MOJ MELODYJNY SZATAN

(My Sweet Prince of Darkness)

Ivan thought she was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen. But when he said this aloud, the nurse assigned to watch over him slapped his head and said, “Stupid boy!” in French so heavily accented with Russian it was almost impossible to understand.

His cheeks burned and he lowered his head. He was a stupid boy. He was only six but he knew that tonight all the women of the court were dressed as men, and all the men as women for Empress Elizabeth’s ball. The beautiful lady was a man.

Ivan himself was dressed as a little girl. He rubbed the brocade of the full skirt. It was much nicer than the course clothing he wore every day in the prison.

The nurse surreptitiously pinched his arm. “The Empress,” she hissed.

Ivan looked up, then quickly made an awkward bow. This earned him another pinch from the nurse. He should have curtsied.

He could see his own distorted reflection in Elizabeth’s glossy military boots, a round face surrounded by blonde curls. His own dark curls had been shaved on his arrival in the capital the day before. The lice had been particularly bad in the jail recently.

“As you can see Prince Paderewski, our little czar is alive and well.” The Empress’s exquisite French changed into harsher Russian as she snapped at Ivan, “Stand up, boy!”

Ivan straightened hastily and found himself looking into the deep blue eyes of the beautiful ‘lady.’

“Vous êtes plus beau qu'un ange!” he blurted out. You are more beautiful than angel. In truth Prince August Paderewski did have the face of an angel, haloed by unbound silver-white locks. But there was something about the mouth that hinted at a nature more sensual than spiritual, though the boy could not be expected to know that.

Paderewski acknowledged Ivan with the slightest tilt of his head, “I thank you.” He hesitated for just the barest moment before saying, “Prince Ivan.” Ivan’s rightful title was Czar Ivan VI, Grand Duke of Russia and Muskovy, but it would be suicide to use it in front of the usurper Empress Elizabeth.

The Prince’s French was perfect and without accent of any kind as he continued. “You are kind to a visiting stranger. But I am not an angel. You are much more the angel than I.” He brushed a finger across Ivan’s cheek.

The Prince’s touch was cold, but heat flooded through Ivan. He trembled at the contact. Was he afraid of Prince Paderewski, he wondered? Or was it something else?

The Empress laughed. It was a bitter sound, laced through with jealousy. Though the boy was too young to understand it, he felt it. “As you see, my sweet prince, the boy is something of a half-wit. I doubt he will ever be fit to rule.”

Ivan flushed. He was not a half-wit. He knew the letters of his name. He could even write them; which was more than many nobles of the Russian court could do. But it was death to contradict the Empress.

Elizabeth placed her hand on Paderewski’s arm. “Come,” she said. “There are others I wish you to meet.”

The Prince made a half bow toward Ivan before turning and matching his pace to the Empress’s.

Elizabeth tossed a final command to the silent nurse at Ivan’s side. “Take the boy to his room,” she said in Russian. “He has a long journey tomorrow.”

Ivan followed the nurse as slowly as he dared, feasting his eyes on the glittering beauty of the ballroom and its inhabitants, watching until he could no longer see the Empress and the Prince for the press of the crowd.

It would be months before Elizabeth summoned Ivan to court again; before he was paraded before the rulers and ambassadors of Europe. Ivan was only six but he knew he lived at the whim of Elizabeth. She kept him alive to justify her claim that she served as Regent until Ivan could take the throne. But if she should have a child herself or find a more suitable heir, there would be no more use for Ivan and he would be murdered.

Ivan’s mother Anna Leppoldorna had told him this many times in her more lucid moments. When she was not, which was far more often, she had imagined she was still Empress-Regent and her prison cell was her morning room where she received her guests. She called and commanded and finally cried for servants who were no longer there. At such times, Ivan was usually bundled back to his own cell and left with only his guard for companionship. It would be days sometimes before Anna Leppoldorna commanded her senses once more and could see her son.

Ivan sat up in the great bed, uncomfortable in the unaccustomed luxury and straining to hear the last strains of music from the ballroom. It was late. The candle by his bed was almost burned down. The nurse had fallen asleep in her chair. Her jaw hung slackly open and she snorted often.

The door opened.