Chapter 4
IV.
My fitting the next day turned out not to be with a metalsmith but with the seamstress again, who sewed a constricting white boned-fabric collar around my neck.
Feathers embellished this new accessory, both from above and below, lending additional verisimilitude to my costume.
The white feathers from above the collar scratched my chin and face.
Those from below fanned out in a heavy mantle, warm bright colors ensuring that I could not be missed in a crowd.
Ribbons too dangled from the collar, small bells at the ends of them, ensuring that everyone would know I was coming from rooms away.
The collar, though not changing anything fundamentally, added discomfort to an already impossibly uncomfortable situation.
The bulk of the costume already proved difficult to arrange in order to sleep, but the collar prevented any natural position.
I resigned myself to sitting up to sleep, resting upon the bulk of my costume that would not enable me to rest lying down.
And while being certain I would never be comfortable or rest easily again, each night my eyelids let the weight and misery of the day close them until morning.
I tried, with only a modicum of success, not to sneer at the bowls of borscht served regularly.
So much of Ilyichian cuisine itself served as a punishment that anything traditional might have been met with disdain.
The red lumpy liquid, almost devoid of any meat, failed to inspire anything but disgust as I circled the spoon around each bowl, hoping I might find it, if not more appetizing, at least less repellent than the last. But I ate it anyway, hunger winning out over preferences.
I eventually saw the tsarina’s other jesters performing their duties when she grew tired of me and sent me to my basket nest or had me take the place beside her to pour her kvass.
Most of them, of diminutive stature, tumbled or told bawdy stories.
And they dressed well, not as I did with an absurd costume to denote my position, but with handsome suits and dresses that would not shame anyone should they attend an evening ball.
That was why I had not met them then, despite us all holding the same title. I would embarrass them too.
No one bothered keeping guards or servants on me now, now that I wore an unmistakable costume that would not permit me to hide or move with ease. Now that I wore a costume I could not easily remove and therefore would not get far in an escape attempt.
I took advantage of every moment of privacy to use the chamber pot too, unwilling to imagine the heights to which courtly amusement would soar if anyone realized they could ridicule me while I struggled to defecate. I only hoped the process would get easier with familiarity.
Oh, Great Holy, I did not want to get familiar with this.
My one relief came in the empty nights, waiting until I was completely alone to remove the gloves, push the hood back, and slide the straps of the beak behind my head so that I could lower it around my neck.
I took every opportunity to remove the beak as it had formed terrible sores on the bridge of my nose and around my mouth.
My ablutions and nightly shaves offered a small respite.
I welcomed the evening chill on my face, otherwise hot with perspiration and shame.
I may no longer have been Prince Mikhail, but those moments of quiet solitude free from the mask and the hood and the gloves offered me the opportunity to be a person again rather than an object of ridicule.
I lived now only for those moments. And each morning, I said farewell to myself as I replaced my beak, pulled up the hood, tugged on my gloves, and resumed being the tsarina’s favorite plaything.
My existence fell into a dull routine, providing merciful numbness with each tired request of amusement. At least until I did not wake early enough to replace my costume before the tsarina found me.
Prodding from a walking stick woke me. I stared up at several painted and powdered faces peering down at me, their leering expressions grotesque and unnatural. For one fleeting moment, I considered that, even in my costume, I was the least absurd in the room.
The tsarina stood at a distance from the others, the apex at a channel lined with courtiers. The tightness of the empress’ lips spoke of displeasure.
“I have never seen a bird remove its beak before,” one of the peering people remarked.
I fumbled for the gloves.
“Take this as your one warning, Mikhail,” the tsarina said. “I will have one of your fingers cut off every time someone of my court sees you without your complete costume.”
That would be impossible. Of course, I did not miss the implication that I should never be out of any part of it. The sweat on the back of my neck chilled.
“And when I run out of fingers, ma’am?”
“Then toes. Or,” she mused, thinking better of her threat, “if removing fingers and toes does nothing to inspire you to change your ways, then I will have your nose sliced off that you will wear the beak willingly to cover your disfigurement.”
I repositioned the straps of the beak around my neck and head, then pulled the beak up over my nose and mouth. I also pulled my hood over my hair.
“Better,” the tsarina said. “It would pain me to ruin that handsome face of yours. But I will do it if I must.”
Pain her, maybe, but I did not underestimate her willingness to see me lose bits of myself as a lesson to others. That’s what I was now — a lesson. An example set to remind those around her that they needed her permission to live and breathe and have a life outside of her good graces.
“Fetch the kvass, Mikhail, and then keep us company while we stroll the gardens.”
I obeyed, a silent servant in a chicken costume, trailing behind her group with the pitcher of kvass ready to refill their glasses.
Not even a quarter hour into our walk, Sergey tripped and spilled the contents of his glass over me, the sticky liquid soaking the feathers and padded costume. I developed a quiet endurance, having learned that silence made others lose interest in me, but I still exclaimed from the surprise of it.
The tsarina spun around to see what caused the commotion. Her gathering stopped when she did. She narrowed a glare at me, one brow lifting.
“Sergey could never hold his liquor,” I explained, trying to mop up the spilled drink with my sleeve. “But now he’s proven that he cannot even hold his kvass.”
“It was an accident,” Sergey protested.
I bit back the urge to say “was not” like I might have as a boy. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut entirely. “How relieving to know that he’s as much an idiot as he appears.”
The tsarina strode back to me, disregarding Sergey entirely, and threw the contents of her own glass in my face. Then she laughed.
“Sergey,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on me, “if you’re going to do it, do it with intention next time and then let us know so that we can share in your amusement.”
She held her empty glass out in front of me and waited.
I poured her a new glass as kvass trickled down my forehead and cheek.
“You can squawk as much as you like, Mikhail, but chickens that don’t lay eggs have to provide something else.” The tsarina’s mouth split into a grin. “I would like to keep you around. So why don’t you lay an egg for us?”
“I have no eggs to offer,” I said as I wiped my face.
Her eyes flattened and her face tightened. “Do your best.”
And so, swallowing down the little miserable bit of pride that still protested, I did my best.
I continued to do my best throughout the following days.
Each day became a little easier in action if not in emotion.
The daily exercises wore me down until I no longer recognized myself.
I barely ate. And when others reminded me of my place and function, I performed like an automaton.
I no longer noticed those who stopped at my basket to gawk.
Even the sores that cracked and bled from the unfinished leather of my beak could not recall me from my growing apathy.
Yet somehow, despite my skin thickening and my heart numbing, the torments still found my unguarded places.
The days blended into one another. I wore a significant amount of old kvass despite cleaning during the nights, the stains stark against the white padded costume, although the white had softened to a general yellow-brown.
Alone one night and absently pushing the dregs of my stew around the bowl, a voice pulled me from my wool-gathering.
“It’s the chicken prince.”
My back stiffened, aware that such an address could not mean anything good. Recalling the tsarina’s warning, I pulled the mask back up, although I continued picking at the soup as if I had not heard.
They approached from the left, a mob of well-dressed fools with enough drink in them that I could smell it across the room. Several held wine glasses as they meandered over to me.
“How is the tsarina’s pet this evening?”
“Finishing up dinner,” I said.
“Since when do chickens use spoons?”
One of the querants moved forward and smacked the bowl out of my hands. The bowl hit me in the jaw, and the contents of the stew ran down my front and into my lap.
“Bawk, bawk,” one of them jibed as he leered over me.
“You do that rather well.” Against good sense, I looked up into his face.
“I’ll be sure to tell the tsarina, and she can give you a nest beside mine.
I’ll carry her kvass, and you can spend all of your energy trying not to make an idiot of yourself.
I would find it most entertaining to see you perpetually fail. ”
The jiber took a step forward, but one of his companions caught him by the arm, preventing him from immediate action.