say. The wind favors them. At this rate, they'll be on us in half an hour."

"Try tacking. Open every sail we've got."

The deck thundered with running feet as sailors climbed the rigging. When the wind caught them from astern, they unfurled the mainsail. The Saratov completed the turn and ran before the wind. Ivan raised the telescope and watched the English ship doing the same: she pivoted swiftly into the wind, her well-drilled crew crawling over the yards. Within minutes the lower course, middle topsail, upper topgallant, and royals were all drawing. The English ship rode the windward advantage under full canvas, her speed reaching ten knots.

Ivan entered the captain's quarters. Alfred was already awake, staring out the stern windows at the approaching ship, his face white.

"Stay here. Do not come out without my order." Ivan looked at him.

Those blue eyes widened, full of panic. "But—"

"You heard me." Ivan used the voice that brooked no refusal, then stepped out and closed the door.

On deck, even the helmsman had broken a sweat; the threat of battle spread across the ship like a cold fog. Yevgeny grabbed Ivan's arm and spoke hoarsely: "What do we do, Captain? She carries eighty guns. We have sixty-four. She'll blast us to splinters."

Ivan pulled his arm free. "Maintain course," he said flatly.

"What I'm saying is, hand him over, sir. That's the Royal Navy—"

Ivan rounded on him, seizing him by the collar, something strange flashing in his eyes. "I made a promise," he said, word by word. "I intend to keep it. And I will not let the English think we are afraid."

Yevgeny licked his lips and said no more. Ivan released him, walked to the main deck, and spoke in a voice that carried:

"The Russian fleet has always upheld principles of justice and extended a hand to any soul in peril on the open sea, with nothing but goodwill in its heart. Now we face a baseless provocation and pursuit, forcing us past the point of tolerance. Very well: the fleet of Her Imperial Majesty will proceed, as ever, to wherever honor, duty, and necessity demand. Hoist the colors!"

The Cross of St. Andrew rose to the masthead and snapped in the wind. Ivan gave the order: "Prepare for battle."

The English ship bore down on them at full speed. She sailed through the gathering night, her curved hull gleaming with austere beauty, the black gunports arrayed in neat rows against ochre stripes like a chessboard. Faint moonlight illuminated the Union Jack painted on the Greek shield at her prow. Gilt lettering sparkled: HMS Royal Sovereign.

"What a beauty," Yevgeny murmured admiringly.

Ivan could already make out the English sailors on the Royal Sovereign's deck: tricorn hats, dark blue coats, white breeches. They were assembling in formation on the afterdeck, clutching trumpets and fifes. A man who looked like a commanding officer stood at the front. He raised his arm, barked a command, and the deck erupted in music.

The sound rang out like bells, at first distant and blurred, then swelling in clarity and force, grand and stirring, rolling across the water like thunder.

"My God," Yevgeny breathed beside him. "Imagine being a Spanish sailor a hundred years ago, hearing this rising out of the waves." He shook his head. "It must have sounded like Death knocking at the door."

Ivan listened intently and identified the melody. "'Rule, Britannia,'" he said drily, shaking his head; he already knew who the captain was. "The bastard's trying to frighten us."

The crew of the Saratov stared, mesmerized by the music. The English ship tacked again and closed from starboard. A second sound rose over the drums: the soaring wail of Scottish bagpipes, drifting across the water like a clarion call, electric and piercing. The music grew louder still, and Ivan could even see the cheeks of the trumpet players puffed out. With a deafening boom, eighty guns ran out simultaneously through their ports. A fuse flared, a single salute gun fired, and through the billowing smoke the Royal Navy's blood-red ensign climbed the mainmast.

The music faded. HMS Royal Sovereign now lay abreast of the Saratov, her anchors down. With a metallic rasp, a dozen gleaming flintlock muskets were leveled at once, trained forward.

In the dead silence, Ivan spoke.

"Gentlemen, I'm certain there has been some misunderstanding," he said in his most composed voice. "I request an audience with the captain. Where is he? Why hasn't he shown himself?"

The Saratov's crew turned as one toward the helm, but only the helmsman stood there. At that moment the rigging above them whistled, and a voice said:

"Perhaps the captain has not shown himself because he does not wish to see you, Braginsky."

Ivan looked up. A figure dropped from above, landing not on the deck but on the gunwale, releasing the rope he had swung in on, and balanced there on the timber as steadily as a cat. The tassels on his boots swayed in the wind, London's latest fashion. Above them: the deep scarlet of a captain's coat, an English rapier, a gold-edged tricorn, its emerald brooch glittering.

Every man on both ships gaped at this entrance, piratical in its audacity. Ivan alone kept his composure. "Good evening, Captain Kirkland," he said, with a slight, measured smile.

Another soft thud as England dropped to the deck. "I noticed one of your cast-iron guns looked a bit off. The bore was especially poorly made. I took the liberty of having my men remove it for inspection. Do forgive me."

Two English sailors carried the gun barrel forward. Those accursed bomb ketches. Ivan hadn't even heard when the English had silently commandeered the gun deck.

"Careful now, careful, lads. Set it down here, by my feet." They released it. "Let me see, which pack of imbeciles made this?" England bent to inspect the mark on the base. "French. Why am I not surprised?"

He straightened, flicked a hand, and the two sailors hoisted the gun over the rail and dropped it into the sea with a splash. Just like that, without firing a shot, England had cost him a cannon, and not a single man had dared to stop him. Ivan swallowed his fury.

England leaned over the gunwale and peered down at the water. The splash died away. "Gone." He turned back. "I trust you wouldn't want the same fate to befall these rather useless sailors of yours."

Ivan kept reminding himself of the catastrophic consequences of punching England in the face. His grip on the sword hilt slowly loosened. "What do you want?"

"You know perfectly well." England's expression was grim. "One person. One rebellious little colony. He's mine. You have no right to keep him."

He took a rolled parchment from a sailor beside him, unfurled it, and held it up. It was a pencil drawing, hastily sketching the alleys of San Juan, with two figures rendered in finer detail: Ivan himself, leading Alfred in his dress.

"Nice work," Ivan remarked without a flicker. "I would have thought the disguise could fool even your ubiquitous spies."

"You think I can't recognize a child I raised myself?" England released the drawing; it fluttered to the deck and curled in on itself. "Whatever he looks like, I know him."

"I am not holding him," Ivan said firmly. "He chose to remain on my ship of his own free will. He is my guest, and I have merely fulfilled a captain's duty. As for why he made that choice, you should ask yourself, not me."

England's lips thinned. "I'm sure no one understands hospitality better than you," he said sarcastically. "Where is he?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you," Ivan said. "I don't believe he wishes to see you."

England stepped forward until he was directly in front of him. He was a head shorter than Ivan, and when he spoke, the feather in his hat bobbed near Ivan's nose.

"When did you become his spokesman?" he asked, low and dangerous. "Last I checked, that territory was called British North America, not Russian. And what exactly are you to him?"

"Merely another person who disapproves of the way you operate," Ivan said evenly.

England gave a thin, contemptuous smile and turned away. "I will be taking him back today."

"You claim to care about him," Ivan could not help saying at his back, "yet you treat him like a piece of property."

England spun around. In a flash his sword was drawn, the point hovering before Ivan's eyes, coming to rest just beneath his chin. "Don't presume to lecture me on things you know nothing about," he hissed. "I can say with a clear conscience that I gave him the best of everything. I protected him, loved him, cared for him, gave him the best I had. There is nothing I wouldn't do for him."

"And yet you can't accept that he no longer needs you."

England went rigid, his pupils contracting sharply. Ivan knew he had found the weak point. He pressed on, softly: "Have you ever seen him sail on his own? Did you know he can set out to sea by himself? His marksmanship is extraordinary, practically a sharpshooter." England listened, stunned. "You didn't know. You were too busy expanding your empire to notice that in some ways he has already surpassed you."

England recovered. "Since when do you take a liking to free-thinking rebels?" His expression was mocking. "You?"

"As you've noticed," Ivan said, his lips barely moving. "The one he's rebelling against isn't me."

Fury blazed in those green eyes, then narrowed to slits. "Of course you'd like him, Russia. Because no one likes you, and that child likes practically everyone."

England sheathed his sword and continued, coldly: "I will not repeat myself. This is an ultimatum. Hand him over, or I order my guns to fire."

"You truly believe you can do whatever you please? You are provoking a needless war. I am confident that—"

"I will not go back with you today!"

The shout parted the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. Sailors scattered to either side, opening a path, and at its end stood Alfred in the doorway of the captain's quarters, sword on his hip, face white, fists clenched.

A flurry of emotions crossed England's face: shock, anger, disappointment. Then he composed himself.

"Enough," he said sternly. "This farce ends here."

"It's not a farce," Alfred said, stepping forward and speaking clearly. "I've traveled this far, dodging your ships the whole way, to show you I'm serious. I am my own person, and I have the freedom to do this."

England's face darkened, and he fixed Alfred with cold green eyes.

"Enough, I said. Whatever grievances you have, they can wait until we're back in London."

The scrape of steel: Alfred drew his sword. England's eyes widened, and for a moment he simply stared.

"I propose a duel," Alfred announced. "Just you and me. If you win, you can take me. But if you lose, you must let us go. Without conditions." He added, "All of us."

The men on both decks exchanged uneasy glances. It was a perfect proposal in theory, impossible in practice: the boy meant to challenge one of the most skilled swordsmen in all of Europe. He stood there in the linen shirt he'd been wearing when he fell into the sea, the sleeves worn through at the elbows, thin as a reed. The sailors, already envisioning his swift death at England's hand, crossed themselves.

"Well?" Alfred challenged. "Or don't you dare?"

England's hand twitched for an instant, but he mastered himself. "You're asking for trouble," he said.

"First one to lose his weapon loses," Alfred said.

He untied the cravat at his throat, a cravat England had knotted for him many years ago, and flung it at his feet. England looked down at it, his lips trembling. Then he raised his head.

"Then let me see just how far you've come." His face was expressionless.

England gripped the hilt, etched with an anchor and a lion, and drew. The blade flashed cold. Alfred knew that Arthur always ensured his edge was honed to perfection. A sliver of fear passed through him.

The crowd fell back, clearing a space. Yevgeny sighed. "Foolish boy. He can't possibly win."

Ivan only shook his head and motioned for silence.

On the quiet sea, the only sound was the creak and hum of rigging. England held his sword before his face, moonlight illuminating the Tudor rose engraved on the blade. He gazed at it reverently, then closed his eyes. His expression became as calm as the ocean before a storm.

In the next instant, England opened his eyes. The blade came sweeping down. Steel clashed, sparks flying. Before Alfred could draw breath, the next attack was upon him: thrust, diagonal cut, thrust. Lightning fast, each blow landing before the last was fully parried. Classic English swordplay: swift, direct, without a single flourish, and deadly.

Alfred blocked over a dozen strikes in succession, panting, his back aching, while England had not even broken his rhythm. His attacks flowed, flawless, each stronger than the last. Alfred was driven steadily backward, all the way to the edge of the main deck. England brought his sword around in a horizontal cut. Alfred recoiled, missed his footing, tumbled down the steps, and landed flat on his back on the afterdeck. Mercifully, the sword was still locked in his grip.

"Is that all you have?" England said coldly. "I taught you better than that."

The contempt stung Alfred's cheeks like a slap. Arthur descended the stairs, sword poised. Alfred scrambled backward on hands and knees, got to his feet at the last second, and caught a diagonal cut. Every man on both ships held his breath, watching this contest between mother country and colony. The harvest moon poured its light over their blades, illuminating their clashing figures in a strange kind of dance: America raw and clumsy as a fledgling bird, and England trained and agile as a cat.

Another clash, the metallic scream ringing in Alfred's ears. He blocked a cut with everything he had, twisted away from a second, and Arthur's blade bit into the gunwale, sending splinters flying.

Alfred doubled over, gasping, his vision swimming.

"You really disappoint me," England said. Thrust, cut, a casual deflection of Alfred's weakening counterattack. The blade flickered like a meteor in the moonlight. Alfred could only fix his eyes on that gleam at the sword's tip and keep defending, defending, retreating…

He fell again. Still clutching his sword. His twisted ankle throbbed.

In the crowd, Yevgeny could sit still no longer. "I'm going to help him." He grabbed his hilt, but Ivan caught his arm and gave a slight shake of his head.

Alfred rose once more, steadying his breath, sweat streaming into his eyes. Before him, Arthur shook his head, weariness on his face. "You cannot win. Everything you know, I taught you."

"Not… everything." Alfred gasped, then lunged to Arthur's left. Caught off guard, England parried backhand. The spark between their blades lit up his astonished eyes. "That's—! Where did you learn that?"

Alfred couldn't help a flash of triumph. Fury surged in Arthur's gaze, and his thrust came at once. Alfred couldn't dodge in time; the point scored across his left arm, drawing a line of blood.

England's lips pressed together, his sword suspended in the air. "Yield," he commanded in a low voice. "Stop this madness."

But Alfred threw himself forward again, stubborn as a caged animal hurling itself headlong at the bars. He felt all the years of anger, resentment, and hurt erupt at once. His attacks lost all form; the sword stabbed wildly at England, who parried each one with a grimace, and still Alfred came.

Perhaps the days of pursuit had tired England. Perhaps he had never taken his colony seriously as an opponent. His attacks slowed. He deflected a lateral cut from Alfred and thrust lazily from below. Alfred could easily have dodged it. He shifted his weight to his left leg, preparing to sidestep—

Then Ivan's words rang in his ears: You're too careful with yourself.

Alfred hesitated. Yes: if England's blade struck his left shoulder, it would slow Arthur's follow-through. He would never be able to pull his sword back in time. There would be a single heartbeat's opening, just enough to knock the weapon from his hand.

His feet stopped moving. England's sword drove straight at him, dead center, expecting him to dodge at the last instant—

Alfred stood his ground, staring down the bright blade. Time seemed to slow. He watched it come closer and closer and closer—

A wet sound. The point sank into his left shoulder.

Alfred heard his own cry of pain. It was quick, no more than a blink. Arthur realized what had happened, eyes flying wide, and wrenched the blade free. Alfred clenched his teeth against the agony (his left arm was already numb), raised his sword, and brought it down with everything he had.

England saw the blade plunging toward his face at the last possible moment. He threw up his guard, but too late. His sword spun from his hand and clattered to the deck.

"You lose," Alfred panted, pressing his left shoulder. Arthur's thrust had been shallow, but the pain was excruciating. He bit his lip to keep from crying out; blood poured from the wound, seeping through his fingers, dripping onto the deck.

Long minutes passed. England blinked, as though only now grasping what had happened. He stared at his sword on the planks, then at Alfred standing before him, bleeding freely, and his face went ashen. Something close to anguish surfaced in his eyes. "Why did you have to do this?" he whispered hoarsely.

Alfred squeezed his arm. The wound hurt more with each passing second. "I told you… I'm… serious."

Wind hissed through the great lateen sail overhead. One second. Two. Arthur bent and retrieved his sword.

"Fine," he said, a faint tremor in his voice. "Just remember that this was your choice."

He sheathed the blade, turned, and without another word walked across the gangplank connecting the two ships, his scarlet coattails trailing behind him. Alfred felt something between them shatter, permanently and irrevocably. He could not yet name what it was, but a dim panic welled up inside him. "Wait!" he called.

England stopped, still with his back to him, shoulders shaking faintly. For an instant he seemed about to turn around, but then his fists clenched, his spine straightened, and he strode onto the deck of HMS Royal Sovereign without looking back. Not once did he glance behind him, not even as his ship vanished into the distant waves.

Aboard the Saratov, order had been restored. They sailed before the wind at seven knots, the crew bustling about their work. Alfred sat on the quarterdeck steps, the ones he had tumbled down, gazing at the broken light shimmering along the far horizon. He felt the bruises on his back and hip throbbing dully. His shoulder had been hastily bandaged.

Footsteps behind him. Ivan sat down at his side. "Let me see your wound."

Alfred nodded. The bandage peeled away from the wound, and he sucked in a breath.

"That doesn't look good," Ivan said, frowning. "It probably needs a few stitches. Come."

He led Alfred back to the captain's quarters and sent for hot water, a needle, and thread. He held the curved needle over the flame for a moment, threaded it, and the glinting point made Alfred flinch.

"I'll be as quick as I can," Ivan said gently, and handed him a clean, folded cloth. Alfred clamped it between his teeth. Ivan pushed aside his shirt, wiped the blood from around the wound, and began to suture.

Alfred bit down hard, clutching Ivan's coat so tightly he heard fibers tearing. The sensation of the needle passing through his flesh was horrifyingly vivid. He wanted to scream, but after everything that had happened today, any cry seemed like weakness, unbefitting of who he was, and so he endured in silence.

A snip. Ivan cut the thread. Alfred let the cloth fall, gave a strangled whimper, and collapsed, trembling, against Ivan's shoulder.

Ivan propped him up and wiped the cold sweat and tears from his face. "There, there, little one. All done." He said softly.

A few minutes later, the pain subsided to something bearable. Alfred lay down, and Ivan watched him from the bedside. "What you did out there was heroic. If you hadn't stepped forward, we might have taken serious casualties."

Alfred managed a weak smile. "I told you I'd protect you."

Something shifted in Ivan's gaze, and he brushed a strand of gold from Alfred's ear. A belated grin lit up the boy's face. "We should celebrate, shouldn't we? Everything's fine now! I won!"

It might have been his imagination, but a shadow of gravity seemed to pass through Ivan's eyes. He extinguished the oil lamp. "Sleep."

Two days and two nights of sailing later, the Saratov arrived safely at Salem harbor in Massachusetts and dropped anchor at the wharf. Alfred stepped onto the pier and drew a deep breath of New England's crisp, cool autumn air, sighing with relief. What a journey it had been. Though he hadn't come away entirely empty-handed.

He turned around. The Russian stood a few paces behind him on the tidal flat, his expression as inscrutable as the day they had met. To Alfred, Ivan was like the waves lapping ceaselessly at the shore: each time he felt he was about to reach him, Ivan pulled back at the last moment, even though those deep violet eyes betrayed the opposite desire. In certain moments, Alfred was sure he had glimpsed the burning heart Ivan kept hidden beneath layers of armor. He longed for the day when he could feel that heat with his skin, his body, his soul, with all that he was.

"Thank you," Alfred said again. "Now everything's settled! England is sure to change."

Ivan's mouth twitched faintly, as though about to smile, but when he crouched to meet Alfred's eyes, his gaze was graver than Alfred had ever seen it.

"Settled? No. Not by a long way. Do you truly not realize what you've done?"

Alfred stared, bewildered.

"You humiliated him in front of two entire crews. You made him lose face and forced him to retreat. Do you think England will just let that go?" Ivan shook his head. "This isn't the end. It's only the beginning."

In the harbor breeze, a chill crept through him. "What do you mean?" Alfred asked.

"Prepare for war. That's what I would do."

Alfred stared at him. "But I… I don't have an army, or weapons. You're joking, right? Please, this isn't funny. England wouldn't… he can't—"

But then he remembered. Before the Tea Act, the Stamp Act, the Sugar Act, before England garrisoned soldiers in Boston without so much as a by-your-leave, he had said exactly the same thing. He had told himself it wouldn't happen, and yet it had, one domino toppling after another, each more inevitable than the last.

Alfred dropped his head. A cold dread settled in his gut. "I can't win a war against England."

Ivan understood what he was implying. "Her Majesty will not allow me to intervene. But listen. Many nations are watching the conflict in the American colonies. Some may have no interest in you, but would dearly love to see England brought to his knees. All you have to do is hold on. The moment they believe there is even the slightest chance you might win, they will come to help. So here is my advice: hold on, and don't lose hope."

Alfred looked at him. In the deepening dusk, his face was drawn and sad.

"But I don't hate England. I don't understand. Isn't what I want just? Is it so much to ask? Why does it have to be like this?"

"That's not how the world works," Ivan said. "Nations won't help you because you're in the right." For a moment, old shadows crossed his face. "Relations between nations usually have nothing to do with personal feelings. Sometimes you love a nation yet must fight him to the death. Sometimes you despise a nation yet must pretend he is your soulmate, simply because he has something you want."

Alfred bowed his head, his shoulders rigid, and said nothing.

"You don't need to hate England. You fight him because you believe in something, an ideal, and you believe that once it is realized, it will bring good to countless people." Ivan's voice was quiet. "That's enough."

A long time passed before Alfred nodded. Then his expression turned uncertain, laced with pain. "You're saying that someday we might go to war too?"

Ivan gazed at him for a long while. "Yes," he said.

Alfred's lips trembled. "But I don't want to fight you. You're my friend. I… I really like you." His voice dropped to something barely audible, a blush creeping across his face.

"Remember what I said," Ivan squeezed his hand tightly. "It has nothing to do with personal feelings."

In truth, much later, when he held weapons capable of annihilating the world and the shadow of apocalypse hung overhead, Alfred did recall those words from time to time. They tolled through his mind like a great bell, and he could not help wondering whether everything had been predestined from the very start. But in that moment, watching Russia rise and wave goodbye, all he felt was a genuine and overflowing warmth.

"Good luck, little one," Ivan said. He watched the boy turn toward the town, and silently added: Until next time.

Two years later

He was jolted from sleep by a sound, and realized it was the whinny of a horse. Someone was galloping through the streets, hooves shattering the stillness of the Boston midnight.

"The Redcoats are coming! The Redcoats are coming!"

Alfred sat up. At first the words didn't register. Then he heard the distant clamor beyond his window, and his blood ran cold. He fumbled for the latch in the dark and shoved the window open.

There, where the Charles River wound toward Boston Harbor and emptied into the Atlantic, he saw a sight he would never forget: ship after ship flying red ensigns, packed so densely they choked the harbor. He had no doubt the Royal Navy had sent every fleet it possessed. Under the pale dawn sky, the scarlet flags and the glow of fires on deck echoed one another, setting the sea ablaze.

Come to punish him, discipline him, force him to obey.

Alfred gazed at the ships and imagined them aiming their guns at his towns, his harbors, firing in unison. He imagined how much it would hurt, and the terror nearly split his skull.

When the fear receded, what remained was a startling calm. He got out of bed, opened the wardrobe, and took out a deep blue uniform. He picked up the scabbard on the table. Every day since that night aboard the Saratov, he had polished his sword, making sure it was sharp, gleaming, and within arm's reach. Alfred slung the sword over his shoulder, stood before the mirror, and stared at himself.

A face as pale as a ghost.

Something that had still been flickering faintly in his chest guttered and went out. Then a different fire, entirely new, caught and blazed to life. Alfred drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his whole heart was burning.

He went downstairs, crossed to the stable, and swung into the saddle, as though this were nothing more than an ordinary ride through the countryside. A small group had already gathered in the street, bundled in overcoats, mounted, carrying canteens and ammunition pouches.

"We're heading north," they told the wives who had followed them out. "To Lexington. They say the Redcoats will land there."

Alfred spurred his horse and rode after them. At the top of the hill, he looked back one last time at Boston in the darkness. The Charles wound silvery through the valley, houses scattered like stars. He reached inside his coat and touched the old scar on his shoulder, two years healed.

It was the first wound England had given him, but he doubted it would be the last. He might not be ready yet, but he knew he would fight to his last breath.

April 1780. The Russian Empire. Saint Petersburg

Ivan had been standing in the corridor of the Winter Palace for some time, listening to the Tsarina hold forth on the freedom of trade for the past half hour. He nodded periodically in agreement. When Catherine had finished, she asked, "Do you recall the instructions I had Count Panin draft for the ambassadors of the neutral powers?"

"The proposal to form a League of Armed Neutrality?" Ivan recalled. "I do."

Catherine turned to look down at the courtyard below. A thin blanket of early-spring snow covered Petersburg, beautiful as a fairy tale.

"The fighting in the Americas has spread to Europe. If you ask me, England has started a futile war," she mused. "The North American colonies are destined to win their freedom and separate from the mother country. It is the only possible outcome. Don't you agree?"

Ivan nodded. "I do," he said, with a faint smile. "I always have."

She contemplated the distance a moment longer, then turned back. "I believe it is time to extend a formal invitation. Send letters to the ambassadors of Denmark, Sweden, the Netherlands, and Prussia. Tell them we will be issuing an official declaration shortly."

"With pleasure, Your Majesty." Ivan bowed deeply, took his leave, and set off in high spirits to carry out the order.

END