Romanov Page 4

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have duties to attend to.”

  I watched him go, stunned by his denial. My confidence flattened beneath the stampede of fresh panic. Zash claimed he hadn’t taken any of my things. Liar. But usually I could detect lying. Maybe someone else had found the doll.

  An icy finger of premonition slid down the back of my neck. I looked up the hallway toward the soldiers’ quarters. Commandant Yurovsky stood at the opposite end. Watching.

  Suddenly I felt exposed. Found out. Known. I didn’t like it one bit.

  I held his gaze—for my own sake. Not to be stubborn but because if I glanced away now, the needle of fear would pierce its way into my mind and the next time I encountered Yurovsky, I would be unable to find courage to defy him when I needed to.

  With every heartbeat my confidence returned. I was the Grand Duchess Anastasia. I had snuck eggs into his soldiers’ boots without them catching a single whiff of the prank, and I was going to smuggle a Matryoshka doll filled with spells out of this house and to Ekaterinburg, right under Yurovsky’s or Zash’s watchful eyes.

  I would save my family.

  I dipped into a curtsy, then strode up the hall, posture perfected by my jewel-encrusted corset. My grin returned, despite my quickened breath. When I finally turned the corner, I sprinted to my room on the pads of my feet.

  I enacted one last search. The doll was definitely gone. Zash was lying—it was excellent acting. But a Bolshevik would lie only if he wanted to keep the item himself. I returned to the entryway where the servants hustled back and forth, packing belongings for themselves and whatever else they figured we might need.

  Dr. Botkin helped Alexei into his thick officer’s coat with its double-breasted gold buttons. It hung on him like a blanket. Alexei wore his tsarevich soldier uniform, standing tall with his papakha hat at a little jaunt on his head. He could not walk yet, only stand. Dark rings outlined his large eyes and painted his face like porthole windows in a white ship’s hull.

  Alexei wouldn’t be able to stand for long, but at least he was showing his strength to the soldiers before we bid them all farewell. Papa would be proud.

  My stomach lurched. We were mere minutes away from leaving and I’d yet to locate the doll. I would not lose this match!

  I gathered an armful of towels and marched down to the soldiers’ quarters, passing Olga as she tucked a sewing kit into her valise. “Nastya, what are you doing? Get your coat on!”

  “In a moment!” I left the entry and hurried down the hall. Only two Bolsheviks remained in their quarters, tightening their belts and moving soggy egg feet around in their slimy boots. “I brought towels,” I chirped.

  One rolled his eyes and swept past me. The other snatched a towel and wiped his foot off before he pushed it into his boot, without so much as a thank-you. As he left he ground out a single word. “Shvibzik.”

  It wasn’t said in the sweet nickname way my family said it. But it made me grin all the same. They knew I’d put the eggs in their boots. Served them right. If they couldn’t even detect raw eggs in their boots, how could they protect the Russian people?

  I dumped the towels on the ground once the room was empty and hurried to Zash’s space. His belongings sat neatly on his cot—a folded bedroll beneath a smooth, buckled knapsack and a coat beside it.

  This was more than an organized soldier. This was a soldier ready to leave. He was joining us on the train. I could search his belongings then. It took incredible willpower not to tear into his knapsack, but the best imps were the patient ones. Still, I patted it down and squeezed all the fat areas to see if there were any hard pieces in there. None of them felt round, but the doll was so small he could have snuck it into a sock.

  Then I squeezed and met something firm. I glanced back toward the door, my senses on high alert. I couldn’t risk losing the doll.

  I unlatched the straps holding the fat pack together. Then I placed one hand on the outside where I’d first felt the hard item and sent my free hand through the bag’s opening. I wove it carefully through the folded fabrics and past a small notebook. The doll was, indeed, wrapped in an extra set of socks. I pushed them aside with my nimble fingers until I finally felt smooth wood. I curled my fingers around the doll and pulled it out ever so carefully, pausing to listen toward the doorway.

  Still no sounds.

  Finally, I yanked my hand out with a relieved exhale. I’d done it. I’d retrieved the—

  “No,” I breathed, turning the item over in my hand. Brown and silver paint, a fat sphere, and a pointed stopper.

  It wasn’t the doll.

  It was a bottle of . . . cologne? Perfume? I popped out the stopper and smelled. No scent, but the sphere weighed down my hand with its sloshing contents. I dipped a pinky in and met liquid. When I pulled it out, my breath caught.

  Spell ink. Glistening, silvery-rainbow spell ink.

  What was a Bolshevik doing with a bottle of spell ink in his pack? Spell mastery was illegal! If this had been an item found during the search, he would have turned it in to Yurovsky. Either he found it and kept it for himself, or he had brought it with him.

  But Bolsheviks were hunting and murdering spell masters. This made no sense.

  I gripped the traitorous bottle. It wasn’t the Matryoshka doll, but at least it was something I wanted. Something I needed so I could help Alexei. Yet I was an imp. Not a thief. And no matter how badly I wanted this spell ink, I could not allow myself to sink so low as to steal it.

  I was a Romanov. And I would represent that name honorably until my dying day.

  I shoved the stopper back in and plunged the bottle back into the pack, making sure it returned to roughly the same location. I buckled the flaps and angled the pack against the end of the bed as I’d found it.

  I left the room, glad I hadn’t put an egg in Zash’s boot. It had been awkward peering at his sleeping face last night to make sure the boots belonged to him, but if he thought I was an ally—or even just a flirt—he might show my family kindness. And if he didn’t . . . I now had blackmail.

  My shoes clipped up the hall. I knew who I’d need to search next. If Zash did not have the doll, that meant he must have turned it in to Yurovsky.

  The entryway was a flutter of madness. People lugging suitcases, servants asking the Bolsheviks to help, Bolsheviks resisting, Yurovsky directing the chaos, and only half of the crowd listening to him. The front door hung open, letting in the cold. It was raining outside.

  Yurovsky wore his coat, a shoulder satchel, and a firearm—enough attire to see us to the train station but not enough for him to travel along the spine of Russia with us. I located his quarters—a room to himself with hardly more than a water pitcher in it. His belongings lay folded but not packed.

  I ran to them, stilling the thunder of my heart. He wouldn’t come in here. Not right now, at least. I tore through his belongings, unfolding every shirt, turning out every sock, bending a fingernail on another pocket watch, slicing my thumb on the thin pages of a journal.

  No doll.

  No doll.

  No doll.

  For the first time I considered the fact I might fail. I might fail Papa. I might fail my family. Papa said the doll could be our salvation. Without it, we could perish.

  I stuffed Yurovsky’s belongings back into the pack as panic burned behind my eyes. No. No. No. Where was it? Who took it?

  I had no new ideas.

  I reentered the main room with the weight of defeat. I couldn’t meet Yurovsky’s eyes. Zash loaded our items onto the carriage that would take us to the train station in Tyumen. My heart threatened to still with the memory that we were going to Ekaterinburg. The city between familiar Russia and savage Russia. Nestled in the Ural Mountains and home to the most bitter Russians.

  Impossible to be home to us.

  I donned my long grey coat that had seen me from St. Petersburg to Tobolsk and would now see me to Ekaterinburg. I knotted the tie around the middle until it pinched and stopp
ered my emotions. Olga flitted about, searching for any loose items we were forgetting. Did she see all the threads of life we were leaving behind? The piles of memories we’d never revisit? The sheen of hope we were abandoning?

  Her gaze landed on me and her eyes lost the anxious busyness and took on a soft tone. She lifted her hand, and suddenly I felt like the little sister. The small one who stood in a crowd, lost. A failure. I stumbled forward and took her hand, wanting to tell her I’d let Papa down but unable to own that fact yet.

  “The bond of our hearts—” she whispered.

  “—spans miles, memory, and time,” I finished.

  We moved past Yurovsky to the tarantass—a rustic, springless carriage meant to take us to the station. His hands rested in a way to intimidate—one on the holstered pistol, the other on the strap of his small satchel that held the orders to send us to Ekaterinburg. He drew out his pocket watch, tracking the seconds to make sure we would be exiled on time.

  Tatiana entered the carriage with Dr. Botkin and Kharitonov—her own guard of Bolsheviks filling in the extra spaces in the carriage. We wore our wool kubanka hats and ducked our heads against the downpour.

  My hand moved to my stomach, to press down the feelings of sorrow and to touch the bump of jewels. To remind myself that I was defying the Bolsheviks with every step. Olga’s fingers twined the locket at her throat that held a photo of a soldier she’d mended during the war and fallen in love with. Alexei already sat in the carriage clutching his box of toy soldiers as though they were his last loyal army.

  We were clinging to the memories—the good ones. The small comforts and victories.

  As we climbed into the carriage and settled side by side, close enough to form a human blanket with Alexei across from us underneath a real blanket, I allowed my gaze to follow Yurovsky as he hoisted himself onto the seat with the driver, the collar of his coat turned up tall to block the rain.

  My mind buzzed as it clicked clues together.

  Olga held her necklace to check its safety. Alexei held his soldiers to keep them secure in his lap. I pressed my palm against the corset to check the jewels. And Yurovsky . . . Yurovsky had held his satchel the same way we did—as though it held something valuable.

  Like a magical Matryoshka doll.

  The carriage lurched to a start. My sorrow fled. Yurovsky moved his hand to the small bar at the edge of his seat for balance, leaving his satchel loose. It swung back and forth with the movement of the uncomfortable trundle through Tobolsk, sliding against the rain-slicked carriage side. He might lift it onto his lap at any moment.

  I pushed at the rusty window lock with my knuckles. It came free and the carriage window dropped with a clunk.

  “Nastya.” Olga reached for me, but I ignored her. Hesitance had cost too many imps their perfect opportunities. I would not hesitate.

  For Papa.

  For my family.

  And, to be frank, for my own satisfaction in beating the enemy.

  I reached for the satchel, but it was too far, so I pushed the front half of my body through the window. The wind nearly blew my hat off, so I tossed it back into the carriage. Rain pelted my face, its loud splatter drowning out even the splash of horses’ hooves in the mud. Olga tugged at my clothes to pull me back in. But then I felt Alexei’s gentle hand on my knee. Some people supported with their physical strength. Others supported with their emotions. Alexei’s hand was the latter, steadying me with his heart since he couldn’t steady me with his strength. I could almost picture him saying, “Imagine this . . . Nastya defeated the Bolshevik commandant at his own game.”

  With one hand I lifted Yurovsky’s satchel so when I inserted my other hand, it wouldn’t pull against his shoulder. I stayed as flat against the carriage as I could, so as not to alert his peripheral. The muscles in my abdomen burned and pinched against the stiff corset. I took advantage of the stiffness and used it for balance.

  I picked at the tie. We hit a bump in the road and I plunged my hand into the satchel. My fingers searched, groping for the smooth, round piece of wood. They encountered papers, then something sharp, but did not recoil. Olga was pinching my leg now, too nervous to scream my name. Alexei’s grip had strengthened, revealing his fear.

  Then a kiss of wood on flesh.

  My fingers wrapped around the small body. I wanted to pull it free and duck back into the carriage, but this was false victory. It would be an amateur move to forget caution now. In every prank, in every move of stealth, there are two victories: the false and the true. The first and then the final. The victory of achieving your desired goal, but then the true victory of getting away with it.

  Impatience was the grim reaper of all true victories.

  So I paused. I forced my tired arm to lift the satchel even higher, removing any tug or weight from Yurovsky’s body. Then I slid the doll carefully out of the satchel. I slipped it up my sleeve with two fingers and then tied the satchel shut again.

  By this point my body was trembling and icy, Olga was sobbing, and Alexei’s hand clawed at my knee. I lowered the satchel slowly until it rested against the carriage once more. Then I ducked inside, my auburn hair filling the sitting space like a sopping pet. Joy moved from Alexei’s lap and licked the rainwater from my cheek.

  I slid the window back up, latched it, and checked my sleeve. The doll bulged against the seams.

  I’d done it.

  I’d located and retrieved the doll from the enemy.

  I lifted my eyes to Alexei. He stared at me, his own wide and wondering, but he didn’t ask. Olga remained silent with her handkerchief pressed against her face. We didn’t speak, didn’t explain.

  Alexei knew I had a purpose to my mischief. Olga had simply given up on trying to scold me.

  But this time . . . this time I think she’d have been proud. Still, I didn’t tell them about the doll. If Papa had wanted them to know, he would have included them.

  The bumpy ride pained Alexei more than the agonizing hours lying in bed. Olga and I spent most of the ride trying to massage his legs. All three of us exhaled relief when we arrived at the Tyumen train station. I let them exit the carriage first, then transferred the doll from my sleeve to the small space between my bosoms. I was not so endowed that my cleavage would fully conceal the item, but with my coat on no one could tell unless they embraced me. And I did not plan to embrace anyone. Least of all Yurovsky.

  He made us all load our own belongings onto Special Train No. 8. We Romanov girls and Alexei were placed into a dirty third-class carriage with a group of Bolsheviks. Nothing like our Imperial Train.

  Our servants and friends were loaded into the goods wagon and forced to sit on crude wooden benches. Tatiana protested once. The Bolsheviks didn’t let her protest a second time.

  I sat by the window, my heartbeat hammering the wood of the Matryoshka doll. I expected Yurovsky’s hand to slip into his satchel at any moment. To notice the loss. To call a halt to our train.

  “Come on,” I urged the trembling locomotive. “Bystro, bystro.”

  The engine belched forth a warning whistle.

  A lurch.

  We inched away from the station. I could barely breathe. Yurovsky stood on the platform, arms folded, watching our departure. He would notice the lightness of his satchel soon enough. And he would know it was me when he saw his ransacked room. So when the train picked up speed and my window passed him by and his eyes met mine . . .

  I winked.

  4

  I clung to the victory of retrieving the Matryoshka doll, wanting for the moment to think backward and not forward. But eventually my situation caught up with me. I could avoid the inevitable no longer.

  Exile.

  I would allow myself one day. One day to mourn the smothered hope for a quiet life, or the pardon from a trial, or the future of spell mastery.

  I sat by the window, propped my chin on my hand, and unbuttoned my heart. The blurred countryside flowed in, halting my breath. It was too much—to watch th
e trees and fields and villages leave my view forever. Each trunk, each leaf, each pane of glass one breath farther from home. One breath closer to the unknown.

  I felt, instead, that we were sitting still and the world spun beneath me. Leaving me behind and abandoning me to my fate. Farewell, Grand Duchess Anastasia.

  Once the sun set, I rebuttoned my heart and closed the drapes. My new focus turned forward. I’d not mourn the lost good memories—I would apply them to my heart as a poultice every time it ached. That was what positive moments were for—to help heal the wounds of the future. As long as we chose to remember them.

  Days later, we finally pulled into the Ekaterinburg station. My spirit hung like a soggy garment on a drooping clothesline. The train sat in the station for almost twenty hours. It was cold and frosty, and snow covered the ground. I shivered down to my very marrow until morning finally came.

  Bolsheviks collected us, but they did not allow the kind soldiers from Tobolsk off the train. The Ekaterinburg Bolsheviks wore leather jackets and all carried weapons. I checked the cloth buttons on my dark coat to make sure each was fastened. The downpour still got through.

  Each of us girls carried our own heavy valises across the muddy road to the open-carriage droshkies. Tatiana had her suitcase in one hand and her black French bulldog, Ortipo, under the other arm. Poor pup looked half-squished, half-drenched. One of our servants—a sailor named Nagorny—carefully carried Alexei to a droshky.

  Mud soaked into my valenki boots, despite their leather soles, but I didn’t complain and I didn’t ask for help. A few people had gathered at the station to gawk at us. Their cold curiosity added to the frigidity in the air, but nothing could dispel our eagerness and excitement to see our parents. I couldn’t restrain my smile even beneath absurd weather conditions.

  I caught the gaze of one man—a bold revolutionary. But the longer he stared, the more his attempted indifference melted into something else. Pity? Guilt? His hand seemed half-raised, as though to wave or even reach for us. But then, as if struck by intense shame, he melted into the shadows.