by M J Marstens
“You put yourself first,” Maks answers softly, as if he really can hear my thoughts. “You’re not betraying your family when you make decisions that are for your own well-being and happiness—you’re owning who you are. I know that as a grand duchess, you’ve been raised since childhood to accept your fate as a royal bargaining chip, but that’s not all a woman is or can be. Your sisters might fit that mold, but never Anastasia the Rebellious. You’ve spent your whole life warring with who you are and how you feel to fit in—stop. You don’t have to do that with us. Either we accept you or we don’t—correction, either he’ll accept or he won’t. The question is: do you really want his assent?”
My heart beats erratically at his words.
Do I want Ilya’s acceptance?
Can I ever truly just be the person I want to be?
As Maks said, only I can answer these questions.
Tenderly, Maks kisses my forehead and, then, lifts me from him. Zavid and he leave together to go change and clean up, but I’m left in a mental quandary—and a physical one. I have no clothes to dress myself or even any cloths to clean my body. As if by magic, there’s a knock on the door and Dmitri softly calls out that he has some things for me.
I carefully wrap my sore, but satiated, body in a blanket and crack the door open. Dmitri smiles at me gently and there’s not a hint of censure in his face that I expected, only a pinched look around his eyes, as if he’s strained.
“Come with me, please,” he requests and I follow him to another closed door.
He opens it and we enter together. I realize that it’s his room. Like the rest of the cabin, it’s sparsely decorated but, in the corner, sits a little table and upon it is the familiar prayer book that Father Grigori used to read to my sisters and me when he still lived at the palace.
“Is. . . is that your father’s book?” I ask in a reverent whisper.
“Yes,” Dmitri chokes out and I know he feels the same overwhelming emotion of loss.
Father Grigori was a good man—a pure man, who brought much joy to my mother’s life and, of course, to my siblings and me, too. Also, he eased so much of Alyosha’s pain. Dmitri’s father might have been a priest, but he was born a healer. I sense the same wholesomeness and goodness in his son, too. He proves this when he reaches for the book and presses it into my hands.
“To bring you comfort,” is all he simply says.
“Thank you, Dima,” I say through more tears, the childhood nickname slipping through my lips naturally and involuntarily.
Dmitri gives me a small smile.
“It has been a long time since anyone has called me that. . .I miss it.”
“Then, that’s what I will call you,” I announce decisively.
“Does that mean I should call you ‘malenkaya’?”
I burst into laughter.
“No one has called me that in ages! But, I don’t like being reminded that I’m the smallest and fattest sister,” I tell him with a wrinkle of my nose.
Dima’s forehead creases in confusion.
“Who calls you fat?”
I shrug as nonchalantly as possible, pretending that this conversation does not affect me.
“Everyone, I guess. I’m not as tall or lean as my sisters. I’m too. . . full,” I finish lamely.
“Malenkaya, may the Lord God forgive my words, but your body is perfection. You are not fat. A woman’s breasts and hips are meant to be full. Not all men want their women to resemble a young boy. I know it is the current fashion—or it was—but real men want a real woman.”
I blink at his words, not expecting to hear a monk say them. Poor Dima seems even more uncomfortable by his speech and I carefully touch his hand with mine.
“Thank you for your words and your kindness. I’ve spent many years feeling second rate in comparison to my sisters. God has nothing to forgive for what you said—not when something like that comes from the heart.”
He ducks his head bashfully, clearly not used to any words of praise, but it’s imperative for him to know how much they truly mean to me. No one has ever been outrightly cruel to me, but the whispered remarks are just as cutting. Dima turns to open a chest and pull out some clothing.
“I have a dress,” he admits. “It was my sister’s. She’s long since left for the Americas, but I still keep it as a reminder—to feel close to her and, perhaps, even my parents.”
I tilt my head, vaguely remembering Father Grigori mentioning his daughter, but she lived with his wife far away and I never met her. Father Grigori always said that we would have been the best of friends and that Maria was most mischievous.
“How is your sister?” I wonder.
“I’m not sure. I haven’t received any new letters from her since she arrived in the Ameriki1.”
I can detect the deep sadness in Dima’s voice—he misses his sister terribly, just as I miss mine.
“Letters are difficult to send right now,” I softly remind him of the war spread across Europe, not to mention Russia’s own troubles. “Keep trying. Don’t ever give up hope.”
He smiles at my encouraging words.
“As long as you listen to your own advice,” he counsels.
I ulybayus' 2sadly—that’s much easier said than done. Dima’s sister isn’t at the hands of men who wish to destroy all Romanov blood. Dima must sense my melancholy because he places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
“I’ll just leave you to change. I apologize if it doesn’t fit properly.”
I wave off his worries.
“Please, I am eternally grateful, truly. I promise to be careful with the garment and return it once I have my other clothing back.”
Dima nods and turns to leave, but pauses once more. He spins back around to look at me intently.
“I never forgot you, malenkaya. Or, your family. I will do whatever necessary to help you find them.”
His words make my breath clog in my throat and my eyes fill with tears.
“Don’t cry,” he pleads. “I’m sorry.”
Dima rushes to my side, contrite; he doesn’t seem to realize that I’m sobbing because of his offer to help—not because of his reminder about my family. I try to convey this to him, but fail miserably. Instead, Dima sweetly wipes away my tears, his thumb tracing a path down my cheek almost sensuously.
The air changes between us and becomes charged with the familiar feeling of attraction. Part of me questions if something must be wrong with me to be drawn to so many men, but the other part listens to Maks’ words. There is nothing evil or corrupted with me or my urges. I wonder if Dima can sense my personal turmoil, but when I look into his eyes, I see a similar conflict clouding them. I hate that he is struggling with his inner demons.
“What’s wrong?” I ask in a whisper.
“I mustn’t fall for the greatest temptation,” Dmitri murmurs cryptically.
“My body?” I venture to guess.
“No, I’ve already succumbed to that seductive lure,” he admits and I feel my eyes widen in shock.
“Then, what is the ‘greatest temptation’?” I wonder.
“Losing my heart to you,” Dima confesses in a soul-wrenching shepot3.
With those words, he eases out of the room and shuts the door. I’m left standing in the middle of his bedroom, wrapped in a blanket, wondering if I need to be afraid of the very same thing.
* * *
1 Russian for ‘the Americas’
2 Russian for ‘I smile’
3 Russian for ‘whisper’
Chapter Twenty-Four
VADIM
“Will you stop?!” I yell in exasperation to Ilya’s retreating back, but he pays my words no heed and keeps stomping away.
At this rate, we’ll end up in the harbor or back in the city.
“STOP, Ilya!” I roar, my patience finally at its end.
He must hear the warning note in my voice because he pauses, but he doesn’t turn around. Angrily, I walk over and clamp a hand on his shoulder to spin hi
m to face me.
“What?” he snarls viciously.
“You know what,” I rejoin calmly.
I refuse to add more fuel to his raging fire of anger.
“Talk to me, brat1.”
Ilya purses his lips stubbornly and doesn’t make a peep. I sigh in exasperation. I maneuver us to a small copse of trees and sink down to sit against one. I’m impervious to the cold, snowy ground beneath me. All my attention is focused on my best friend. He eventually comes to sit by me but, still, he doesn’t talk. I let him stew there, waiting for him to open up.
After half an hour, I give up.
“Do you remember how we first met?”
Ilya snorts in remembrance.
“You were a sorry pain-in-the-ass back then, too,” he comments mirthlessly.
“You saved my life,” I comment quietly.
“And you’ve repaid the favor tenfold,” Ilya counters.
We met nearly six years ago, barely old enough to be legal, but good enough to fight for the Tsar. Russia is a vast land filled with numerous different peoples and cultures—many who do not wish to belong to Mother Russia. Keeping them subdued in the name of the crown was our objective, but it never was something that Ilya and I agreed with.
At the time I first met him, we were fighting in East Prussia against the Germans. One man rushed me from behind and surely would have cleaved my head clean off my shoulders with his bayonet if Ilya hadn’t shot him first. In the years that followed, I’ve endeavored to recompense him this life debt. When his father, then Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov and now fashioned Vlad Lenin, sought autonomy for his political party, I stood by my friend.
I believe in Lenin’s Russia but, lately, there has been much dissent in our movement. We are beginning to resemble the Beliye with their many factions. If we cannot provide a united front, we will crumble against them. Unfortunately, our brief meeting with Ilya’s father last night only solidified the suspicion that’s been lurking in the back of my head.
Tsar Nicholas II has officially abdicated his throne.
It’s a historic period for Russia—the first time there has never been a monarchy in place. Lenin is undecided if the tsar should be made a figurehead or exiled, but many in the Krasnyye are clamoring for his death. They will not be satisfied until our hands are permanently stained with Romanov blood. We must be Reds in more than just name, apparently.
Ilya didn’t admit it on our return to Dmitri’s cabin, but his father is losing control of the group. It’s only a matter of time before he’s overthrown by the insurgents within our movement and killed, too. The Krasnyye fight for equality, but at the expense of everyone else—which is not what I signed up for, and neither did Ilya.
My stomach still turns thinking of the grand duchess watching her uncles, aunts, and cousins be slaughtered before her eyes. I cannot imagine the terror she must have felt and how strong she had to be to flee the many miles to St. Petersburg. But, Anastasia is a fighter. It’s why I’m so drawn to her—it’s why Ilya is so drawn to her.
We see a reflection of something broken inside of her that mirrors our own shortcomings, but still we carry on.
“You know that I’m always going to be here for you, right?” I ask Ilya.
Another snort.
“Da.”
I smile at his short, grumpy answer.
“Well, then, make this easy for me and tell me what you’re thinking,” I direct.
“Why should I make anything easy for you?” he asks with a quirked brow.
“I can beat it out of you, if you prefer,” I joke.
“You can try,” he counters lightly.
Both of us are fairly evenly matched, but I have no interest in fighting Ilya when he’s angry.
“I met her stealing pastries from the kitchen,” he suddenly blurts out.
I don’t say anything, just wait for him to continue. This is the first time I’m hearing about her.
“The doctor said that the tsarevich couldn’t have them because the sugar thinned his blood too much, but Nastya didn’t agree. She’d seen him eat them plenty of times with no ill effect and she figured if her brother was going to be miserable regardless, he could have something to brighten his day.”
Ilya smiles at the memory.
“Her virginal white dress—more suited for her saintly sisters than the trouble-making youngest duchess—was completely stained with jam streaks and confectionary sugar. Subtly has never been Nastya’s strong suit. Later, when the cook told the tsar what happened, he confronted Anastasia in front of the whole household. She confessed without even blinking, but said that she ate all the pastries. She was sent to her room without dinner. She left with her head held high and a secret smile on her lips. I think. . . I think that’s when I first fell for her,” he confesses quietly.
His words create mixed feelings of amusement and melancholy inside of me. That’s the princess that I know—selfless to her very core. And it’s exactly the same reason that I’ve fallen for her. I hate how much Ilya clearly cares for her. Anastasia wasn’t simply a stepping stone for his political gain—he genuinely cares for her, loves her, even.
“The Krasnyye are falling apart,” Ilya suddenly says, changing the subject.
“I know. It’s not going to be pretty. Your father. . .”
“Is in danger. I’ve told him as such, but he refuses to back down. I would stand with him if he hadn’t tasked me with the impossible.”
I cock my head at him. I hadn’t been with Ilya the entire time we were in the city but, instead, worked to get supplies to bring back for the grand duchess since she had been so sick.
“What task?” I ask.
“He wants me to go with Nastya and free her family. They’ve been moved to Yekaterinburg for ‘their safety’, but Father is convinced that Vasily Yakovlev and his men will act without authority and kill everyone, including the children and servants who stay with the Romanovs.”
I recoil at his words.
Surely, no honorable man would kill innocent men and women. . . but isn’t that what the Krasnyye has already done on the night of the palace massacre? One could always argue that no nobleman or noblewoman is innocent, but that is just an excuse for the truth—we disparage the nobility for living better lives than us and call them emotionless monsters who care about no one but themselves and will do anything for their own gain, but our own actions speak of the same mentality.
“It’s ironic. We made a blood oath to take down the tsardom. . .and, now, we’re going to save the very man who is head of it,” I mutter.
“No—we made an oath to better Russia. The Tsar’s death and that of his family is not a step in that direction. And it certainly isn’t a step in the right direction to repairing my relationship with Nastya—not that it matters.”
“It matters. Don’t you see the way she looks at you?”
Ilya snorts.
“I must have missed it while she was fucking two other men,” he spits out with sardonic fury.
I gaze out into the quiet woods blanketed in white snow.
“Do you love her, brat—truly love her?”
Ilya goes still at my query. He only takes a second to respond.
“Yes, Vadim, I do.”
“Then, be prepared to share her,” I warn him as I shove off the ground and stand.
Ilya barrels to his feet as well.
“With Beliye?” he asks incredulously.
“No, with other men who love her, too. That includes me and Dima. Inside that cabin, we set aside our political and religious beliefs. We are just men and Nastya is just a woman—our woman. I’d never thought that this is something I could do, but if it makes her happy, then it makes me happy.”
“And if it doesn’t make me happy?” Ilya counters.
“Then, you might not be in love with her like you think.”
I let my words sink in before turning back to the cabin. It’s the beginning of late afternoon, and Nastya deserves to hear about her family. I
only make it a short distance when Ilya calls out.
“I’ll share. . .just remember that I was here first.”
I smirk at the competitive answer.
Our duchess might have bitten off more than she can chew.
* * *
1 Russian for ‘brother’
Chapter Twenty-Five
ILYA
Share Nastya. . . the idea, I’ll admit, sits sideways with me. But, seeing her get fucked by two other men—Beliye no less—made me want to throw up. I walk silently behind Vadim back to the cabin, stewing. If being with all of us really makes her happy, can I really do it?
Deep down, I acknowledge that I can never let her go—no matter the cost. I’ve been blinded by my aspirations and, now, everything is deteriorating around me. All my father’s carefully laid plans are failing and, if we aren’t cautious, it could be our lives that are next.
I growl in frustration.
This isn’t how I envisioned my victory over the tsarist tyranny of Russia—by saving the tsar himself—but, Nastya was never in my plans either. I recognize that I’m jealous. As an only child, I’ve never had to share. I’ve always been the most important person in my father’s life and he’s groomed me to follow in his footsteps but, for the first time in my life, I’m not sure if I agree with the politics anymore.
When I enter the cabin, everyone is crowded around the fire and the captivating woman sitting there. I love how the fire makes her hair glow red, bringing out the subtle streaks usually hidden there. She’s such a contradiction—soft, but strong. Sweet, but feisty. Sheltered, but capable. I admire how her parents raised their children.
In fact, it might have been too strict, but I’ve still never seen such a tight-knit family like the tsar and his family have. In a manner, I’m jealous of this, too. While my father and I are close, it’s our personal vendetta against the crown that brings us together. My mother died when I was eight—starvation. Watching your loved one waste away. . . there are no words.
It wasn’t hard to turn an impressionable boy against the monarchy that hoarded food for their own insatiable stomachs, but never shared with those who needed it most. It wasn’t until I resided at the palace, working there, that I learned how very frugal the tsar and tsarina really were. Other royals might indulge because of their status, but not Nastya’s family.
