I forced away a scowl and instead thought of where Zash might be coming from. “We were surrounded by gates, but Papa valued the wild and the adventure.” My voice grew more excited as I recalled those days. “We camped and he taught us to build fires. We helped him chop wood for winter. We learned to cook and work and mend wounds.”
I wanted Zash to know we never saw ourselves as above our people. “He raised us as best he could in our situation, as I’m sure your parents did.”
“I had no parents. Do not assume to know my upbringing.”
I clamped my mouth shut. Maria looked between Zash and me, took a deep breath, and continued the conversation with Ivan. “What about when you weren’t good, Ivan?”
“I do not speak of such things in front of grand duchesses.”
We giggled. Maria brushed her lovely brown hair away from her face, and the wind caught it in a way that would have sent her straight onto the cover of a magazine.
Zash relaxed his stance—almost as a physical apology for his irritation.
“Zash? Did you have any favorite summer activities?” I put forth my kindest and most interested tones in an attempt to convey that our reminiscence could transcend differences.
He took the bait, or rather he humored me and gave in. “Swimming. Fishing. Sharing a meal of stroganina. Spending the day on the beach of the river, cooking shashlik over the fire.” As he talked, his speech grew more relaxed. Nostalgic. A pathway toward a childhood that sounded free and wild. How did he end up a Bolshevik? “That is summer for me.”
“I’ve never made my own shashlik over a fire.” My mouth watered at the idea of the thick mutton soaked in spices and then grilled on a stripped branch or skewer.
Zash smiled at some memory beyond my reach. “Then you’ve not yet lived.”
“Back inside!” Avdeev hollered from the door of the Ipatiev House.
I darted my gaze to Papa. As expected, he rose obediently, scooping up Tatiana’s two dogs. Tatiana pushed Alexei toward the house in Mamma’s chair.
Ivan helped Maria to her feet. I scrambled up before Zash felt as though he would need to do the same. And we all retreated back into the house like shackled, obedient slaves. But instead of imaginary chains on my shoulders, this time I carried the spoils of victory.
Conversation hadn’t been easy, but every time I interacted with Zash I understood a bit more why he was so angry with us. And once I could dispel those misunderstandings, I was certain we could form some allies to help us escape.
June 11
“Dr. Botkin, you are a savior!” Mamma’s frail voice bespoke all our hearts. Our beloved doctor had brought his professional concerns to Avdeev regarding our health, and Avdeev allowed Dr. Botkin to commission the sisters at the local convent for help with food.
Baskets of eggs, milk, cream, meat, sausage, vegetables, and Russian pies arrived at the gate of the Ipatiev House, carried by the sweet sisters. Commandant Avdeev took most of it for himself and his guards, but every morsel we received was more precious to us than the jewels in our undergarments.
Papa prayed over every piece before serving out equal portions.
This became a daily occurrence, and I was so thankful to the sisters that I wrote them a lengthy letter of gratitude. I stood by the door to the landing for several minutes, not yet ringing the bell. Would Avdeev give them my letter? It was hard to imagine he would. Not much would be lost if he didn’t, but it was worth a try. My encouragement could not be quelled today.
I pulled the bell cord. The door opened and I found myself face-to-face with Zash. “Oh!” I stepped back, my stomach performing a clumsy pirouette. “Hello.”
“Dobroye dyen,” he replied. Good day.
I was so cheerful now with several days of proper nutrients pumping through my body that I practically beamed at him. “I have a letter for the sisters.”
Something changed on his face—not a smile, specifically, but a layer of warmth. “They have been very generous.”
I was sure he appreciated the siphoned goods as much as we did since Avdeev claimed his soldiers needed the sustenance as well.
“We are so grateful.” I thought of how many of these soldiers were in their roles because they needed the rubles. How they were all crammed in the basement floors of the Ipatiev House—far stuffier than our five rooms. Even though we were under a prison regime, we likely still looked pampered to them.
I reached out and touched Zash’s arm. “Thank you for serving our beautiful country of Russia. I know our positions might have labeled us as enemies, but I am as grateful for your loyalty as I am for the sisters’ generosity.”
The warmth fled from his face and he schooled his features into indifference once more, but I understood. Compliments were more difficult to swallow than the dry black bread we chewed every breakfast.
I remembered one of the verses Papa read us from the Bibliya—that a kind word turns away wrath. I wasn’t very good at it, but when I did manage to squeak out a compliment or kindness, I always saw Papa’s words in action.
In this moment I wished Zash to hear my sincerity and to know that I did not begrudge him for having to enact Avdeev’s orders.
I knocked on Avdeev’s office door, Zash at my side—standing guard as I tried to find his commandant. The door was locked. I knocked again and a grunt came from inside.
Zash turned me away and held out his hand. “I will give him the letter when he . . . when he is available.” Meaning when Avdeev wasn’t drunk.
“Thank you.” I passed Zash the letter and turned to go back into our prison, but Zash’s low mutter made me pause.
“Some items were recently brought into the commandant’s office from a city raid. Perhaps . . . perhaps you should try searching again. To help your brother.”
I stood, mouth agape, with my hand hovering over the door handle. Did he mean . . . Avdeev had spell ink?
“Maybe tomorrow,” Zash finished, still not meeting my eyes. Then, in a louder voice, he said, “Now return to your quarters, Citizen.”
I obeyed, not sure what I’d just heard. Not sure I believed those words came from Zash’s mouth. And then suddenly giddy that they had. Papa was right—holding on to hope would always lead to surprises.
The next day I had the fidgets. Twisting my fingers. Twisting my napkin. Flipping book edges with my thumb if only to hear the thrick of pages. Wrestling with Joy until she was too tuckered to even lick my face.
Finally, the time came.
Ivan and Zash escorted our family into the garden and I took up the rear. Zash gave no signal, no assurance, but I’d heard the commandant’s voice from outside, which meant his office was empty.
Like a shadow I slipped inside and cracked the door behind me. His office looked pretty much the same as the last time, only now it was filled with twice as many empty vodka bottles. I wasn’t sure where to search. No new crates. No new barrels or boxes.
But then, as I scanned the messy shelves, I saw it.
A round wooden container with silver painting and a tiny stopper that made me think it held perfume. Zash’s spell ink.
Avdeev hadn’t collected any raid items. He probably didn’t know about any of this. Zash . . . Zash had put his bottle of spell ink in here for me. For Alexei.
With my throat growing thick, I grabbed the bottle and slipped out of the office a mere two minutes after entering. And I wanted to cry. Because this kindness—Zash’s kindness—undid me.
I could never thank him properly. He didn’t realize I knew this was his bottle of spell ink. He didn’t realize I knew he had risked his own neck by sneaking it into Avdeev’s office for me. Why? Why would he do this?
Perhaps this was some sort of cruel setup. But with our raw-hearted frustrations and communication, it couldn’t be. Zash had said the one thing we had in common was a willingness to do anything to help a loved one.
He’d seen Alexei’s pain, and the sorrow it caused the rest of us. And even though we were captives under the gua
rd of his gun, he still had compassion. He showed that to me today. And I adored him for it.
9
I painted the spell ink directly onto Alexei’s knee. The rest of our family was finishing up supper in the dining room. This was the only spell I knew, so I made quick work of it. Alexei kept an eye on the door, holding as still as he could.
As I painted the word onto Alexei’s pale skin, I hummed the small tune Rasputin had taught me and focused all my thoughts on the word for the relief spell. Fresh spells came from the right word paired with the right focus and the right music. Part of me considered trying for a new word—something that wouldn’t just relieve some of the pain but would resolve the problem—but I wouldn’t even know where to start.
I placed a palm over the word, closed my eyes, and kept humming. It was a short little tune—Rasputin always emphasized how spell magic was a blend of the ink and the master. Something awoke in me while I hummed. A delight to be doing. Helping. Learning.
If I couldn’t be a princess, I wanted to be a spell master, now more than ever.
The ink wiggled like an impatient worm beneath my hand. Activated. Ready to be used. “Oblegcheniye,” I whispered.
I lifted my hand in time to see the spell sink into Alexei’s skin. Alexei melted back against his pillow, a contented smile on his face. “Ah. So much better than Dr. Botkin’s apparatus.”
“It worked.” I stared at the spot of skin, amazed that I was still able to create a spell. I wanted to learn others. To grow stronger. But the remaining spell ink was barely an inch deep in the bottle. Zash had removed—or used—some before planting it in Avdeev’s office. It didn’t lessen his gift at all, but it did lessen the amount of experimenting I could do. I needed to preserve it for Alexei’s pain.
If we were going to be rescued soon, he’d need all the relief he could get.
“Maybe I’ll go into the garden without the chair tomorrow.” Alexei pushed himself to a sitting position.
“Now don’t give me away,” I scolded.
“You expect me to fake being in more discomfort than I am? Oh, Sister, you ought to know better than anyone that I won’t do that.”
I tucked the bottle into my pocket. “I had to try.”
Alexei watched my movements with a frown. “Where did you get the ink?”
I raised my eyebrows in mock offense. “You expect me to reveal my secrets?”
“You and I don’t have secrets.”
“True.” Could I tell him? Should I tell him about Zash? “I snitched it from Avdeev’s office.”
“Uh-huh.” He knew I wasn’t telling him the full truth. “Spit it out, shvibzik.”
I let out a gust of air and rolled my eyes. “Fine. Zash got it for me. When we left Tobolsk he had some in his pack, but he doesn’t know I knew about it. He tipped me off to search Avdeev’s office and then I found Zash’s bottle of spell ink in there. I think he put it there for me. For you.”
“I thought he hated spell masters. And Rasputin. And all of us.”
“He has some ideas about Rasputin. But . . . I’m still hoping to understand them more.”
Alexei waggled his eyebrows. “Does Soldier Zash liiiiiike you?”
I snorted. “Certainly not!”
“Oh. Well, excuse me for assuming that risking his life might be a sign of affection.”
My traitorous pulse quickened. “It’s not like that.”
Alexei folded his arms and adopted a snooty tsar expression. “Until you provide me with a believable alternative, I will hold to my own opinions.”
I feigned exasperation and left the room. But I dropped the banter act once I entered my own room. Maria was already climbing onto her cot. We kissed each other’s cheeks and I changed into my nightdress.
I couldn’t let myself hope for Zash’s affections. Even I could tell my desire came from the strain of exile. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t safe. But then again, what if he did end up helping in our rescue someday? Should I allow myself to entertain the idea of affection?
I rolled over, my back toward Maria. My thoughts felt more private when she couldn’t see my face. I redirected my pondering away from the dangerous waters of affection and back toward spell mastery. Back toward Rasputin . . . and what Zash had said about Rasputin and Mamma.
Maria breathed heavily in her cot beside me. I allowed myself to question. Even . . . to doubt. I had never doubted Mamma’s loyalty to Papa. But she had spent a lot of time with Rasputin. When he visited us at the palace, Maria and I were often not allowed to be in the same room while she and Rasputin discussed Alexei’s illness.
Rasputin never revealed how he had healed Alexei. He only ever informed me of the very basics of spell mastery—how to make the relief spell. How to apply it. But nothing more—no instruction regarding the history of spell mastery. No direction on how to make other spells or how to obtain spell ink.
Was he just soothing my curiosity? Keeping me happy so I would trust him?
I had seen Mamma’s letters to him when they were published in the Russian newspapers. They were endearing. They were loving. The people called it a scandal. But we Romanovs all loved Rasputin. We all wrote letters like that. The public didn’t understand.
Well . . . Papa never fully trusted Rasputin. Even Olga had disliked him on occasion. They never told me why. If there had been some sort of romantic tryst, wouldn’t they have said something? Wouldn’t they have done something?
The darkness took me into restless dreams, but I woke the next morning determined to ease my mind. I changed into my frayed black skirt and white blouse I’d worn day after day. We ate a quiet, tired breakfast.
Papa moved to his chair, reading a biography on Emperor Paul I that he’d probably read a hundred times already. Mamma stayed in bed, pale and wraithlike.
When the afternoon garden time came, I caught Olga’s arm. “Let me care for Mamma. You go enjoy the sunshine.”
Olga exhaled a gust of air. “Our little imp being an angel? What madness is this?”
I smirked and she rushed down the stairs after the rest of the family. I gathered a bowl of Mamma’s lentil soup from the kitchen and brought it to her bedside.
“Privyet, my little one.” Mamma sat up and her hand went instantly to her forehead. I waited for her headache to lessen enough for me to hand her the bowl.
Perhaps this wasn’t the best time.
Mamma was always so ill. Besides, who was I to doubt her integrity? But if I was to engage Zash—or any other guard, for that matter—regarding their suspicions about Rasputin and Mamma, I needed answers.
“What a gift to have you by my side today.”
I straightened her blanket as she sipped her soup. I could do this. “Mamma, I stayed inside because . . . some of the guards have been talking to me.”
“Are they keeping their hands to themselves? They are not as kind as the ones at Tobolsk.”
“They are not harassing me. They’ve just been . . . saying things that I wanted to talk with you about.” Spit it out!
Mamma set her soup on the bedside table and rubbed a hand over her forehead. “What is it, Nastya? Izvini, but my headache is terrible today.”
“It’s about Rasputin,” I blurted.
She stilled. Then, in a bitter voice, she said, “I can only imagine what shameful propaganda they are spewing.”
“Why did you never allow us in the room with you two?” The garden time was already almost half gone. I needed to get to my questions. “Why did you visit him alone so often? Mamma . . . what happened? Forgive my prying, but I think I see why the guards were so untrusting and the people so suspicious. I don’t know how to set them straight!”
I didn’t think it possible, but Mamma paled more than her usual weak pallor. “What do you think of me, Nastya?”
“I don’t know what to think!” My voice turned teary. “I don’t think ill of you. I love you. I seek only understanding.” She’d spent so much time with Alexei once he was born, hardly any of us sis
ters had more than a half relationship with her. We didn’t know her deeply the same way we did Papa. Maria and me least of all.
“Grigori Rasputin saved your brother’s life countless times. Do you doubt his goodness?”
She was affronted by the attack on his character? What about her own? “Nyet. I do not doubt his goodness. But tell me, Mamma. Why the visits to his home? Why the closed doors?” I hated being at unease. I hated the gnawing in my mind. I wanted to return to my confidence.
“Some secrets are not meant for you, Nastya. You must trust my words. I have never dishonored your papa.”
So she chose to hoard her answers. “Perhaps not through intentions, but due to your secrecy the entire country thinks he was a weak-minded tsar who couldn’t keep track of his own wife!” I gasped the moment the words left my lips. How dare I? I dropped to her side and clasped her hand. “Forgive me, Mamma.”
She pulled her hand from mine.
Shame overwhelmed me, yet ought I be ashamed of speaking my heart? “I trust you, Mamma, but I do not know how to answer the soldiers when they tear apart my family’s integrity. When they accuse Papa of being weak and you of . . . unmentionable things.”
“Even if I shared my secrets with you, they would not be for you to tell the soldiers. It would not ease your predicament.”
“It would ease my mind,” I croaked. “It would ease my heart. This tortures me far more than our exile.”
She fell back against her pillow, her soup abandoned. At this point I would usually go fetch some sort of medicine or Olga to read soothingly to her. Instead, I waited through her discomfort. Through her pain. Hoping—praying—that she would not withdraw her love from me.
I had crossed a line I’d no right to cross. I never should have stayed. I never should have asked.
“We are to die soon anyway,” she mumbled beneath a frail hand, now a broken shell of a woman. “Do with my secrets what you must.”
My heart tripped over its own rhythm. I overlooked her despair about our exile and waited for her to speak.
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