Anastasia Forever

by Joy Preble

  “This is crazy,” Tess whispers. “We’re going to see them, aren’t we? Anastasia and her family.”

  “It would be easier if we didn’t, but, maybe. Yes.” And if we’re lucky, they won’t see us. At least that’s my plan.

  Tess sucks in a breath through her nose, exhales through her mouth. “Okay, boss. Where to? And let’s do this fast, okay? Your parents are still in the middle of their freak-out, remember? I really don’t want to get back and see your dad going medieval on Ethan because neither of them knows where you are.”

  Yet another level of fun in my world.

  We begin to wander. Argue about what we’d seen in the various website pictures. We find ourselves in what turn out to be the servants’ quarters. Then some kind of sitting room. Another room with a wall covered with religious icons—picture after picture of gold-haloed saints, each one looking more unhappy and tortured than the next. After that, we get turned around and end up back where we began.

  Servants bustle here and there, carrying this, cleaning that. Everyone’s blabbing in Russian, which doesn’t exactly help. Possibly I should have asked Baba Yaga to conjure up a decent Alexander Palace blueprint before we left the hut. I do a mental run-through of Spells I Think I May Know. I can light candles, heal wounds, make the wind blow and plants grow. I can read Ethan’s thoughts. I may or may not have been able to put a protection spell around my house. And I’ve burned a few rusalki and, in one unfortunate incident, Ben’s face. But not even Baba Yaga seems to have a spell for how to find the bad guy’s soul while time traveling to the past.

  “What about that way?” Tess points to our left. “I don’t think we’ve…” Her mouth sags. Her face goes white.

  A tall wild-bearded man in black walks toward us, deep in conversation with a regal-looking woman, hair pinned in some kind of updo, wearing a long, cream-colored high-collared dress. She’s gesturing with her hands and he’s nodding. He says something and she clasps her hands together, almost as though in prayer.

  “Is that—” Tess whispers.

  I hold up a hand for her to be quiet. Not that they can hear us. Or see us. Just that I need to make sure that—

  He stops dead in his tracks. Twists his head left. Right. Tilts his chin up, his gaze skimming the high ceiling. When he looks down again, I see his eyes. Dark. Gleaming. Evil.

  I hold my breath. Stand absolutely still.

  Father Grigory—aka Rasputin—circles his gaze round and round and stops. He stares directly at me. My heart skips a beat. Then another. The breath I’d been holding freezes in my chest.

  Tsarina Alexandra—the woman cannot be anyone else—turns to him and says something.

  He ignores her like she’s not there. I see her face flush, but she waits for him to do something. Defers to him and I want to scream at her to tell him to get out. To call for the guards or her husband or someone to get rid of him. He’s going to destroy her family and she has no idea.

  Rasputin walks toward us. Tess makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat. I stand very, very still. He stops just inches from me, smelling rank, his beard greasy. His close-set eyes darken to black.

  Everything in the room seems to hold its breath.

  And then he bursts into Russian and laughs.

  “Holy shit,” Tess whispers when he finally, finally walks away.

  He knows, I think. He knows there’s something. But even he can’t figure it out. Point for our team.

  Neither Tess nor I move another muscle until Rasputin and Alexandra both walk out the door toward the park.

  “How could she trust that guy? Just looking at him makes me want to hurl.” Tess’s eyes are wide as I motion toward the direction from which the Tsarina and her creepy priest have just come. The family must have rooms there; maybe one of them is the right one. If not, we’ll have to try upstairs.

  “She was desperate,” I whisper. Rasputin didn’t see us, but I have no idea if maybe he could manage to hear us. Whispering is good. “Anastasia’s brother was so sick. Father Grigory promised her answers. I think that’s really all there is to it.”

  Tess makes an ick face. “So she trusts the king of the creepers and Anastasia trusts Viktor. I feel like I need to do an intervention or something. Don’t you? I mean it’s sort of your family and all. Well, more than sort of. Don’t you wish you could go back in time and—oh. See? This is how grossed out I am right now. We are back in time. Never mind.”

  I nudge her toward the wing we haven’t explored. How many hours have passed since we’ve been gone? How long has it been since I’ve actually slept? A day? Two? I’m oddly alert—the magic maybe? Maybe just adrenaline. Was it only yesterday that Ethan and I were sitting at Wrigley Field?

  Ethan.

  Tess touches my arm. Only then do I realize I’ve said his name aloud.

  “Hey.” She gives my shoulders a quick squeeze. “You know you’re really brave, right? Bravest person I’ve ever met. Okay, maybe not the smartest sometimes.” She grins, but her eyes are serious. “It’ll be okay, Anne. Even if it’s not. Do you understand what I mean? This whole crazy thing—it’s going to end soon, one way or the other. And it may not be the way we think. Or the way you want it to. But don’t ever believe that the outcome is about you. That whole destiny bullshit? You know what I think? I think we make our destiny. And I think you’re amazing. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be your friend.”

  So there we stand, me and Tess, crying our eyes out in the middle of the Alexander Palace. She’s right, of course. Tess, it turns out, is almost always right, which is something that most people don’t understand about her. She is a highly underestimated human being, and that is exactly why she is my best friend.

  “But what if I can’t—”

  Tess presses her hand to my mouth. “Don’t. Not helping. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen if you don’t find crazy Viktor’s hidden soul?”

  I stare at her.

  “Okay. Maybe that wasn’t the best question.”

  “You think?”

  We laugh so hard that we forget to whisper. So hard that we don’t hear the voices down the hall right away. We’re laughing and walking, and then Tess grabs my arm again, really hard.

  “Ow.”

  She presses a finger to her lips. I follow her gaze. My heart sticks in my throat, beats there furiously like a trapped bird trying to free itself.

  Anastasia Romanov—about ten years old—stands at the doorway a few feet from us. It is in some ways like watching myself. I’ve been her, dreamed of her, watched her life in one way or another over and over. Saved her and sent her back to die.

  Her eyes are blue like her father’s. It’s a softer blue than Ethan’s but just as familiar. Her hair falls down her back in gentle waves, her bangs curving slightly on her forehead. Her nose is long and straight. She’s wearing a dark skirt and a white blouse tucked in, and a tiny strand of pearls adorns her neck.

  “Why so sad, brother?” she says softly, and at first I think it must be Alexei that she’s talking to. That would make sense. Her mom was just down here with horrible Father Grigory. Alexei must have been sick again. She’s trying to cheer him up.

  Tess and I edge closer. If I wasn’t invisible, I could talk to Anastasia again like I did that horrible day in front of the Jewel Box when everything went both right and wrong. This is what I’m thinking as her brother walks out of the room.

  In that moment it’s like lots of things we wish for, search for, hope for. Sometimes getting what you want is as painful as wanting it.

  “I am of the Brotherhood now,” Viktor says as he steps from the room to Anastasia’s left. He looks just like he did when Ethan and I made our brief guest appearance yesterday. Younger. Thin. Dark eyes. Long, angular face. I hate every inch of him.

  Next to me, I feel Tess stiffen. My li
ttle flapping-bird heart beats its wings some more in my throat. I try to swallow, but my mouth has dried up.

  “Like Father Grigory?” Anastasia says. She makes a face that looks a lot like Tess’s ick face. If I wasn’t frozen with fear, this might make me smile. “He was just here, you know. Talking to Mama.”

  Viktor arches his dark brows. “Was he now? I thought as much. But I came today to speak to your father. To show him what I have become. Not like Father Grigory, sister. Do not fear. I would never be like that man.” His lips curve in his own look of disgust. I guess that’s the one thing he and I finally agree on.

  “Papa will be happy.” Anastasia smiles shyly at him. For like the zillionth time, I want to run up and shake her. Tell her no, no, no. Don’t smile at him. Don’t trust him. No. Don’t.

  “Perhaps he will, sister. But somehow I doubt it. Your father does not approve of me.” He pauses, seems to consider whether or not he should go on. Then adds, “If he did, then perhaps my portrait would also grace that lovely new addition to his desk in the study.”

  Anastasia frowns. “I will tell Papa, then. He will listen to me. I am sure of it.”

  Viktor’s eyes glitter. He gives a short laugh.

  Tess grips my arm.

  “So,” he says to Anastasia, “you are Anastasia the Brave now?”

  She nods. “Like the story Mama tells. Like Vasilisa. I will go into the forest of my father’s study and tell him that you are very nice. And if there are any witches in there like Baba Yaga, I will beat them over the head until they are gone.”

  I listen to her tell him this, and suddenly I know how someone’s heart can break. Mine feels crushed right now. Smashed into the tiniest of bits possible.

  Viktor leans and brushes a kiss to Anastasia’s head. Stoops so they are eye to eye. “Be careful, little girl. I have met Baba Yaga. She is not particularly nice. You would not want to be eaten. Although I do thank you for your kind wishes on my behalf.”

  Like Rasputin, when he walks by Tess and me, he stops. Just inches from my face, he stands and sort of sniffs the air.

  “Yaga,” he says so softly that even though he’s just like an inch from me, I can barely make out the word. “Is that you? I thought you did not leave your forest. Perhaps I have more to learn. Or perhaps you just can’t stay away from me.” He chuckles. “A witch, yes. But still a woman. So predictable. Do you hear me, Yaga? Perhaps my sister would appreciate a visit.”

  Wonderful. He sniffs the air around me and smells witch. Fabulous.

  When he’s gone, Anastasia steps into the room. We follow her.

  “Do you smell me?” I whisper to Tess. “Do I smell like a witch?”

  “You smell kind of sweaty.”

  “I smell?”

  “You asked.”

  I look around. More chandeliers. A bunch of paintings. A fireplace and a pool table. And a huge desk cluttered with papers and pictures and various clocks and knickknacks.

  I came to speak to your father, Viktor had said.

  We are in Tsar Nicholas’s study. But it’s just me and Tess and Anastasia. No Tsar. Maybe there’s another exit. Maybe he never was in here in the first place. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? To be seen with his illegitimate son right in his own house? Out there in the park, maybe, like I’d seen in one of my dreams. But not here. Not on his own home turf.

  “Now what?” Anastasia still doesn’t see us, but still Tess whispers her question.

  The answer happens quickly, almost too quickly, like maybe I’m dreaming. Only I’m not.

  Anastasia walks to the desk. Moves past the clutter of stuff and bends to look at something displayed on a little stand at the far end.

  “Oh,” I say. A tiny sound that makes Tess shift her gaze to me.

  It’s not just a random something that Anastasia’s studying. It’s something I know. The last thing she thought about before I sent her back to die.

  In my head, I go there again. See myself standing on Second Street, the Jewel Box destroyed, rain streaming in buckets. Baba Yaga’s tears pouring from the sky. Anastasia and I had held her matryoshka doll between us and I’d placed my other hand over my heart. I was supposed to be sending her back. I would send her back a few seconds later. But right then, our minds linked together, Anastasia and I weren’t thinking about death. We were thinking about this room and this Fabergé egg that sits on her father’s desk.

  The egg with all their pictures on it. Anastasia’s and her brother and sisters’.

  Perhaps my portrait would also grace that lovely new addition to his desk in the study.

  Every part of me starts to tingle. Magic. Fear. Memories.

  Sometimes you just know.

  “It’s the egg,” I whisper. “All those pictures. Oh my God. It’s the one thing Viktor wanted and never got—to be an official part of the Romanovs. This is the moment. This is the memory. I can feel it.”

  My impulse is to grab it. But would Anastasia see? Would she realize she wasn’t alone? That could ruin everything.

  So we wait. One minute. Two. Three. Five excruciating minutes click by on the clock on the Tsar’s desk. Then six. Seven minutes she stands there studying the damn egg.

  In the hall, a female voice calls out. “Anastasia. Anastasia. You are supposed to be at your lessons. I saw you come down here, Anastasia. Answer me.”

  Anastasia hesitates. Sighs. I hear my own heart beating.

  When the door closes behind her, Tess huffs out a huge breath.

  Pulse flying, I step to the desk. Will I be able to touch it? I half expect that my hand will just slide right through.

  But my hand tightens around the egg just fine.

  If I were in a museum, I’d admire how beautiful it is. So white and shiny, the decorations exquisite. The little picture panels each exactly perfect in shape and size. Each one with a picture. And seven of those pictures of the family. Nicholas. Alexandra. Alexei, the heir to the throne. Anastasia and her sisters—OTMA, they called themselves—Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia.

  I turn it every which way as I look at it. And then I turn it upside down.

  An eighth picture panel.

  Viktor. The panel underneath is an image of Viktor.

  “Holy shit.” Tess touches a finger to the picture.

  “Don’t,” I snap, a whip of panic hitting me. “What if it disappears or something?”

  She snatches her hand away like the egg is on fire.

  “This is it.” I’m half crying, half laughing, mostly feeling so giddy that I think I’m going to float up to the ceiling.

  “Does it open? It has to open, right?”

  “Here. On top. Shit, Tess. He did it. He changed this one thing in history. This has to be it.”

  I’m having trouble getting my brain around it. This Fabergé egg is in someone’s art collection in the present. In the present, it has just seven portraits. But in the past, it’s been altered to have eight. How can that even be? But it is. I’m looking at it.

  “It’s perfect,” Tess says. “It’s what he always wanted, isn’t it? For his dad the Tsar to acknowledge him. So he can’t get that in real life. But he can fake it here. He had to wait until he was Baba Yaga’s prisoner, but he got what he wanted. He found his way into Anastasia’s memories. He changed the thing that pissed him most.”

  And if we’re lucky, it’s where he hid what we’re looking for.

  “How big was that doll of hers anyway? Bigger than this egg, right?”

  “The whole doll, maybe. But not the ones inside. Dolls within dolls. Stories within stories. The littlest doll. That’s all he’d need.”

  “So are you gonna open it?” Tess looks at me. I look at the egg.

  I find the tiny hidden clasp. Ease it open with my finger.

 
We peer inside.

  A wooden doll just slightly larger than my little fingernail stares up at us.

  I lean back in case it leaps up or says something. But it just lies there with its painted eyes and thin painted smile.

  “That’s it?” Tess tilts her head. What did she expect? “So, is Viktor’s soul really in there? Like how? Taped inside with magic Gorilla Glue or something?”

  “Um, yeah?” Our command of the existential is a little rocky. We’ve leaped into the past with no planning whatsoever, other than a limited working knowledge of the Koschei fairy tale. It’s like feeling qualified to do brain surgery because I’ve watched Grey’s Anatomy.

  The door to the study creaks, then opens enough for a brown little spaniel to trot into the room.

  The dog yips.

  I jump. Smack heads with Tess.

  The egg slips from my hand, but I manage to catch it. The doll, however, flies out and nosedives to the floor, bounces when it hits. Bounce. Bounce.

  Spaniel chases it.

  Noooooo, I think in slow motion. Holy shit. No.

  For a second I think I’m going to black out. I see stars. My skin feels like ice.

  Spaniel noses the doll. Its pink, spitty tongue licks it.

  Get it, my brain commands. But I feel like everything is moving in slow motion. Vomit rises in my throat. A wave of dizziness spins my head.

  “Anne!” Tess’s cry is sharp, but when she repeats my name, her voice fades.

  My brain tries to process what’s happening.

  Viktor’s soul is in the doll in the egg. That’s what we think. Not that I want to hurt this wonderful historical egg, which I haven’t because I just caught it and I’m clutching it in both hands, but so? I didn’t hide my soul in it. The doll smacking the floor should be a good thing, right? Okay, the dog possibly eating it isn’t good, but isn’t that how all those Koschei the Deathless stories go? Break the egg or toss the egg, and his soul gets knocked around and then goes back where it belongs so he can die like he’s supposed to? Maybe we’ve done it. Maybe this will all be over.

  Then why do I feel like I’m about to pass out? Or vomit? Or worse?