by Ariel Lawhon
“I fear your lessons have come to an end, Tsarevna. Now is the time for you to put them into practice.”
I nod toward my boot. “Pity sword fighting wasn’t part of your curriculum.”
“I’d hardly call that a sword. And besides,” he lets go of my wrist and taps my temple soundly with one finger, “this is the weapon I expect you to use going forward.”
He is a good man. Sturdy and steadfast, and I haven’t given him enough credit. He looks so somber that I feel a rush of affection for him. “Any sharpness therein is a credit to you.”
He does smile then, proudly, but looks away when my eyes begin to cloud. “You have a remarkable disposition, Anastasia. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Oh, it’s been remarked upon. Endlessly.”
He snorts, but I’ve apparently enjoyed the last of Gilliard’s humor because he returns to his typical, stoic demeanor. “I need you to stand very still,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to tie the laces of your boot. And you are going to let me.”
I want to say that I need the paper knife, that its sharp blade and wicked point are a comfort in the night when every door is unlocked and wicked men roam the halls. But to explain that is to invite questions I am not ready to answer. So I nod and Gilliard goes down on both knees beside me. The sleight of hand is so swift I almost do not see that slim blade slide into his shirtsleeve.
“Is there something wrong with her boot?”
Gilliard ignores the question, his nimble fingers now tightening and looping my laces. I wait until he is done to lift my foot and show Semyon the hole in the end of my boot. He stares at the ripped leather and the stocking-clad toe that peeks out from beneath it.
“Indeed there is,” I say, anger pulsing in every word. “I will need new ones.”
Semyon knows that we have not told our servants what happened on the train. He knows, I am certain, because his teeth remain intact. They’d be knocked out otherwise. I do not doubt that Semyon considers this a victory, that he thinks we are ashamed. So he smiles, cold and cruel. “I believe that the ones you have will last until the end of your life.”
* * *
—
A single carriage comes to collect us. Even as we stare at the six available seats we do not immediately understand what this means. I think Gilliard knew all along, however.
“You will go no farther,” Semyon says when our tutor moves toward the carriage. “They go on from here alone.”
As women we are taught that bravery and valor exist in the grand gestures. We believe that kindness is weakness and arrogance is the same as courage. But it is not so. Sometimes restraint proves the mettle of a man’s heart more accurately. Gilliard could argue or throw a punch. He could slip the paper knife from his sleeve and drive it through Semyon’s throat. It would be satisfying, I won’t lie. But he takes the nobler course instead. He steps back and in so doing not only protects us but also saves his own life.
“Smart man,” Semyon hisses, the words whistling between his teeth. “Now leave while you can.”
Gilliard is circumspect in his farewells to each of us. A kiss to the cheek. A formal bow without regard to the consequences. And a single word whispered in our ears. “Tsarevna,” he says, face turned to stone, emotions squelched.
We watch him board the train and disappear inside the compartment before we climb into our carriage. When we left the Alexander Palace all those months ago we were accompanied by a skeleton crew. Now it is only the four of us, Cook, and Botkin in the carriage, followed by several dozen of Semyon’s guards. They jog steadily behind us as we rattle through the streets. Alexey holds Joy firmly in his lap, but Jimmy refuses to climb up with us. So he trots along beside, dodging puddles in the street and keeping clear of the wheels. Occasionally he looks up at me for encouragement, but he never lags behind. Once, when I glance over my shoulder, I see Tomas in the group of soldiers directly behind the carriage. He doesn’t look at me. His gaze hovers protectively over Jimmy. And I love him for it.
It is an unnerving thought to have in such a moment.
I love him.
It is a stunning, wonderful, entirely human realization at the worst possible moment. I am headed to prison, and I am in love with a boy. It takes a good five minutes before I am able to take in my surroundings once more. And then reality comes crashing in again. The rickety carriage, the bustling street, the stomp of soldiers’ feet behind me.
Whereas Tobolsk was utterly flat and nearly treeless, Ekaterinburg boasts rolling hills and numerous parks. The farther we travel into the city, the prettier it becomes. And the more attention we get. It must be odd, I suppose, to see our carriage clatter by, followed by ranks of armed soldiers. People stand on the streets and point. They stare from open doors and windows. They whisper to one another or dart out of the way when we draw close.
I spot our destination from the bottom of the hill. A giant wooden fence has been built across the front of a house, effectively blocking it from view. The fence is two stories high and made of rough-hewn wood. So new are those planks that they glow golden in the morning light. Once we pull up beside it, the smell of pine is pervasive, and I can see little rivulets of sap running down the boards and pooling in the knots.
Semyon kicks against the gate and it swings open a moment later, revealing a two-story stone building. It is the color of bisque and perfectly rectangular. The roofline is ornamented with corbels, and there is a fountain in the courtyard. But there are bars across the windows and armed guards stand at the front door.
“Welcome,” Semyon says, “to the House of Special Purpose.”
· 25 ·
Anna
TWO YEARS AT DALLDORF
1922, 1921
Dalldorf Asylum, Berlin
May 30, 1922
Anna once lived through a night so long and so excruciating she thought it would last an eternity. Each minute seemed to stretch like taffy softened in the sun, pulled to its thinnest, most tender strand. She believed that if she was lucky enough to survive that night, she would live in slow motion forever. The experience became a door in her mind that, when pushed too hard, swings toward madness. In the years since, as her episodes have become less frequent, Anna still distrusts time itself. She suspects that it is in league with the enemy and the wretched memories embedded in her mind. She fears that time will forever be slower for her, that each injustice and hardship and cruelty will have to be lived through at half speed. So it comes as a surprise to her how quickly her days at Dalldorf slip away. First a handful. Then dozens at a time with her barely noticing them. Weeks. A month. A year, then two. Each day falling into a predictable rhythm.
* * *
—
In the years that Anna has been housed within these walls there have been very few surprises. She wakes and dresses and goes to eat in a small communal area with the other residents of her ward. She is often allowed to work on the grounds or in the sewing room. The staff is careful not to give her scissors or anything else that could be transformed into a weapon. Anna finds it infuriating to sit and wait for a length of cloth to be cut for her, or to have the needle in her sewing machine replaced. But she likes the work. There is a therapeutic rhythm to the rocking of the treadle beneath her feet and a satisfying burn along her calves after she has been working the machine for several hours. She likes taking scraps and remnants and turning them into something useful, whether a table runner or a shirtsleeve. Anna isn’t stupid. She knows that the staff at Dalldorf take the best work and sell it to vendors. She knows that they are profiting from her labor. She also knows that if she protested they would say that no one is funding her stay at the asylum and this is how she earns her keep. Worse, she knows that if she makes trouble they will move her to another ward with less freedom. On still, quiet nights Anna can hear the screaming from across the courty
ard. She knows what happens in other parts of the asylum. If not having scissors is the price she pays for this relative freedom, then so be it.
Anna suspects that the gauzy pieces of fabric she’s sewing today are meant to be women’s undergarments. Most likely slips. The material is a gray, raw silk and it bunches beneath the needle if she works the treadle too fast. So she is bent over her machine, very carefully rocking the paddle with her foot and feeding her fabric through the needle half an inch at a time. She doesn’t see the nurse, the one she has nicknamed the Duck, enter the workroom or stand beside her. Anna is so focused on the clatter of the machine that she doesn’t hear her name spoken the first time.
“Fräulein Unbekannt!”
Anna jerks in surprise and the pad of one finger is pulled beneath the pounding needle. When the needle is raised a second later, there is a smear of blood on the silk and another bright red bead dripping down her thumb. Anna puts her thumb in her mouth and sucks, trying to numb the sting.
“Why did you yell at me?” she asks.
“You didn’t answer me.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Come with me. You have visitors. Again.”
It’s been a week since the Baron left and the bright thread of hope Anna felt after his visit has begun to fade. It flares to life again now, a white-hot undercurrent to her pulse. But she won’t let the Duck know, won’t give her that advantage.
Anna wraps the cuff of her shirt around her wounded thumb and carefully drops her hands to her lap. She lies. “I don’t want to see any more visitors.”
The Duck gives her an exaggerated bow and sweeps her arm toward the door. “And yet you must.”
Anna knows she’s being mocked, but there is uncertainty in the nurse’s voice. Nothing came of the events last week other than a general sense of unease sweeping across the ward. The staff stares at her now. So do the other patients. Anna doubts the Duck or Dr. Arschloch believe her, but they aren’t about to abuse her in any way either. Not with émigrés sniffing about.
Anna tidies her workstation slowly, forcing the Duck to wait, enjoying the subtle noises of impatience behind her. Finally she allows the Duck to lead her out of the workroom and through the maze of narrow halls and into the tidy reception room.
Baron von Kleist and Dr. Arschloch are waiting for them. The Baron is brimming with euphoria. Dr. Arschloch looks as though he’s being asphyxiated. The Baron bows slightly and says, “Tsarevna.”
The two men continue whatever heated argument was interrupted by her entrance, and it takes Anna a moment to realize that her discharge papers are being discussed.
“You will get them ready immediately,” the Baron says. “I am not leaving here without Anastasia.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple—”
“Of course it is. You said yourself that she is neither a criminal nor insane—”
“I’m afraid there’s some disagreement on that point—”
“And that the only thing required for her immediate release was a statement declaring her identity and a written notice of my willingness to care for her upon discharge—”
“Yes, however—”
“You will see that I have provided both in writing”—the Baron pulls two folded sheets of paper from a pocket inside his suit coat—“and that they have been notarized by the local magistrate.”
Dr. Arschloch’s face is torn between competing expressions of fury and fear. He looks to Anna, trying to gauge her reaction, desperate to see if she will officially confirm this claim. Terrified that she will.
Anna smiles at the doctor, her face lighting up with every ounce of vindication she feels. She takes a step closer to the Baron, and this is all the consent he needs.
“Collect your things,” the Baron says. “You’re coming with me.”
ONE WEEK EARLIER
Dalldorf Asylum, Berlin
May 21, 1922
A woman has come to visit her but she isn’t alone. She’s been escorted by a man so wealthy and so striking that Anna cannot help but stare. The woman is pretty in the way all wealthy women are pretty—because of great care and attention to detail. She drips with the scent of expensive perfume, but the man smells of cedar and leather and fresh air. He’s older than all the women in the room. Late forties, most likely, and the very sight of Anna brings a look of triumph to his face.
“See! I told you. The likeness is unmistakable. It’s just as Clara said.”
Anna says nothing and this seems to unnerve him.
He tilts slightly at the waist—a near bow—and says, “My apologies. Of course you wouldn’t recognize us. It’s been so long.” He extends his hand and Anna takes it cautiously. “Baron Arthur von Kleist.” He tilts his head to the left. “And this is my wife, Maria. We got here as quickly as we could.”
This strange, well-heeled woman glares at the Baron. She does not reach for Anna’s hand. She offers no greeting but radiates uncertainty instead. If the Duck had been interested in Anna’s visitors before, she is dumbfounded now.
“I’m very glad to see you again,” Anna says, and watches with great pleasure as the Duck lifts one eyebrow in a high, curious arch.
Baron von Kleist offers such a bright grin that Anna cannot help but give him one of her own.
“No,” Maria says suddenly, loudly. “It cannot be her. I do not believe it.”
“But it’s obvious. Just look at her.”
“I have.” Maria shakes her head. “She is too short to be Tatiana.”
The woman gathers her purse and walks to the door without another word. The Baron, confused, moves to follow her.
“Wait!” Anna says, taking a step toward him. He reaches for his wife and pulls her to a stop. “How do you know Clara Peuthert?”
“She is the daughter of a friend,” the Baron says. “And she tells me you are the daughter of the tsar.”
“And you believe her?”
“I do now,” he says, and then the two visitors are gone.
* * *
—
They have been alone for less than a minute, and Dalldorf’s head nurse is staggered. “Who are you,” the Duck asks, “to get such a reaction from a man like that?” The questions come quickly. “Am I right in assuming those people believe you to be Tatiana”—she clears her throat—“Tatiana Romanov?”
“Clearly not. You heard them.”
“I heard her. The Baron believes something else entirely.” The Duck is furious, in a pure, holy rage as she rises from her chair and takes three cautious steps toward Anna. Her words are careful and measured, spiked with indignation when she asks her next question. “Why did Clara Peuthert tell them you were Tatiana? Why?”
“I did not say I was Tatiana. Not one time. Not to Clara and not to them.”
“Who are you then? What is your name? That”—she points to the door—“can never happen again. Do you understand?”
Anna has held on for so long. She has kept the truth of her identity wrapped tight against all prodding, pleading, and threats. It has been the one thing that no one could take from her. But sitting here before the window, bathed in a perfect rectangle of light, she is transfixed by a single name. The one name that can free her from this prison. All because of Crazy Clara’s aggressive reverence. Thanks to Clara, and to the Baron, there is the possibility of freedom now. All she has to do is speak. So she does.
“My name,” she says, “is Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov.”
ONE WEEK EARLIER
Dalldorf Asylum, Berlin
May 14, 1922
“Don’t be a fool,” Anna says. She wants to shake Clara, to rattle her teeth, but she doesn’t. Physical contact is prohibited between patients, and the scolding isn’t worth spending her day in the small, dank room in the basement used for punishing rule breakers. “You’re the only person in thi
s whole godforsaken place who doesn’t want to leave.”
“But you are here.”
“Oh, good grief. Not this again—”
“You need me.”
“No. I don’t. I’ve gotten along just fine without you for many, many years. Go home, Clara. Your family misses you.”
Clara’s eyes are big and glassy on a good day, when she’s happy, but at the moment they are huge gray pools that threaten to overflow. Anna hates it when Clara blubbers. Hates it for reasons she doesn’t even understand. The poor girl can’t help it. She’s fragile and emotive, but Anna only sees weakness. Someone who is easily manipulated. Clara is the sort of woman who doesn’t know how to think, only what to think.
“What about your family?” Clara whispers.
Anna looks away, whispers, “My family is gone.”
And then Clara is weeping into her shoulder, unconcerned about rules and policy or any threat of punishment. They’ve been allowed into the courtyard for a few glorious minutes, and Anna doesn’t want the time to be cut short by Clara’s hysterics. It rained earlier in the morning, but the sky is clear now and the air smells of warm grass and damp soil. Anna was enjoying herself immensely before Clara plopped down next to her on the bench and complained about being released. Anna shakes her off, afraid that the staff will see the outburst and blame it on her.
“Hush. Enough. You’ll get me in trouble.”
“No.” Clara shakes her head, determined. “I’m going to tell them who you are. That will fix everything.”
Anna laughs. “You’ve been telling them for months.”
“Not them.” She points to the Duck and two orderlies who keep watch over the courtyard. “Important people. On the outside.”
Anna sighs. The chances of Clara knowing anyone important are as good as Anna waking up with brown eyes in the morning. But it won’t hurt to let her try. “That would be great. Very helpful.”
