I’d never seen—nor even heard of—a spell as powerful as this.
No wonder Yurovsky wanted the doll. No wonder Papa told me to find it and bring it to Ekaterinburg.
“Are you real?” Zash whispered.
I paid no attention to him. If he wanted to pick up his gun and finish the job he started, so be it. But my brother was perishing before my eyes and I was helpless.
Alexei’s agony increased. Fear bubbled up in my chest. “What do I do?” I said softly to Alexei, who I doubted could hear me anymore through his pain. His eyes squeezed closed and his teeth ground against each other. “I don’t know what to—”
“Nastya . . . let me help.” Zash’s plea came from over my shoulder. I hadn’t even heard him move from his spot. “Tell me what you need.”
“How can you help?” I shrieked, letting fury fill my words even though it emptied my logic. “Alexei is dying because of you!” It didn’t matter that there had been an entire squad of Bolsheviks at the execution or that Yurovsky headed up the entire thing.
Zash betrayed us.
My family had grown fond of him and trusted him and he allowed them to die. Everything—everything—was his fault. I expected such darkness from Yurovsky. Not from Zash. Never from Zash.
Alexei strained against the pain, his bloodied hand gripping mine until I thought the small bones of my wrist would snap. It served as a sharp reminder that I needed help wherever I could get it. And currently, Zash was offering it. I could not allow my anger to push him away.
“How close are we to Ekaterinburg?” I asked in as forgiving a tone as I could muster.
“Only a few kilometers.” Zash sounded embarrassed. Ashamed. “I did not join the transport to the gravesite.”
I could put two and two together pretty easily. He shot us, felt convicted, and fled. Unwilling to help with the burial. Unwilling to see if any of us survived. He fled into the forest where he planned to take his life.
I wanted to feel relief from his regret, but I couldn’t. I despised him. “Was Dr. Botkin killed?”
A pause. “Yes.”
I expected as much. I stood. “We need to get to the Ipatiev House and find the spells Yurovsky has locked in his office. There’s a small tin of relief spells in there. They might help Alexei.” They’d ease the pain but not the injuries. Still, it was all I had.
I clawed my way up a tree trunk until I stood, wobbling. I started to tie my skirt into a knot so I could run without it flapping around my ankles, but Zash grabbed my arm. I glared, but he stared at my arm, as though surprised to find it real.
I jerked away. “Don’t touch me. We don’t have time to lose.”
“Nastya . . .” Alexei called. “I think . . . I think I’m bleeding too much.”
I almost broke into a run then and there. But Zash stepped in front of me. “You cannot go back there. If any guard remains, you will be recognized and likely shot. Especially if Beloborodov shows up. I will run. I will be fast. I am not injured.”
“Fine, but hurry!” I sank down next to Alexei and bunched the hem of my skirt over his hip wound. “Check the lockboxes in Yurovsky’s office for any spells you can find . . .” My words ground to a halt when I took in Zash’s face.
This was Zash. Loyal Bolshevik soldier who’d gotten cold feet after a dirty job.
I took several deep breaths. Alexei had gone quiet—the pain too much. Or perhaps he was already dying. “Are you capable of helping us, Zash?”
“I am. Please. Please let me show you.” I saw the hope in his eyes—hope of a second chance. That this would pay for his misdeeds. That his prayers for forgiveness had been answered.
I let him rest in the lie. If it would help Alexei, I’d let Zash believe whatever he wanted.
I nodded. He left at a sprint. Only then did I realize he’d asked no questions about our survival or our sudden appearance. He was willing to believe what he saw, to act on his second chance without questioning it. On a different day—a day before this one—I might have admired that.
But today I only hoped he’d be fast enough to save Alexei’s life.
25
Being alone in the forest felt far more vulnerable as an injured physical being than as an agile ethereal one. The moment Zash’s crashing run faded from my ears, my mind sprinted as though it were the one racing for medical supplies.
I had assumed the Ipatiev House would be empty now that we were not in it. But what if there were soldiers? What if Zash got caught? It would be easy for him to show up and tell them where Alexei and I were. Bring them back to us. Finish the job.
He might run into Yurovsky, who had likely noticed the disappearance of our bodies—and the Matryoshka doll—by now. What if he found Zash? What if he found us? What if his special watch could detect our location because of the doll in my corset and he was coming after us in the forest?
I rose from my spot by Alexei’s side and found Zash’s discarded pistol. I’d never held a pistol before, but it didn’t seem that difficult. He’d simply lifted it to his head and put a finger on the trigger. I could do that if Yurovsky showed up. But then . . . even if he did appear, how terrible would it be to be killed?
Poor Alexei groaned with every breath. I’d stuffed cloth against his hip wound and pressed my knee against the hole in his hand, but since his blood didn’t clot it wouldn’t do much good.
These were the types of injuries Mamma had dreaded because there was little to do to combat them. These were the things that Rasputin could heal, sucking Mamma’s health away.
My own chest throbbed with each breath—not from emotion, but from the strike of a bullet that had ricocheted off the jewels in my corset. How many times had I been struck? I hurt terribly.
The sun flickered through the leaves overhead, but the shade kept us cool. My throat burned for water. Why had I not asked Zash to get water, too? When he came back we would have to bandage Alexei and leave.
To go . . . where?
To the White Army? We didn’t even know how to find them. Yurovsky said they’d been prepared to launch artillery upon the city. Surely they couldn’t be far.
What was our life for now? Clearly Iisus had given us another chance, but I didn’t know why. I wasn’t sure I wanted it.
I smoothed hair away from Alexei’s brow. Straightened his bloodied collar because he would want it that way, little soldier that he was. For now, my life existed for him. The final heir to the throne of a country that would never accept him. But more than that: He was my brother. And I would save his life.
No matter what it cost me, I would ensure he lived.
I looked at the Matryoshka doll, holding the last two mysterious spells. Yurovsky said the doll would help him find Dochkin. Did the spells lead to him? That must be why Yurovsky wanted the doll so badly. Not to use or confiscate the spells, but to find and kill Dochkin.
Perhaps if I could get Alexei to Dochkin, the spell master could heal him. How powerful was he? His ajnin spell sent us into the spirit realm. It defeated time by bringing our bodies back to us only as injured as they’d been the moment I used the spell.
He had reversed our injuries. With power like that, he could create a spell that could undo my family’s execution. A time spell that reversed the slaughter. If I brought Alexei to him—as his tsarevich—I knew Dochkin would do it for him. For Russia. He was loyal to the Romanovs—there was proof enough of that in the Matryoshka doll.
The sound of something crashing through bushes came from ahead and I threw myself over Alexei’s prone body, grappling for the pistol. As I aimed it toward the bushes, Zash appeared. He saw me, saw the pistol, and pulled up short.
The relief that expelled from my lungs said it all. Though my heart despised him, something in me still trusted him. Still felt safer around him than any other Bolshevik. My arm dropped to the earth and I let the gun fall from it.
“So you are real,” he said softly.
I frowned. “What did you think?”
“I tho
ught perhaps you were sent by Iisus to stop me from taking my life. And perhaps upon my leaving, you would return to heaven.”
“Unfortunately, we’re not angels—we’re just the last two members of our entire family trying to survive.”
Zash tossed me a canteen. “The Ipatiev House was empty except for a handful of soldiers cleaning up the . . . the basement.” Scrubbing away our blood, he meant. “The sisters arrived at the gate almost as soon as I did, so I accepted the food and sent them on their way.”
More rustling sounded from the bushes and I narrowed my eyes. “You brought someone.” He had turned us in—told his soldiers.
The rustling grew louder, but it seemed too fast to be a soldier. Then a russet-and-white bundle of fur burst from the undergrowth and leaped into my lap, licking my face with ferocity.
“Joy!” My eyes burned as I snuggled the spaniel. Another survivor. Another sign of life and hope. “Oh, Joy, you’re alive!” I pressed her face to mine, but she yapped too excitedly to sit still. Then I let her loose on Alexei.
Being the spectacular spaniel she was, she didn’t leap on him, only sniffed around his body and touched her nose to his cheek. He remained still. Cold. No longer strong enough to speak.
“He’s dying, Zash. We have to do something. What spells did you get?”
Joy licked Alexei’s skin—cleaning and healing and showing love in the best way she could.
I beckoned impatiently. “Did you find the tin of relief spells?”
Zash hurried forward and dropped a bundle at my side. Only then did I see how much he was carrying—two packs over his shoulder stuffed with items, three canteens, two rolled-up sleeping mats, and a basket of food. The same basket the sisters would bring to us, only this one carried much more food than what we were ever given.
It was as though Zash knew we had a journey ahead of us. As though he planned to join us on that journey. If I could view him only as an asset—a body of muscle and protection—I was okay with that.
But I couldn’t see him that way. I still saw him enshrouded in a cloud of mistrust. He betrayed us to the point of our deaths. Could a person feel remorse deep enough to undo that? Even if he did, it meant nothing to me. I would never forget what he did. I would never forgive.
“There was only the tin,” he said in a low voice. “I could find no others.” He pulled out a small bottle, barely the size of my thumb. “And some spell ink.”
My hands stilled in their search of Dr. Botkin’s things. “Nothing other than the relief spells?” I’d been hoping for something stronger. Relief spells were about as useful as a cup of cold tea right now. “You can’t have searched very hard!” I should have gone. I should have done the job instead of letting him.
“I searched everywhere, Nastya. He cleared out his office. He must have done it the night before . . . before all of this.”
I found the tin, but when I popped it open no spells wiggled inside. Empty. Either Yurovsky had used them all for some reason, or he’d lost them. “Give me the spell ink.”
Zash handed over the bottle.
There was hardly enough for six spells. I forced my heart to calm so I could hum while painting the words on Alexei’s skin. I used my own finger as the brush since I didn’t have a paintbrush with me.
I painted four and stowed two in the tin for later. The spells were messy, but when I said, “Oblegcheniye,” two of the four spells melted into Alexei’s skin as they’d always done.
“You’re a spell master,” Zash breathed. “All this time.”
“No. I can make one spell. For my brother.” I wasn’t about to tell him I wanted to be a spell master.
Alexei’s breathing evened out for a moment before the pain seemed to return. The spells had hardly helped. I considered using the last two relief spells, but then I saw a kit for stitches. I eyed Alexei’s hip wound.
It was all I could do for now. I pulled out the curved needle. I unwound the thick thread. And I reminded myself of all the times I’d hemmed my skirt and sewn tight lines to keep the diamonds in my corset. I told myself the blood was batting and tangles, that the skin was two frayed edges of cloth.
And I reminded myself that I was a Romanov. I could do this.
26
By the time I finished sewing up Alexei, both Zash’s and my fingers were stained red. We’d packed and bandaged Alexei’s shot hand and then wrapped what was left of Botkin’s cloth around Alexei’s middle. Other than medical instructions, we didn’t speak.
Joy had settled into a curled position near Alexei’s swollen head. That swelling concerned me the most, but I didn’t dare bleed it since he’d likely die from the extra blood loss and the inability to heal. The fact he was even still breathing proved Iisus’ protection over us.
“Thank you for bringing Joy,” I said to Zash.
“She would hardly let me leave without her.” I caught a tentative grin in his voice as he rubbed his hands on a nearby patch of moss.
I didn’t indulge him. Instead, I stared at my unconscious brother, stained red like the color our enemies wore. My throat clogged. “He’s going to die. Probably within hours.”
Zash stilled. “There is a hospital in Ekaterinburg.”
“And there are Bolsheviks in Ekaterinburg. And the Red Army. And people on the lookout for bloodied and dying Romanovs.” I shoved the medical supplies back into Dr. Botkin’s bag. “You asked me to let you help, but if you’re going to lead us right into the hands of your Bolshevik leaders, then get out of here before I shoot you.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m not trying to lead you back into their hands, Nastya. I suggested the hospital because it is nearby and the tsarevich doesn’t have long.”
“He doesn’t! Because of you!” My voice echoed through the trees, silencing us both with its intensity. And when my echo finally settled, a new sound met my ears that sent my blood draining. A distant holler. A search party.
Everything silenced—my thoughts, the forest, the world.
Yurovsky.
He was here. Hunting for us.
Zash scrambled to his feet, throwing our belongings over his shoulders. I grabbed a pack and scooped up Joy—all I could manage with my injuries. “What of Alexei?” I whispered, panicked. “You must carry him!”
Zash was already laden with travel supplies, but he didn’t hesitate. He lifted Alexei gently but swiftly, and we began to run. It was awkward. Jostling. Painful.
And loud.
I was sure Yurovsky was moments behind us, but he’d been up all night, too. He’d been digging and disposing of bodies and planning and plotting and pacing. But he had bullets to catch us.
Wherever Zash was leading us, I followed, hiking up my skirt with my free hand. Every step sent pain shooting up my ribs. Joy kept quiet in my arms, banging against the Matryoshka doll and bruising my sternum. Oh heavens. The doll! We couldn’t outrun Yurovsky when he had his pocket watch. He was after the doll, and the watch would always point him toward the nearest spell.
I couldn’t give it up—not when it would save Alexei. And I couldn’t hide it because Yurovsky would find it. Iisus! What do I—?
I gasped. “Zash! Stop!”
He slid to a stop in a marshy spot of moss. When I reached him, I dropped Joy. She ran around our ankles, happy to be free of my arms. Then I dove into one of the packs over Zash’s shoulder.
“Nastya, what are you doing?” Zash hissed. We could hear them closer now. Their movements, not their voices.
“The spells,” I panted. “His pocket watch detects them. He wants my doll.” My fingers closed around the small tin of relief spells. I put one in the large Matryoshka doll shell and left the other in the tin. Then I threw the tin as far as I could to my left and the other relief spell to my right. “Okay, let’s go. But quietly.”
“We need to keep running.”
“They’ll hear us—”
“They’ll find us, Nastya. If his watch does what you say it does, we need to get out of here.”
Without another consideration, he bolted forward, leaving me to catch up. I ran, too, letting Joy use her own four legs, and I prayed my plan worked. Those spells would lure Yurovsky in. Perhaps he’d think they were the doll or me hiding. And he would spend several minutes following his pocket watch until he found both spells.
Only then would he realize it was a diversion.
I tried to keep pace with Zash, but even carrying Alexei he managed to stay ahead of me. The jolt of each step sent a serrated spike of pain into my chest that grew and grew until I finally couldn’t push myself any farther.
I had to walk—it went against every instinct. It went against every ounce of my willpower. But I couldn’t push through the pain of the bullet that had bruised or possibly snapped my ribs. Zash must have sensed the change in my pace because he looked back and slowed. I wanted to apologize for my weakness, but how could I apologize to the soldier who caused my injuries?
“Keep running,” I told him.
He maintained a walking pace I could match. “No. We will go together.”
“For Alexei’s sake, you must keep going!”
“If I leave you behind, you won’t know where to find us.”
I should shove the Matryoshka doll into his hand and force him to go, but the stubborn set of his jaw told me how successful that attempt would be. I returned the doll back to my camisole. “Where are you even leading us? The hospital?”
It scared me that I had followed blindly to this moment, putting my trust in him through instinct. I reined it back in to the spool of suspicion and growing bitterness in my mind. I must not relax. I must not trust Zash except for the moments that I had no other choice. Like now.
“I know someone who might be able to help.”
Help who? Him? Alexei? All of us? I still hadn’t caught my breath, so I didn’t voice my questions. I just followed Zash through the forest toward the war-zone city of Ekaterinburg. Forced to place my trust in the man who helped execute my family.
We tromped through the forest, silent in speech but growing louder in footsteps due to exhaustion. I glanced over my shoulder every other step, certain I’d see Yurovsky on our trail.
Romanov Page 18
