The Crown’s Game by Evelyn Skye Read Online (FREE)
Read The Crown’s Game (The Crown’s Game, #1) by Evelyn Skye online free here.
The smell of sugar and yeast welcomed Vika even before she stepped into the pumpkin-shaped shop on the main street of their little town. She resisted the urge to burst into Cinderella Bakery—her father had labored for sixteen years to teach her how to be demure—and she slipped into the shop and took her place quietly at the end of the line of middle-aged women.
One of them turned to greet her but shrank away when she saw it was Vika, as people always did. It was as if they suspected that what ran through her veins was not blood as in the rest of them, but something hotter and more volatile that might burn any who came too near. Her wild red hair with its streak of jet black down the center likely did nothing to settle the women either. The only thing “normal” about Vika was her dress, the pretty (albeit rumpled) green gown her father insisted she wear whenever she went into town—minus the dreadful yellow ribbon that cinched her waist too tightly, which she’d rather conveniently “lost” in Preobrazhensky Creek.
Vika smiled at the woman, though it came out as half smirk. The woman huffed at Vika’s impudence, then turned forward again in line.
Vika allowed herself a full smirk now.
When all the women in line had been served and had fled the bakery—fled from me, Vika thought with a shrug—Ludmila Fanina, the plump baker behind the counter, turned her attention to her.
“Privet, my darling Vee-kahhh,” Ludmila said, drawing out her name in operatic song. She was the only one on Ovchinin Island—besides Vika’s father—who met Vika’s eyes when she saw her. The baker continued singing, “How are you this fine morning?”
Vika applauded, and Ludmila bobbed in an awkward curtsy. She bumped into a tray of oreshki cookies, and the caramel-walnut confections teetered on the edge of the counter. Typical Ludmila. Vika furtively charmed the tray to keep its balance.
“Ochen kharasho, spacibo,” Vika said. I’m very well, thank you. She spoke in Russian, unlike the aristocrats in Saint Petersburg, who preferred the “more sophisticated” French. Her father might have been nobility (Baron Sergei Mikhailovich Andreyev, to be exact), but he wanted his daughter to grow up truly Russian—hiking through birch forests, playing the balalaika, and having an almost religious zeal for buckwheat kasha with mushrooms and fresh butter. It was why they lived on this rural island, rather than in the imperial capital, because Sergei swore that living on Ovchinin Island kept them closer to the heart of their country.
“And how are you?” Vika asked Ludmila.
“Oh, quite well, now that you’ve brought a ray of sunshine into my shop,” the baker said in a normal voice. “The usual for Sergei?”
“But of course. It’s the only thing Father will eat for breakfast.”
Ludmila laughed as she fetched a Borodinsky loaf, the dense Russian black bread that was Sergei’s daily staple. She wrapped the bread in brown paper, creased the corners, and tied it with cotton twine.