I shoved the stretcher into Alexei’s hands. “Stay here!” Then I leaped like a wild woman from the train to the horse. I landed on my stomach over her saddle and almost vomited from the pain it sent to my ribs. Sorry, Vira. The horse still galloped, but not as ferociously as when she’d been pushed by the soldier’s relentless heels.
I straddled the saddle and turned her around. Yurovsky and Zash were still in view. Things had happened that fast. The saddle held a pistol in a holster near my knee.
I urged the horse back into her frantic gallop, back toward Yurovsky, averting my eyes from the bloodied form of her previous rider. Then I rode. I rode faster than I’d ever ridden—galloping like the cowmen shown in the Western moving pictures that used to come in from America.
Wind yanked Vira’s scarf from my head.
Yurovsky sat mounted beside Zash’s body. Zash pushed himself weakly to his hands and knees in the gravel beside the tracks, surrounded by Bolsheviks. Yurovsky leaned down and grabbed Zash by the hair. His gaze lifted at my advance. I didn’t slow. Instead, I pulled out the saddle pistol and leveled it on the forearm of my hand holding the reins. Yurovsky’s eyes widened.
Let him see how it felt to have the barrel facing his direction. Let his heart thunk with a defeated realization that a bullet was coming for him.
I aimed poorly but still pulled the trigger. The Bolsheviks surrounding Zash scattered. My bullet hit Yurovsky’s horse. Poor beast. It reared. Yurovsky tried to hang on, but the horse was dead before its hooves returned to the earth.
It collapsed backward, pinning Yurovsky beneath its mass.
Zash stumbled to his feet, a patch of blood marking the gravel beneath him. I yanked my horse around him, sending pebbles skittering into the faces of the enemy. I held out my hand. Zash took it and nearly wrenched me off the horse’s back with his effort to mount behind me.
Once situated, I steered the horse into the woods so Yurovsky and his soldiers couldn’t shoot us. We dodged trees and headed after the train, branches whipping my face and thunder in my ears. Finally out of range, we returned to the open and entered a full gallop. We reached the back of the train, passed it, and found the gap between the two cars where Alexei stood, lodged against the exterior with the stretcher poles, holding Zash’s pistol in his hand, ready to fight like a soldier.
But no one was coming after us. No one could come after us. Not with Yurovsky’s horse now dead and me riding the other one.
Zash hauled himself from horse to train hitch and held his hand out for me. I shook my head. “I’ll ride her a bit longer!” I hollered. “We can’t have her returning to Yurovsky.” I reached into my corset and pulled out the pearl Vira had refused to accept. “Bribe the conductor with this.” I also held out a diamond. “And tell him he can have the diamond if he blows through the next station.”
Zash grinned. “Let no one ever call you tame!” He managed to take the treasures from me. Blood gurgled from a hole in his upper left arm, but besides that he seemed uninjured. He and Alexei opened the door and entered the train.
And I rode. Wild. Free. Untamed.
32
The horse tired quickly. Only another few minutes of riding alongside the train and foam formed at the edge of her saddle and bit. She wouldn’t keep the train’s pace for much longer. But if I dismounted, would she return to Yurovsky?
The ground sloped away and I veered farther from the tracks to keep a clear riding path. The forest line grew tight ahead and I risked losing the train if I remained astride the horse. The slope ended so I reined her near the train again. With one hand I unbuckled her bridle. Next I pulled at the saddle’s cinch. I undid what I could without completely unseating myself.
I steered her to the train and reached for the rail. It was farther than I thought. It’d be nice to have Zash’s help.
No. I could do this on my own. “Let no one call you tame.”
I released the reins and committed to the transfer, gripping the rail with both hands. The horse veered away from the locomotive and I pushed off her flanks with my feet to send me fully onto the center hitch between cars. Success. The horse immediately abandoned the gallop, drifted into the trees, and started nibbling grass. The bit slipped out of her mouth and she shook herself free of the bridle before a curve in the tracks took her from my view.
I gave a little wave before I turned to the door. Neither Zash nor Alexei had come out to check on me, which struck me as odd. I hauled my weight against the door lever until my ribs reminded me that I’d just slammed them against a saddle horn. With a hissing inhale I tried the door again and the lever slid down. When I opened the door, I understood why Zash had not come back outside.
He sat at gunpoint, cornered by three workmen. Alexei formed a rigid shield between them.
My entrance drew everyone’s attention. This boxcar had no seats—only crates of goods and some scattered luggage. One of the armed men lifted his gun and pointed it at me. I wasn’t in the mood to be intimidated—not after escaping Yurovsky. So I raised an eyebrow. “Zdravstvutye, gentlemen.”
“Not another word,” said the man who aimed at me. It could have been the shudder of the train, but did I detect a tremble? “Who are you and who are these men?”
I knew I looked a wreck—thin and ragged from traveling and meager rations. My shaved head didn’t buy me any favors. I shoved the rib pain out of my mind and produced an impish smile. “Which would you prefer: that I don’t speak another word or that I answer your inquiries?”
He gaped at the others. One man gave a “Go ahead” type of nod. So he turned back to me, though his gun arm had drooped a bit. “Answer.”
During his moment of indecision, I took in the situation and urged my brain to stay sharp. These men wore regular clothing and seemed nervous, which implied they weren’t Bolsheviks. Their guns aimed mostly at Zash, who was dressed as a Bolshevik, and no one aimed directly at Alexei, who still wore part of his tsarevich uniform. These men weren’t enemies. They were frightened that we were.
And the best rule of thumb was to tell the truth unless you absolutely had to lie. Truth was easier to keep track of, and no matter how good one was at lying, it could often be detected.
“I am Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova. This”—I gestured to Alexei—“is my brother, Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov. We have been imprisoned at the Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg by the Red Army. Two days ago Commandant Yakov Yurovsky of the Red Army slaughtered”—I forced past the sudden quiver in my voice—“our family without trial. We are the only survivors.”
My response earned the reaction I had intended. Slack jaws. Wide eyes. Sinking pistols. “And what about him?” One of the other men jutted his barrel toward Zash.
Zash’s head hung low. I took a breath. “He was a guard at the Ipatiev House who helped us escape and is continuing to aid us.”
Zash looked up, hope in his eyes. Relief in his posture.
“He’s dressed like a Bolshevik,” one of the men said.
“And for that, I’m glad, because he is far less conspicuous in public than we are.” I folded my arms. “Do you have any other questions, or may I bandage his arm now?”
The men lowered their guns and backed away enough for me to approach Zash. He’d been disarmed but not mistreated. Yurovsky’s bullet had grazed his arm and torn through his shirt, so I ripped the rest of the sleeve off and used it as a bandage. I tried not to tense knowing the three men stood behind me. But so did Alexei, and he’d keep us safe.
“You were telling the truth,” one man said to Alexei.
Alexei lifted his chin. “I do not lie to my people.” Such a bold statement coming from the mouth of a thirteen-year-old boy was enough to defuse the tension. The men seated themselves on crates. Only once they sat did Alexei sit himself. I was glad we’d given him the numbing spell, otherwise no one would likely listen to him.
“So who are you? Part of the White Army, I presume?” Alexei sat upright but not stiff. Like a so
ldier. Like a leader.
The two quieter men deferred to the first man who had pointed his gun at me. He seemed to be their spokesman, but I wasn’t sure about leader. “I am Kostya. Yes, we are with the White Army.”
I tied off the bandage on Zash’s arm. “Thank you,” he said softly. I nodded and smoothed out a wrinkle. Then I sat on the floor next to him.
Alexei questioned the men. He had a way with words and a way of making them feel comfortable sharing. I’d never seen this side of him. From all the times he joined Papa with the soldiers, I had pictured him sitting and watching. But not actually being a soldier. Not actually leading. I never thought he’d get the opportunity. Yet here it was. He guided these men and their conversation as though he were already their tsar.
“We have been hiding in this boxcar for days,” Kostya said. “Trying to get to Perm. The Red Army is hunting spell masters and killing most of them. Our mission is to find them. To convince them to join us.”
“You place a lot of stock in a handful of people,” Alexei said. “What if they don’t join you? What is the White Army’s plan? Who is your officer?”
Kostya shrugged. “We don’t really have an officer.”
“You must,” I broke in. “You come from Ekaterinburg, do you not?” Kostya nodded. “So then who was your officer? He sent a plan of rescue to us. It was intercepted by the Bolsheviks, but this officer was in communication with the convent sisters.”
Kostya glanced from Alexei to me and back again. “If the Bolsheviks intercepted his letter, they likely killed him. We did not spend enough time in Ekaterinburg to know this officer.”
“So . . . where is the White Army?”
“A division of us was sent to Ekaterinburg. We feigned an assault to disperse the Red Army, but then we split to search for spell masters.”
So they were never here to rescue us.
“The bulk of the White Army is in the west,” Kostya said. “But there is no one man in charge of the Whites.” He gestured to his friends. “We have come to find the remaining spell masters and encourage them to fight with us—against the Bolsheviks.”
Zash squirmed under the gaze the other two men gave him.
“We are going west, too,” Alexei shared. “To find Vasily Dochkin, Russia’s most skilled spell master.”
Kostya laughed in disbelief. “How can you find such a man? He is as untouchable as royalty.”
Alexei pushed himself to his feet and rested a hand on Kostya’s shoulder. “I am royalty, yet you are touching me.”
Kostya clamped his mouth shut and a sense of awe permeated his features.
“I am the tsarevich. I have a way to find Dochkin, and when I do, I will bring either him or his power back to the White Army and join the fight.”
“As our leader?” one man scoffed.
“As our tsar?” the third man asked with hope in his gaze.
“As your fellow soldier,” Alexei replied. “The throne has been abdicated. I will fight beside those who wish to restore traditional Russia—who wish to oppose the actions of Lenin and the Red Army. The people will decide upon their monarch.”
Steel hung in his gaze and admiration in the gazes of the three Whites. I swelled with pride for my little Alexei, but a shadow of concern blossomed in the back of my mind. What would happen when his numbing spell wore off? We needed to get him to Dochkin, and we couldn’t let these men know why.
“What will we do at the next station?” I asked. It was clear Kostya and his men hadn’t allowed Zash or Alexei to bribe the conductor—or even get to him. “Yurovsky could be waiting for us there. It puts all of us in danger.”
Zash grew rigid. “We can’t let this train stop. If Yurovsky found a horse or an automobile, he will be at the station. Even if he’s not there, he will have sent a telegram. There would be no escaping him this time, Nastya.”
I nodded. And though my brain spun for solutions, I did not speak them. I waited for Alexei. His mind spun as fast as mine—despite his head wound that turned his thoughts sluggish. He needed every opportunity to lead while he was still conscious enough to do so.
The three Whites awaited Alexei’s response. Zash opened his mouth, then caught my eye and closed it again.
“We must deal with the conductor directly,” Alexei finally said.
Kostya snapped his fingers. “We have four pistols—that’s plenty to threaten him and the other workers in the engine.”
“First, we will ask him.” Alexei folded his arms. “If that doesn’t work, we will offer him compensation. Nastya?”
“Of course.” I discreetly withdrew a necklace of pearls and handed them to him. Zash also passed over the two pieces I’d given him.
“If he will not be swayed even then, we will resort to force and threats. But we will not kill the man unless in self-defense. He is a citizen of Russia.”
“What of the other passengers?” Zash asked. “They will notice if we blow through a station—especially if some of them wish to disembark.”
Alexei didn’t hesitate. “I’m glad you asked, Zash.”
* * *
“Everyone disembark!” Zash’s shout blasted through the closed doors of the stopped train. Alexei and two Whites had caused the conductor to stop the locomotive one mile from our first stop. And Zash had reentered the train in full-on Bolshevik mode. Head high, coat buttoned, and commands echoing like a relentless battering ram against everyone’s ears.
Not a single passenger hesitated.
“This train is to be searched!” he hollered. “All luggage and passengers must disembark!”
Kostya tossed luggage out of the baggage compartment, not too roughly. The last thing we needed were angry passengers coming up to us. I stayed hidden—there was no way I could blend in as a worker or even a passenger. But I listened. Zash’s forcefulness frightened me a little. I’d never heard him shout.
He played his role well.
The moment the passengers and luggage had been removed from the train, the engine started back up. Passengers stared at each other, confused, as car after car inched past them. But no one tried to board again. Within minutes we were gone, leaving them alone with their piles of luggage to haul the remaining two kilometers to the station.
I didn’t know if the conductor had acted under honor, bribe, or threat. All that mattered was that it worked. We were on our way to Moscow.
33
Zash and I were alone—finally alone—in the passenger car.
Alexei and the Whites were forward with the conductor and the coalmen. This train had nothing like the Imperial Train’s wide, open, and airy compartments. This car was filled with chairs with their cushioned backs against the walls, passengers facing inward toward each other. With just the two of us, it still felt roomy, but I couldn’t imagine how it might feel if every seat were filled.
Zash sat in a chair opposite me, his injured arm held tightly across his middle. I suspected he was in pain but not sharing it. I couldn’t let that stop me from doing what I must.
“May I ask you something, Zash?”
“Okay,” he grunted, adjusting his position to bend over his arm a bit more.
“Why did you join the Bolsheviks?” The first time I met him, he seemed so loyal. He hated me and my family. He’d told Alexei he’d joined to provide for Vira, but that didn’t explain his initial anger toward my family. So much had changed since then. I wanted to understand where he came from.
He released a gust of a sigh, then squinted at me as though to assess how vulnerable he could be. The only emotion I felt toward Zash in that moment was curiosity. It was a blessed relief not to feel the thrum of hatred just then.
“Everything seems tied together. I’m not sure where to start.”
I waited, allowing him to sift through his own memories—which were likely equally as painful to recall as my own, this side of Yurovsky’s slaughter.
“My papa and mama died when I was a boy—Mama from an illness in her stomach, and then Papa
was trampled only weeks later when the tribe was trying to gather wild reindeer to breed. Accidents like that happened often. My babushka—Vira—took me in. But she had no livelihood. So she took up spell mastery and I gathered items and supplies she needed. She became particularly good at healing spells, as you’ve seen. After the revolution began, we moved to the city so as not to draw any attention to our tribe. They’ve since relocated and we have no way of finding them again.”
Having grown up traveling and cherishing every broad forest or stretch of countryside, I imagined the move from the wild to the city had been hard on Zash. It would have been difficult for me.
“By that point I’d learned of the unrest in St. Petersburg.” He glanced up, almost as an apology.
“Rasputin,” I filled in.
“The people were afraid of spell masters because of him. They blamed the tsar.”
“It wasn’t Papa’s fault,” I jumped in, determined to preserve his memory and character.
Zash shrugged. “I don’t believe it was any one person’s fault. But when the people assassinated Rasputin and your father abdicated the throne, I blamed him. Everything changed. It cost my babushka her livelihood. Imagine having all your passions stripped from you because of a decision from someone with more authority than you.”
“I don’t have to imagine,” I said softly. “Our freedom, our lives, our home—everything was stripped from us, too.”
He grimaced. “I guess you’re right.”
“Go on.” I sensed where his story was going, but I wanted to hear it from his mouth while he was willing to tell it.
“I was practically forced to serve in the army. Babushka had no other income, and with the Red Army growing, I could be shot if I didn’t choose a side. So I chose the Bolsheviks. They promised provision. They promised freedom. They paid well and Babushka was taken care of. The more Bolshevik I became, the less anyone would ever suspect Babushka of spell mastery. I was keeping her safe, trying to convince myself that I was also a Bolshevik because of my beliefs. Only once I started guarding your family did I start to see . . . to see things differently.”
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