Step inside the palace . . .
 H
er name is Barbara—in Russian, Varvara. Nimble-wittedand attentive, she’s allowed into the employ of theEmpress Elizabeth, amid the glitter and crueltyof the world’s most eminent court. Under the tutelage of Count Bestuzhev, Chancellor and spymaster, Varvara will beeducated in skills from lock picking to lovemaking,learning above all else to listen—and to wait for opportunity.That opportunity arrives in a slender young princess fromZerbst named Sophie, a playful teenager destined to becomethe indomitable Catherine the Great. Sophie’s destiny at courtis to marry the Empress’s nephew, but she has other, loftier,more dangerous ambitions, and she proves to be more guilefulthan she rst appears.What Sophie needs is an insider at court, a loyal pair of eyesand ears who knows the traps, the conspiracies, and thetreacheries that surround her. Varvara will become Sophie’scondante—and together the two young women will riseto the pinnacle of absolute power.With dazzling details and intense drama, Eva Stachniak depictsVarvara’s secret alliance with Catherine as the princess growsinto a legend—through an enforced marriage, illicit seductions,and, at last, the shocking coup to assume the throne of all of Russia.Impeccably researched and magnicently written,
The Winter Palace 
is an irresistible peek through the keyhole of one of history’s grandest tales.
 
T
he spies you learn about are either those who get exposed orthose who reveal themselves. Te first have been foolishenough to leave a trail of words behind them; the secondhave reasons of their own.Perhaps they wish to confess because there is nothing else theyhave but the arid memories of their own importance.Or perhaps they wish to warn.I was a
tongue,
a
 gazette.
Te bearer of “the truth of the whispers.”I knew of hollowed books, trunks with false bottoms, and the me-anders of secret corridors. I knew how to open hidden drawers inyour escritoire, how to unseal your letter and make you think no onehad touched it. If I had been in your room, I left the hair around yourlock the way you had tied it. If you trusted the silence of the night, Ihad overheard your secrets.I noticed reddened ears and flushed cheeks. Slips of paper droppedinto a musician’s tube. Hands too eager to slide into a pocket. oomany hurried visits of a jeweler or a seamstress. I knew of leatherskirts underneath fancy dresses that caught the dripping urine, of maids burying bloodied rags in the garden, of frantic gasps for air thatcould not frighten death away.
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