In a secluded chamber of the Winter Palace, hours before the grand banquet of February 1711, Peter the Great sprawls across a velvet-draped bed, his bare chest glistening with sweat in the candlelight. His wife, Catherine, lies beside him, her auburn hair spilling over the pillows, her muslin shift clinging to her form. The air is heavy with the warmth of their love-making, the distant hum of St. Petersburg's frozen streets muffled by thick walls.
"Peter, my-a tsar," Catherine murmurs, her Russian accent soft, her fingers trickling over the hair on his chest, teasing. "Ve must legitimize our girlz, Anna and Lizaveta, so zey can marry, da?"
Peter grunts, her fingers trailing lower, gripping lightly, teasing him, his mind becoming a haze again.
"Vhat for, sun and stars?" he says, his voice rough. "I thought ve offered zem to zat French king Louie?"
Catherine pouts, mounting him, moaning as she settles astride his powerful legs.
"Oh, Peter, my-a luv," she says, her voice sultry.
She moans again, then resolves to finish their talk.
"Louis of France rejected zem, scorned my-a low birth. Ve must do something."
She wiggles just a little to tease him, but her timing is off. Peter growls in anger, grabbing Catherine and rolling on her, pounding into her hard, her breaths coming in waves. The gentle love-making turns raw with emotion, her insides clenching uncontrollably around him as he slams into her one last time.
He hops up, drinks a glass of vodka from a nearby table, and hurls it at the wall, shattering it, not yet fully sated.
"Zey are just vomen, zey can't rule!" he bellows, prowling back toward her, thoughts of the banquet forgotten.
Catherine, her breath steadying, soothes him, her words soft near his ear.
"No, my-a luv, not for ze throne. Zey need to be princesses to marry properly, not commoners. Did you not say ve need allies, da?"
Peter pauses, yanking her up, his hands cupping her, lightly pinching, their heat rising in a crescendo of vodka and desire.
"Da," he growls, taking her again before rising, his face impassive.
He moves to the wash basin, splashing water on his face, then hurls a silver candlestick, shattering a glass mirror into glittering shards.
"France dares insult my-a daughters, sun and stars?" he roars, his voice raw. "Zey vill pay for zis!"
Catherine rises, smoothing her shift, her smile tender as she crosses to him, her hand gentle on his arm.
"Peter, my-a tsar," she soothes, her voice a balm, "you honor us, da? Tonight iz as good as any to make your sun and stars happy."
Peter's rage softens, his dark eyes glinting as he turns to her.
"I love my-a sun and stars, ze light of winter. For my-a girls, da. I have seven heirs already, I vill claim zem and announce zem tonight as princesses."
Catherine's eyes glow, her fingers brushing his.
"Ambassadors and generals vill be zere tonight, my-a tsar. Let ze court see your will."
Peter nods, his jaw tight.
"Ve prepare for ze banquet, sun and stars. Zey vill know my-a strength."
The Winter Palace glows with a thousand candles, their golden flames flickering across polished marble and gilded mirrors. Courtiers glide in heavy velvet, their whispers sharp as the frost on the Neva's ice. The air hums with beeswax and the clink of crystal, samovars steaming in shadowed corners.
Beneath the opulence, unease ripples. A noble vanished last week, his name struck from court rolls. Rumors of secret arrests swirl, and eyes dart nervously to the throne, where upsetting the emperor can be deadly.
Peter dominates the ballroom, his towering frame clad in a velvet coat embroidered with gold. The empire is stable, held together by his iron fist and new policies. He spots General Alexei Menshikov, his trusted advisor, and strides over, gripping his shoulder.
"Alexei," Peter says, his voice low, "ze shipyards vill make Russia a giant, da? Schools vill forge minds to match our swords. I vant you to make it so. Go mingle."
Menshikov, lean and sharp-eyed, nods, his accent thick.
"Da, my-a tsar. Your laws reshape ze world, but ze nobles grumble. Zey fear your reforms."
Peter's laugh is a growl.
"Let zem fear, da? Zey vill bend or break."
He spots Catherine across the room, her auburn hair glowing under a diamond tiara, her muslin gown modest yet elegant. Excusing himself, he crosses the floor, his presence parting the crowd. He pulls her close, his hand bold on her breast, and kisses her deeply, heedless of gasps.
Catherine feels her core heat up at his touch but keeps her expression blank, trained, her head high and noble.
"Sun and stars, you shine, da?" he murmurs, his breath warm.
Catherine, facing the court's scorn with steady grace, smiles.
"Peter, my-a tsar, you honor me, da? Ze court listens."
Peter grips a goblet, his voice a thunderclap that silences the violins.
"My-a Rossiya rises, da?" he booms. "And zis day my-a daughters, Anna and Lizaveta, are legitimized heirs, da?"
Countess Natalia Sheremeteva, her sharp eyes glinting, leans toward a cluster of courtiers, her fan a slash of silk.
"Ze tsar's lowborn wife taints ze bloodline, da?" she hisses, her Russian accent biting. "Legitimizing those girls invites chaos."
Another courtier steps closer.
"You ought to bite your tongue before you lose it," she bites back, her accent sharp. "Ze walls have ears, and ze tsar is ruthless vhere his vife is concerned. You may be ze next one missing."
A young woman with chestnut curls and hazel eyes lingers at the crowd's edge, her muslin gown plain against the court's splendor. Her gaze locks on Catherine, a spark of admiration in her eyes.
"Ze empress endures, da?" she whispers to a maid. "Her strength vill outlast zem."
The maid responds.
"Oh, Anna, you're an idealist and a dreamer."
Beyond the palace, the populace churns. Merchants haggle in snow-dusted markets, peasants trudge through frozen mud. They whisper of Peter's purges, of bodies found in alleys, yet marvel at his vision of fleets rising and laws carved.
Catherine, Peter's anchor, tempers his wrath, her thoughts on their daughters, Anna and Elizaveta, kept from this venomous court in a quiet palace wing with governesses. Their marriage, a scandal to Europe's crowns, bars the girls from royal matches, France spurning them for Louis XV due to Catherine's low birth. Tonight, her love has made their family legitimate, even if the girls can never rule; her blood is now royal.
"We vill make Russia strong, sun and stars," Peter murmurs, his hand gripping hers as they step into a dance. "But our girls must be guarded."
Catherine's smile is resolute.
"Let zem hate, my-a tsar. Ve vill carve our own path, da?"