The Tsarina's Legacy Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Reb” Volkov had taken on the nickname of “Lone Wolf” since “ volk ” meant “wolf” in Russian. Huddling deeper into his light jacket, he turned to wave his arms at the scene behind him, features animated.
    The footage had been taken seven months earlier, when Reb staged an impromptu art exhibit in front of the iconic church. No announcements. No permission granted. The camera followed Reb as he bounced from easel to easel placed along an iron railing overlooking a narrow Petersburg canal. Each of the paintings captured Reb’s signature style: an elegantly familiar landmark paired with garish caricatures of contemporary Russians.
    The camera focused on Reb’s painting depicting Falconet’s statue of Peter the Great, The Bronze Horseman . The wild-eyed horse reared and Peter looked fearsome as a mythical giant, his massive hand outstretched and flat, long fingers splayed. Behind Peter loomed the golden dome of St. Isaac’s Cathedral, shrouded by wispy gray clouds. In the foreground, cartoonish versions of the current Russian president and an Orthodox clergyman, both dressed in the robes of ancient Muscovy, held hands and laughed. Peter’s horse stepped on a snake. The president and the cleric stepped on the bodies of two young men locked in an embrace.
    The painting was meant to protest the law passed by the Russian Duma banning the distribution of so-called gay propaganda.
    Closed captioning scrolled along the bottom of the screen: Russian artist Reb Volkov sentenced to two years’ hard labor at Siberian penal colony for hooliganism.
    â€œSuch a shame,” the ticket agent murmured in Russian.
    Veronica clutched her coat tighter. “I don’t understand. They’re sending an artist with an international following to prison? I thought the court planned to dismiss the charges.”
    â€œHe is brave man,” the ticket agent said quietly. She glanced over her shoulder, as though she suspected someone might overhear their conversation. “And for what?” she said in a low voice. “We are supposed to have freedom of speech. Look at Reb. He is never to survive prison.”
    On-screen, Reb reached his thin, pale hand to his ear and tugged the lobe. She was right. Reb Volkov wouldn’t last a week in a gulag .
    â€œWhat to do though?” the ticket agent said. “It is fate. It used to be we all keep thoughts to ourselves and government leave us alone. This is how my parents live. This is how my grandparents live. Maybe it is easier.”
    Veronica touched the cool bit of silver on her neck: a tiny orthodox cross, the bottom bar slanted down, tarnished from age. It had been a gift from the Dowager Empress Marie to Veronica’s Romanov grandmother, before the dowager had sent her away from her family forever when she was still a mere baby. “Someone needs to set things right. Someone needs to help Reb.”
    â€œNo one help yet.”
    Veronica caressed the cross on the necklace. One of the tiny bars poked the inside of her thumb. Behind her, she heard the girl who had dropped the cookies whimpering while her mother comforted her by humming the theme to Raiders of the Lost Ark .
    I need a purpose. That will be my purpose. Veronica wanted to say this out loud but still felt unsure of herself. “If enough people oppose the sentence, the court may reverse its decision.”
    â€œI hope you are right, but I am not optimist.” She handed Veronica her boarding pass and started to smile. A puffy middle-aged couple in matching USC sweatshirts and carrying dark red Russian passports with the Romanov double-headed eagle stamped on the front sidled up next to her. “Safe travels…”
    The ticket agent’s smile suddenly locked. She glanced at the orthodox cross hanging from the thin chain at the base of Veronica’s throat and then regarded Veronica’s face more carefully. “Wait.” She reached