Is everything good? Vasilchikov, her timid lover, asks. In his eyes there is unease.

How do you tell a man that his caresses are too soft, his kisses too shallow? In the shimmering glow of the Tsarskoye Selo afternoon, everything irks her. The banya is too hot. The rooms too cold, in spite of a blazing re. Time stalls, drags, only to rush forward with frightening abandon. Images stick to her like tar. That moment almost twelve years ago, when, on the heady day of the coup, a young Horse Guard rushed to her side to give her his sword knot. Werent they already riding together, side by side, then? She remembers the silky sheen of Grisha Potemkins hair, the ashes of sauciness in his eyes. Gestures, fast and bold. Thoughts that make her nipples grow tender against her stays. He intrigues me, but Im not besotted. The unattainable tempts him. Potemkin wants to conquer, and what he conquers he will despise. She has known such a man already. She doesnt wish such a man again. The listless man who for the last few months has been allowed to enter her bedroom, who trails after her like a stray dog, repeats his question: Is everything good? Am I pleasing you? These are not wise questions. They invite nothing but lies. They warn of weeping ts, sulky displays of distress. She feels a tug of guilt.

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The Empress turns an hourglass upside down, watches the sand slide through the narrowing tunnel. You must excuse me now, she mutters. Im tired. I wish to be alone.

She throws herself into work. One can be too successful, too bright, too visionary. In European games, power is thrown on the apothecarys scales. If they do not balance, trouble ensues. Russian victories have made the Prussians uneasy and the Austrians frantic. The coded dispatches sent from court to court demand curtailing Russian gluttony. How much would she give up for not fueling Turkish wrath? She is tempted to give up nothing. For months, she pores over maps, adds and subtracts the numbers. How much does a war cost? How much does it bring in return? These are not crass calculations. Prussia and Austria want chunks of Poland. The Empress of Russia can help herself to her share, too. A lions share, Frederick of Prussia tempts. Far greater than what we get. Its a hard bargain. Isnt Poland hers already? Isnt Stanislav doing what she instructs him to? How much shall she pay for peace? She cannot wage two wars, can she? Giving up chunks of Poland? Is it worth it? What if she stalls? Refuses? The Empire is like an old quilt in need of constant tending. As new patches are added, old ones thin and tear. In the Urals, a Yaik Cossack is gathering disgruntled mine workers and runaway serfs. They have just attacked yet another estate. Robbed the cellars, stole the gold and silver and ran away. At the foundling hospitals, the mortality rate is 99 percent. Doctors give her long lectures on the balance of humors and declare the medical art helpless against the immoral habits of the poor. Paul, her son, has reached the age of majority and hints that Maria Theresa is teaching her son and heir how to rule. The throne is a lonely place. From Gatchina, Grigory Orlov is sending emissaries. Brothers, cous-

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ins, even his old servants, whose toothless mouths blend pleas and spit. Grigory wants to see her, his beloved matushka, the only joy of his life, one last time. Only one. How can she deny it to him after all that has joined them? How can she be so cruel? In her inner rooms, the timid lovers voice quivers. Vasilchikovs body gives o a whi of stale cheese. He hasnt seen her for three full days. She has not replied to his latest question. She walked away while he was still speaking. The memory of his touch grows faint and eeting. The lovers hour is for caresses not accusations. My mistake, my fault, she thinks of him. Made of desperation. Should she not have listened to Panin? Should she have sent for him, instead? He, Potemkin, is at the Turkish front. There is nothing they say about him that she doesnt know already. Nature has made Grisha a Russian peasant, and he wont ever change. He fears bad omens. Trails after charlatans and tricksters. Chews on raw turnips. Hes moody. Indolent. Slovenly. Vain. So why does he make friends faster than kvass breeds ies? Her desk is piled high. Letters, proposals, petitions, drafts of treaties she needs to analyze and amend. Reports on the dyeing of silk, the feasibility of building a china manufactory, summaries of books she has no time to read. Five secretaries work around the clock and yet the tidal wave of papers does not diminish. Still think you are better than me, Catherine? the late Empresss voice mocks. That you can do it all alone?

Lieutenant Potemkin appears at court unannounced. He throws himself at her feet, like the thespian he has always been. Her ladies-in-waiting scamper away, lean against the walls, blend into tapestries on which nymphs escape their pursuers, hunters aim arrows at giant stags. A lean, pale face. A black patch over his left eye. A Cyclops, she recalls Grigory Orlovs old taunt. Blacksmiths, she has since learned, cover one eye to minimize the power of ying sparks to blind them. The same cleft chin, full lips. No longer a boy but a man toughened

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by hardships. Attacked and outnumbered by the enemy, he was the hero of the victory. Still in love with her after twelve long years. You can see my zeal. You will never regret your choice. I am Your Imperial Majestys subject and slave. Let it be, she thinks. I wont ght it anymore. In her mind, for some time now, she has been making amends to the timid lover. An estate, a generous pension, a few trinkets from her latest Parisian shipment. How long will it take to move Vasilchikovs things out? A day? Then another day for Grisha to move in. She already has her rst gift to him: a promotion. The simplicity of these arrangements tickles like an ostrich feather. Stand up, Lieutenant-General Potemkin, she orders. Your Empress is extremely grateful for all you have done for Russia. You are very, very dear to her heart. He rises with awkwardness, which amuses her greatly, and gives her a pained look. Why is my Sovereign dismissing me? he asks. Dismissing you? Has she not just given him a sign? Could it be that she has not been clear enough? But deep inside her, she knows that he has read her thoughts and found them wanting. His good eye doesnt let go of her. He shakes his auburn hair. He abhors coyness. He doesnt care about promotions, but now that his Empress has just given him one, he is going back to the south to earn the honor. He thanks God Almighty that the peace treaty with the Ottoman Porte has not yet been signed. That there are still skirmishes on the border. Her shoe grinds against the carpet. There will be a hole there, afterward, matching the size of her heel. Grisha Potemkin does not inch against her anger. His last words to her before he leaves are: Step on me, obliterate me, or take note of my love.

You wont think of him, Catherine orders herself. It is that simple. Not easy, perhaps, but it can be done. There is her sons wedding to plan and arrange. Guests to receive. To dazzle with how much she has achieved already.

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If this is not enough of a distraction, in the Urals, the Yaik Cossack declares himself Peter III. With the help of a faithful servant Ive escaped my wifes murderous hands, he announces, clearly with someones expert help. Ive come back to free my people from this sinful German usurper. Ive come to put my son on the throne that is rightfully his. The Cossacks name is Emelyan Pugachev. Pugachev doesnt resemble Peter. He is short, fat, and illiterate. He speaks only Russian. But those who wish to believe can accept even wilder tales. The mob the traitor commands is no longer robbing wine cellars and stealing silverware. Pugachevs trail is that of slashed throats and spilled guts. It is moving east. She knows them well. False Tsars. Usurpers commanding hordes of peasants. Filthy, bloodthirsty men who listen to their loins and their insatiable greed. Who want to bathe in blood and semen. Who sire nothing but terror and death. How little it takes. Call yourself Peter. Or Elizabeths daughter. Convince a few fools and a few cutthroats rst. Promise them rewards beyond their earthly ambitions. Make them think all is possible. Boundaries will fall. Barriers will be dismantled. Justice will shine on the smallest of them all. Command through hope and fear. Coax and threaten. Oer dreams that dazzle with easy possibilities. Watch the human wave gather more rira, feed on disappointments, thwarted ambitions. Give whats not yours. Grow deadlier with each promise.