Chapter 5: The Empress's Summons

The morning light filtered through the frost-laced windows of Catherine's sitting room, pale and thin, casting long shadows across the desk where she sat reviewing the day's correspondence. A stack of letters had arrived with the courier—petitions from minor nobles, a request from the household steward regarding the allocation of firewood for the servants' quarters, a note from the French ambassador's secretary expressing condolences for the late Herr von Stetten.

Catherine set the last letter aside, considering its careful phrasing. Cordial. Formal. Entirely without substance. The French were watching her now, she understood that much. They had seen what happened at the reception, and they were trying to determine what kind of woman they were dealing with.

The door opened, and Anna entered with a folded paper in her hand, her face carrying an expression of careful neutrality that Catherine had learned to recognize as a mask for something significant.

"Your Highness, a message has arrived from the Empress's private secretary."

Catherine took the paper, noting the imperial crest pressed into the wax seal. She broke it open with deliberate calm, scanning the formal script. The message was brief and to the point: Her Imperial Majesty Elizabeth Petrovna requested the Grand Duchess's presence in her private chambers at three o'clock this afternoon.

No explanation. No hint of the subject to be discussed. A summons from the Empress was never casual, and an audience in Elizabeth's private chambers rather than the formal reception room suggested an intimacy that could mean either favor or inquiry.

"Has the messenger departed?"

"Yes, Your Highness. He said the Empress's secretary would send a carriage to convey you."

Catherine folded the note carefully and tucked it into her sleeve. "See that my blue silk gown is prepared, the one with the modest collar. And the pearl cross that belonged to my mother."

Anna curtsied and withdrew, leaving Catherine alone with the note and its implications. Elizabeth's health had been failing for months—the courtiers whispered about dropsy, about the swelling in her legs, about the spells of breathlessness that sometimes seized her at formal functions. The Empress had grown more withdrawn, more reliant on her closest advisors, more suspicious of those who circled her throne.

A summons to her private chamber could mean many things. Catherine considered the possibilities, weighing each one as she rose and crossed to the window. The snow had stopped falling, leaving the courtyard a pristine expanse of white. Footprints crossed it in narrow paths, servants going about their morning duties.

The death of von Stetten hung over the palace like a fog that would not lift. The gossip had spread exactly as Anna had described, carried by servants and courtiers alike, until every corner of the Winter Palace seemed to whisper the same story: the Prussian ambassador had killed himself because the Grand Duchess had broken him. No one said it openly, of course. But the whispers were there, threading through every conversation, coloring every glance in Catherine's direction.

Elizabeth would have heard those whispers. Elizabeth, who had her own sources and her own spies, who had kept herself informed of every maneuver in her court for decades. The question was whether she had summoned Catherine to thank her for humbling a foreign diplomat or to accuse her of overstepping the bounds of a Grand Duchess's authority.

Perhaps both, Catherine reflected. Elizabeth was a woman who could hold two opposing thoughts in her mind without discomfort, who could smile at a courtier while already deciding his fate.

By three o'clock, Catherine had dressed with the particular care of a woman who understood the language of fabric and ornament. The blue silk fell in clean lines from her shoulders, its collar high and demure, its sleeves long and unadorned. The pearl cross at her throat was the only jewelry she wore, a piece that had belonged to her mother and signaled piety rather than ambition. Her hair was dressed simply, without the elaborate arrangements favored by the younger courtiers.

She studied herself in the mirror for a long moment, checking for anything that might suggest calculation. The effect she wanted was that of a devoted wife and dutiful subject, a woman who had no designs beyond her own household.

The carriage arrived on time, and Catherine rode through the snowy streets with the curtain drawn, using the journey to review her mental notes on Elizabeth's current state. The Empress had been increasingly absorbed in religious observances, spending long hours in the chapel and consulting with her confessor about the state of her soul. She was also preoccupied with the question of succession, though she said little about it openly. Everyone knew she had not named a successor, and the uncertainty was a source of constant tension among the factions of the court.

Catherine stepped out of the carriage and was escorted through the palace's interior corridors, past guards who stood motionless at their posts, past servants who bowed and averted their eyes. The Empress's private chamber was in the older wing of the palace, a suite of rooms that Elizabeth had kept unchanged for years, furnished with heavy tapestries and dark wood.

The doors were opened by a chamberlain who announced the Grand Duchess's arrival without looking at her directly. Catherine stepped into the room.

Elizabeth lay propped on a mountain of cushions in her great bed, a fur coverlet drawn up to her waist despite the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth. Her face was lined with illness in a way that Catherine had not seen before—the skin drawn tight over her cheekbones, the eyes sunken in their sockets, the hands that rested on the coverlet thin and liver-spotted. She looked smaller than she had at the last formal reception, diminished in a way that the voluminous gowns and heavy makeup of the court could no longer hide.

The Empress gestured weakly, and a servant came forward to help her sit more upright. Then Elizabeth waved her hand, a gesture thin and dismissive, and the attendants filed out of the room, leaving the two women alone.

Catherine curtsied deeply, keeping her eyes lowered. "Your Imperial Majesty. I am honored by your summons."

Elizabeth's voice came out rusted at the edges, weaker than Catherine remembered. "Come here, child. Let me look at you properly."

Catherine approached the bed, stopping at a respectful distance. Elizabeth studied her for a long moment, her eyes moving over Catherine's face with the particular attention of a woman who had spent her life reading people's intentions in their expressions.

"Closer still. I am not so fearsome as I once was, and I do not bite." A trace of the old humor surfaced briefly, and Elizabeth reached out to pat the edge of the bed. "Sit."

Catherine sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to disturb the arrangement of cushions, aware of the intimacy of the gesture. The Empress had never invited her to sit on her bed before.

Elizabeth's hand settled on the coverlet, fingers resting slackly. When she spoke again, her voice carried none of the affectionate warmth that had touched the earlier words.

"The Prussian ambassador is dead," she said, the words simple and direct. "I have been told it was a suicide, though I am old enough to know that such things are often not as simple as they appear." Her eyes fixed on Catherine's face with a curious intensity. "Tell me, child. Do you feel guilt over the death of a man who knelt before you at my court?"

The question hung in the air between them, carrying a weight far heavier than its simple words. Catherine felt the scrutiny pressing against her, the full attention of a woman who had survived every conspiracy and betrayal that had crossed her path for two decades. This was a test, and the answer mattered more than she had expected.

Elizabeth's gaze remained fixed on Catherine, waiting, and for the first time in many months Catherine felt the particular strain of being truly seen.

Catherine let the question settle, feeling the weight of Elizabeth's gaze upon her. Her fingers found the handkerchief tucked into her sleeve—the same one she had pressed to her lips in the chapel—and she brought it to her eyes with a motion that carried the tremor of genuine distress.

"I have prayed for his soul every night since I learned of his death," she said, her voice catching slightly. "Whatever passed between us at the reception, he was a man of standing, a servant of his king. No one should end their days in such despair."

She let the handkerchief linger at her eyes, peering over its edge at Elizabeth's face. The Empress's expression had shifted—not to suspicion, precisely, but to something softer. A woman who had buried many people in her lifetime, who understood the weight of death.

"The servants say he spoke of you in his final hours," Elizabeth observed, her tone carrying the particular neutrality of someone testing the depth of a pool before stepping in. "They say he muttered your name."

Catherine lowered the handkerchief slowly, letting her eyes glisten in the firelight. "I did not know him well, Your Majesty. We exchanged only a few words at the reception. I cannot imagine why he would think of me."

"Because you humiliated him," Elizabeth said, the words delivered without judgment, merely as fact. "You made a foreign ambassador kneel before you in front of the entire court. And then he died. The palace is full of whispers, child. They say you broke him."

Catherine met the Empress's eyes for a brief moment before dropping her gaze to her hands, allowing the silence to stretch. She pressed the handkerchief to her lips, letting out a small, shaken breath.

"I did not intend to humiliate him, Your Majesty. I merely responded to his behavior. He had spoken cruelly of the court, of Russia. When I confronted him, he was overwhelmed." She paused, letting her voice waver. "I have asked God to forgive me if I played any part in his despair."

A long moment passed. Elizabeth's thin fingers drummed against the coverlet, a slow rhythm that spoke of thought.

"You have a way with words, child. I have always noted that about you." The Empress shifted on her cushions, wincing slightly as she adjusted her position. "But I did not summon you here to discuss the Prussian ambassador alone. There is another matter that concerns me more deeply."

Catherine inclined her head, attentive, waiting.

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed, and she seemed to gather herself for the disclosure. "I have recalled Alexei Orlov from the front. He is a captain in the Semyonovsky Regiment, a cousin of that Grigory Orlov who has been seen visiting your chambers of late."

Catherine kept her face still, though her mind moved quickly through the implications. Grigory had not mentioned a cousin returning from active service. She wondered if he even knew.

"He is a sharp-eyed man," Elizabeth continued, her voice carrying a thread of steel beneath its weariness. "Thorough in his investigations, loyal to the crown. I have set him to look into the unrest at court—the whispers about the Grand Duke, the rumors that have been spreading through the clergy and the guard regiments."

The implications settled over Catherine like a cold cloth. Elizabeth had noticed the seeds being planted. More than noticed—she had dispatched an investigator to trace them back to their source.

"You have heard these rumors, I imagine?" Elizabeth's eyes fixed on her, watchful. "They say my nephew speaks contemptuously of the Church. They say he mocks the liturgy, that he intends to replace Orthodox rites with Protestant formalism. They say he is unstable, unfit to rule."

Catherine chose her words with care, letting a hesitant, worried quality enter her voice. "I have heard such things, Your Majesty. It grieves me to say so, but there have been occasions when my husband has spoken in ways that concerned me deeply. He is young, and his temper can be—" She paused, as if searching for the right word. "—volatile."

Elizabeth's expression didn't change, but something in her posture shifted. The muscles around her mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, a sign of attention rather than displeasure.

"Volatile," Elizabeth repeated, tasting the word. "That is a gentle way of describing it. I have heard other descriptions from my sources. Cruelty. Contempt. A tendency to treat servants and courtiers alike with casual brutality."

"I would not wish to speak ill of my husband, Your Majesty. The marriage vows bind me to his well-being, whatever his faults may be." Catherine pressed the handkerchief to her eyes again, allowing a small tremor to enter her voice. "But I confess I have worried for the stability of the court. When Peter is in one of his moods, he does not think of the consequences. He speaks before he considers how his words will be received. And there are those who take offense."

"Indeed there are," Elizabeth murmured. "And those who repeat what they hear, until the entire palace is humming with it."

Catherine let the implication pass without acknowledgment. She had heard the edge in Elizabeth's voice, the sense that the Empress was not entirely certain whether Catherine was a frightened wife or a cunning manipulator. The truth lay somewhere between, and Catherine intended to keep it that way.

"Your Majesty, if I may speak freely—" Catherine paused, and Elizabeth gestured for her to continue. "I am concerned that the unrest will grow worse before it improves. Peter is not suited to the careful diplomacy that the throne requires. He does not understand why words must be weighed and measured. And there are those in the court who would take advantage of that, who would use his impulsiveness to advance their own positions."

Elizabeth's hand stilled on the coverlet. "You believe there is a faction that seeks to exploit my nephew's weaknesses."

"I believe there are always those who seek to exploit weakness, Your Majesty. It is the nature of courts." Catherine's voice grew softer, more intimate, drawing Elizabeth into the confidence. "Peter needs someone to steady him, to guide him away from his own impulses. He needs a partner who understands the weight of the crown, who can smooth the paths he would otherwise damage."

Elizabeth sighed, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest, carrying the weight of decades. "I am tired, child. More tired than I have ever been. The doctors speak of my health in hushed voices, as if I cannot hear them through the doors. They think I do not know what they are saying."

Catherine leaned forward slightly, her face a mask of concern. "Your Majesty, you must not speak of such things."

"I must speak of what is true." Elizabeth's voice sharpened, a flash of the old authority breaking through her exhaustion. "I have held this throne for twenty years. I have fought wars and survived conspiracies and watched the men around me scheme for power. I know what it costs to rule, and I know what it costs to leave a throne to someone unprepared to hold it."

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken anxiety. Elizabeth looked at Catherine, and in that moment her eyes seemed to seek something—reassurance? Understanding? Catherine could not be certain of the answer, but she knew the look was an opening.

Catherine met the Empress's eyes and let her power flow into her voice, gentle as a hand slipping into a pocket. "You have carried this burden alone for so long, Your Majesty. But you do not need to carry it alone any longer. There are those who can help you, who can ease the weight."

Elizabeth's expression softened, the tension in her shoulders loosening visibly. She blinked once, slowly, as if the words had touched something deep within her.

"I have not always been kind to you, child," Elizabeth murmured. "I have kept you at a distance. I have listened to those who spoke against you."

Catherine shook her head, her voice low and soothing. "You have protected the throne. That is what a sovereign must do. But I am not your enemy, Your Majesty. I have only ever wanted to serve Russia, to support my husband, to help in any way I can."

Elizabeth reached out and took Catherine's hand, her fingers cool and thin against Catherine's palm. "You are more capable than the court gives you credit for. I see that now." She squeezed Catherine's hand weakly. "Perhaps I have been too harsh in my judgments."

Catherine held the Empress's hand gently, letting the warmth of the gesture speak for her. In the dim light of the chamber, with the fire crackling and the snow pressed against the windows, she could see the suggestion taking root in Elizabeth's weary mind—that Catherine alone could manage Peter, that Catherine alone could keep the court from fracturing, that Catherine alone was worthy of the trust that Elizabeth had never fully given to anyone.

Elizabeth's hand rested on Catherine's, the touch surprisingly warm despite the thinness of her fingers. Catherine could feel the slight tremor that ran through the Empress's grip, a reminder of the illness that was slowly claiming her.

"I have been too harsh," Elizabeth repeated, the words carrying the particular weight of a woman unaccustomed to admitting fault. "You have shown patience, child. Patience with Peter, patience with this court, patience with me and my suspicions. That is a quality I have come to value more than brilliance or ambition."

Catherine lowered her eyes, allowing a modest flush to color her cheeks. "Your Majesty is generous. I have only done what any loyal subject would do."

Elizabeth patted her hand again, then withdrew her own, settling back against the cushions with a sigh. "You will see, in time, that I am not so generous as you think. I am merely honest, and honesty is a rare commodity in this place." She studied Catherine for a long moment, her eyes carrying a depth of observation that she had not shown before. "Go now. I am tired, and I have given you what I wished to give you. My trust, such as it is. Do not waste it."

Catherine rose from the edge of the bed and sank into a deep curtsy, keeping her eyes lowered with practiced humility. "I will not fail you, Your Majesty. I give you my word."

She withdrew from the chamber backward, as protocol demanded, her eyes catching one last glimpse of Elizabeth settled among her cushions, the firelight casting long shadows across her face. The Empress's expression was softer than Catherine had ever seen it, the lines of suspicion temporarily smoothed away by the suggestion that still lingered in her mind.

The doors closed behind Catherine, and the guards outside resumed their positions without meeting her eyes. She walked back through the corridors with measured steps, her face a mask of serene composure, while her mind raced through the implications of the audience.

Elizabeth was softening. That much was clear. The seed had taken root—the suggestion that Catherine alone could manage Peter, could hold the court together, could be trusted with the weight that Elizabeth no longer had the strength to carry. But there was also Alexei Orlov, sent to investigate the unrest, to trace the rumors that Catherine had so carefully planted. She needed to know more about him, about his methods, about whether he could be turned or would need to be removed.

Those calculations would wait, however. There was a more immediate matter to address.

Back in her chambers, Catherine dismissed Anna with a brief instruction and sat down at her writing desk. She drew a sheet of paper toward her and wrote a short note in a hand that would pass for her lady-in-waiting's if anyone examined it—a request to Peter's valet, asking whether the Grand Duke would be receiving visitors that evening. The phrasing was carefully neutral, the sort of message a concerned wife might send after hearing that her husband had been drinking heavily.

She sealed it and handed it to a servant with instructions to deliver it discreetly.

The answer came back within the hour. The Grand Duke would receive her.

The evening had settled into darkness by the time Catherine made her way through the corridors to Peter's chambers. The palace was quiet, the servants moving in the shadows with the hushed efficiency of those who had learned that the hours after midnight belonged to those who did not wish to be seen.

Peter's valet admitted her with a bow, his face carefully blank. The room beyond smelled of wine and stale tobacco, the fire burning low in the hearth, and Peter himself sprawled in a chair beside it, a half-empty bottle at his elbow. His eyes were glassy with drink, and he blinked at her with the dull confusion of a man who had been drinking for hours.

"Cat," he said, the word slurred. "Come to—come to check on me? Or to—to complain about the wine?"

Catherine crossed to him, her steps soft on the thick carpet. She looked down at him for a moment, taking in the flushed cheeks, the loosened collar, the way his hands fumbled for the bottle before he abandoned the attempt.

"I have come to have a conversation with you, Peter. Nothing more."

He squinted up at her, suspicion flickering briefly through the alcohol haze. "Conversation. You never—you never just converse."

Catherine knelt before him, placing a gentle hand on his knee, meeting his eyes. "Listen to my voice, Peter. Listen to the sound of it, and let the rest of the world fall away."

His resistance dissolved quickly, the familiar surrender washing over his features. His eyelids grew heavy, his breathing slowed, and the tension drained from his shoulders. Catherine watched the change with the particular satisfaction of a woman who had become accustomed to this transformation.

"At the next meeting of the Council," she said, her voice low and measured, "you will speak publicly about me. You will praise my virtues, my intelligence, my dedication to Russia. You will tell the ministers that I have been a source of strength for you, a steady hand in troubled times. When you speak, you will look at me with warmth and respect, and your words will make it clear that any man who speaks ill of me speaks ill of you as well."

Peter's head nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on hers with the blank devotion that she had cultivated over many nights.

"Anyone who criticizes me," she continued, "is an enemy of Russia. You will say that to the Council. You will say it with conviction, and you will believe it with every fiber of your being."

"Yes," Peter murmured, the word soft. "Enemy of Russia."

Catherine held his gaze for a long moment, watching the suggestion settle into the depths of his mind. She placed her hand on his cheek, and he leaned into her touch like a cat seeking warmth.

"Now you will sleep, Peter. You will sleep soundly, and when you wake, you will remember our conversation as a pleasant time spent together. You will remember that I am kind to you, that I care for you, and that you want me to be happy."

His head drooped, and Catherine caught him before he could slump forward, guiding him back against the chair. His breathing evened out into the deep rhythm of unconsciousness, and she rose, looking down at him with a cool satisfaction.

The Council would meet in three days. When Peter rose to speak, the ministers would hear words that no one had ever heard from him—praise for his wife, loyalty to her honor. The court would notice, and the court would wonder.

Catherine left his chambers as quietly as she had come, her steps measured, her face calm. The night had been productive, but the work was far from done.

The following morning brought a delivery disguised as a gift: a slim volume of French poetry, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a silk ribbon. Catherine was familiar with the pattern—Lestocq's method of communication, a code nested inside the verses.

She opened the book to the page marked by a thin strip of paper. The poem there was unremarkable, but the marginal notes in Lestocq's hand carried a different meaning. She read them twice, then a third time, letting the implications settle.

The French ambassador's latest dispatch to Versailles had mentioned her. Not as a footnote, not as an incidental detail, but as a figure of rising influence at the Russian court. The dispatch had named her as a woman of surprising political acumen, a potential force in the succession crisis that everyone knew was coming. It had described her with a wariness that bordered on alarm, suggesting that the French court should watch her carefully.

Catherine set the book down, staring at the fire without seeing it. Foreign powers were watching her now. The French had identified her as a threat—a subtle shift, but a significant one. She was no longer the suffering wife of an unstable heir, a figure of sympathy and no particular importance. She was a player on the board, a piece that the other powers of Europe were beginning to track.

She thought of Elizabeth, softening under the influence of her voice. She thought of Peter, sleeping in his chair, carrying her commands like a ticking clock. She thought of Alexei Orlov, somewhere in the snowy wastes between the front and Petersburg, riding toward her with an investigator's eyes.

The snow continued to fall beyond the window, silent and relentless.

"You have their attention now," she said softly, as if addressing the empty air. "And once you have their attention, it is only a matter of time before you have their devotion."

She picked up the book of poetry and placed it on the shelf beside her writing desk, where the code would remain hidden among the other volumes. The morning light crept across the room as she turned back to her correspondence, her hands steady, her face composed, a woman who had learned to carry the weight of what she had set in motion.