Once Upon a Time in December

by M J Marstens

  “Can I have a moment, please?” she asks us all as she makes her way to the altar.

  Behind it is a giant stain glass picture of her parents and siblings.

  “Of course,” I murmur, giving everyone a pointed look.

  We all go outside and stand sentry while Anastasia mourns her family. Twenty minutes or so passes before Dima volunteers to go in. We let him, knowing that he has a different connection with the princess than the rest of us. But, when I hear her uncontrollable sobbing, I open the door and ease inside the chapel quietly. The others follow.

  “I failed—I failed them,” she weeps bitterly into Dmitri’s shirt. “I was supposed to save them.”

  “Shhh,” Dima soothes. “You didn’t fail them. You did what you could do. Malenkaya, listen to me. You are not God. You cannot change the fate the He has planned for someone. Nor can you fight it—that’s a foolish waste of time. Clearly, God has other plans for you than your family. What happened to them. . . is an odious tragedy. Your father made mistakes as a ruler, but he didn’t deserve this fate and, certainly, your mother and siblings did not, either. But, we cannot change what is done. God spared you for a reason—to live your life. Anya could have easily made everyone know the truth, but she didn’t. Don’t let her sacrifice go in vain.”

  His words seem to pierce Nastya’s heart and she gazes up at him in thankful wonder. To my surprise, Dima leans down and pulls her in for a very un-priest-like kiss. While it’s still tender, there is an obvious simmering passion underneath. Anastasia moans into his mouth and wraps her arms around his neck. When they finally break apart, she seems calmer—happier, even. I think Dima is right—God has other plans for the princess and they include all of us.

  Anastasia looks up to see us all waiting inside the chapel and I know that she is blushing, but she takes Dima’s hand and beckons us over. With her secret key, she feels for a hidden panel where a lock pops out. Carefully, she inserts the key and opens the secret door.

  “Your father was certainly resourceful,” Vadim comments.

  “Yes, he was,” she agrees sadly. “He knew that Russia was heading in a sour direction. My mother longed to leave for Germany, her home country, but we burned all our bridges there since we went against them in the war. England was our only other option, but father didn’t want to leave Russia. I won’t make his mistake. This is no longer the country from my childhood anymore, anyway.”

  She says this last part casually, but we all feel her pain. Even with Russia becoming something different than we all want, it’s still our home and it hurts to have to leave it. I take her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze; then, we light the lanterns left near the opening and begin our journey back to the capital.

  Hours pass before we finally reach the miles long end of the tunnel. Nastya tells us of how Ivan the Terrible had them built in 1554 after the Tartar Rebellion to send more soldiers into the capital to fight. It’s an interesting piece of history that I never knew and I’m quite thankful for. When we step outside once more, we are in a secluded area of the harbor. A dense fog permeates the area, and I’m grateful for the coverage.

  Nastya shows us to a cave. At first glance, it appears to simply be a shallow rock dwelling, but she steps in further to move aside some rocks and moss to reveal a hidden grotto—and a boat. It’s small, but clearly built to accommodate at least eight people—the perfect size for the Romanovs to escape in.

  “It has some supplies, but not much,” Nastya murmurs, tugging on the rope to pull it forward. “It’s only meant to get us to Finland.”

  “Which is no longer a Grand Duchy of Russia,” I announce.

  Anastasia shoots me a startled glance.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “They’ve separated completely from Russian rule, demanding their independence like Ukraine. They’ve been autonomous for so long that they want all Russian influence removed from their country.”

  “I didn’t know. . . I mean, I knew about the Finnish people resisting Russian rule, but I didn’t know that they would move so quickly for their independence. Will Finland even be a safe place for us to land?”

  I glance at Ilya and Vadim, the most knowledgeable in our group, before replying.

  “It should be. We’re not storming their beaches, demanding that they fall back under Russia law. As long as we keep a low profile, we should be alright. From there, we can move across Europe to Great Britain.”

  Nastya nods.

  “We can definitely get help there from my mother’s family,” she asserts. “But, how are we going to travel? I don’t have any money.”

  “Nor do I,” Maks adds.

  “None of us do,” Dmitri interjects.

  “That’s a problem we’ll address when we get there,” Ilya states. We clearly have more pressing matters to address. “Let’s just get into the boat and be on our way.”

  “Here,” I say to Nastya, getting in. “Give me your hand.”

  I help her get settled; then, I turn to Maks and hold out my hand for him to take, too. Dima is next, but he shoves the suitcase from Dr. Botkin at me first.

  “The case!” Nastya exclaims. “I didn’t know you kept it, still!”

  “Of course. It’s special,” Dima says quietly, climbing in as I set the satchel down.

  “Shit—it’s heavy!” I grumble. “How much does women’s clothing weigh?”

  Anastasia gives me a laughing look as Ilya and Vadim clamber in last.

  “Not that much,” she chides.

  “Here, you feel it,” I direct, passing the suitcase to her to take up an oar and start rowing with the other men.

  She takes the case with a quirked brow that quickly evaporates when she feels how heavy it really is. Now, a frown mars her face.

  “Something’s not right. What’s in here?” she mutters, opening the latches.

  The case pops open and out spills fabric that, indeed, looks like women’s dresses, blouses, and skirts. Nastya picks through the clothing in confusion; when, suddenly, her face lights up in wonder. Grabbing the hem of one skirt, she rends the fabric in two, tearing apart the stitching at the seam, and out falls a small handful of. . .

  Gems.

  “The royal jewels,” Maks breathes in awe.

  I imagine the sight of them brings back memories since his stepfather was exiled for trying to steal some royal diamonds for an American lover. He fingers them in his hand as Nastya rips open the rest of the clothing. We row silently into the Gulf of Finland, unbelieving at our turn in luck.

  “I don’t think we have to worry about money,” I observe.

  “No, I don’t think we do,” Nastya says through her tears.

  A brilliant smile lights her face, bringing the sunshine back into my life. I knew, then, that our journey forward wouldn’t be an easy one—but we were going to make it.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Anastasia

  We row to Helsinki—no easy feat. It takes us three days to get to the harbor. Ilya disappears into the large city to trade some of our jewels for money. When he returns, we buy a much needed change of clothes, some small necessities, and food. It feels so wonderful to eat and I have to remind myself to slow down as I greedily stuff my face.

  Again—I doubt anyone would suspect me of being a grand duchess, but we still go to lengths to hide my appearance by less-than-suitable clothing and a cap to hide my hair. I’m literally dressed as a man, but I find trousers so freeing to wear. In later years, I would realize how much freedom fleeing Russia and renouncing my status as an imperial princess would grant me—but the cost never was worth it.

  After we rest for a day in the city, we take a ship to Copenhagen and, from there, to Great Britain. But, our arrival at the palace isn’t as I expected. Instead of welcoming me in warmly, King George V turned me away. I presented him with the royal jewels and I know that he knew I was the grand duchess, but he was disinclined ‘to get involved’ were his words.

  Even now, I can barely think o
f him and his antipathy. King George V is a first cousin to both my father and my mother from different ancestors, but looking at him was painful—he bears such a strong resemblance to papa. I swallow my tears, refusing to cry for a situation that I can’t change. Vadim and Ilya secure a hotel room for us to rest and Dima sits next to me, rubbing my back soothingly.

  After a bit, he leans in to whisper, “Let it go. Don’t let his lack of concern and care be the bitterness that takes root inside of you and eats you alive.”

  I hear his words—their truth—but, for the moment, I can’t let anything go. I turn all my pain and suppressed hatred into an angry personal vendetta against the spineless man who wears a British crown, but Dima is right. After four days of refusing to eat, refusing to get up, Ilya comes over and flips me off the bed.

  “You didn’t escape Russia and the horrific death of your family to waste away in a bed because of one man’s cruelty. Fuck George,” he spits and I choke at his irreverence—but, he’s right.

  Fuck George.

  I don’t need him. All I need are the five men who refuse to leave my side.

  “What should we do now?” I wonder.

  “Go to America,” Dima surprises me by saying.

  “America?” I blink.

  I’ve never even thought much of the country, even though there is much talk about the kingless nation.

  “Where better to be completely free than in The Land of the Free?” Zav tacks on.

  “Doesn’t Maria live there?” I ask Dima.

  “Yes, my sister moved there many years ago.”

  “Maybe we can find her,” I suggest and Dima looks overjoyed at the idea.

  “America,” Vadim mutters contemplatively.

  “America,” Ilya confirms definitively.

  “It will be our new beginning,” I say with all the enthusiasm that I can muster.

  “As long as we’re together,” Maks affirms.

  I shoot him a tender look.

  How much I love these five men.

  I fidget nervously at the rail, watching as we sail off into the Atlantic from the harbor in Southampton, England. It’s now almost April and spring is just a nippy hope in the air. Certainly, it’s warmer here than in Russia, but I’m used to the cold.

  Zav and Maks come to stand on either side of me while I twist my hands together.

  “What’s wrong?” Maks queries. “Your mother often spoke about your sailing trips. . . is it because we’re crossing an ocean?”

  “A little,” I admit.

  Zavid bumps me playfully on the shoulder.

  “I didn’t take you for a scaredy-cat,” he teases and I stick my tongue out at him.

  “Forgive me for worrying considering how the Titanic sunk only some years back—in April!”

  “It hit an iceberg, right?” Maks asks.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Don’t worry, princess. This isn’t any Titanic and we aren’t going to sink. We’re going to America and we’re going to be the freest and richest bastards there!”

  His words make me laugh and some of my anxiety releases but, in truth, ever since I watched my parents slaughtered by monsters disguised as men, I’ve been waiting for them to get me. Every night, they haunt my dreams and, every morning, I have to will myself to get up and keep going.

  It takes a week to get to New York and it’s the most dreadful seven days of my life, for with every passing day, I get sicker and sicker. I can barely keep down food and the constant motion of the water rocking the boat makes me vomit, regardless of whether I’ve eaten or not. I’m completely depleted and nearly kiss the disgustingly dirty road when we finally make it to the famed American city.

  Again, Ilya secures us a hotel room for us—mostly me—to rest, but over the course of five days, my health doesn’t improve. Finally, Vadim is at his wit’s end and finds a doctor to come evaluate me. His discovery is still something I can barely comprehend—

  I’m pregnant.

  The joy at his words is eclipsed by Zav’s, Maks’, Dima’s, Vadim’s, and Ilya’s excitement. None of them seem to care only one of them can possibly be the father—and not Dmitri—but over the past month together, we’ve become family. They know and acknowledge that everyone is romantically involved with me, but it doesn’t matter because their love for me is greater.

  The next few months are a happy time for me. We rent a nice apartment in the city while Dima tries to locate his sister, Maria. I overflow with love and purpose once more. I forgive God and myself for failing my family and I look forward to this new chapter in my life. Funnily enough, I never really thought about myself as a mother but, now pregnant, I can’t imagine anything better than having a child to care for.

  All is well until July.

  I’m only around four months pregnant when I fall down the flight of stairs that leads to our apartment on the fifth floor. Vadim is home at the time and hears my screams. He finds me in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, blood already pooling around me. The panic on his face nearly stops my heart.

  Without hesitation, he scoops me into his arms and sprints to the doctor’s house. I’m catapulted back in time at his actions, reminded of when he carried me away from my family after they had been shot and stabbed. By the time we arrive at the doctor’s, I’m falling deeper into shock.

  The doctor works tirelessly to stop my bleeding—and almost fails. While Alexei suffered the worse of all my mother’s children, all of us girls had some form of the blood disease, too. Olishka almost died once after an emergency surgery when Dr. Botkin and other Russian surgeons couldn’t stop her bleeding. It’s a sickness from my great-grandmother’s, Queen Victoria, side1.

  The doctor now struggles with the same problem. He manages to finally staunch the bleeding, but the worst possible outcome has happened—my baby is gone. I limp out of his house, lucky to be covered in bruises and not any broken bones, but I swear that my heart is shattered.

  I fall into a depression that no one can bring me out of and, eventually, my men stop trying. I spend my days and nights convinced that I was meant to die long ago and this is my punishment for escaping my fate—that living is far more painful than if I had just perished when my family had. I think of my beloved father, dearest mother, sweet sisters, darling brother, and my cherished unborn baby.

  And I’m ready to join them.

  * * *

  1 The tsarevich suffered from hemophilia, but the tsarina and all the grand duchesses also had similar troubles, especially with blood clotting. Minor cuts and scrapes were an issue for the children growing up.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ilya

  With every passing day, my Nastya slips further and further away. She’s fading—she’s completely given up hope and, with her, pieces of us are vanishing, too. Dima clings to his prayers; Maks and Zav cling to one another, and Vadim and I try to stay strong for our girl and everyone else, but everything feels tentative and fragile.

  One wrong move and everything will shatter.

  Summer is starting to fade into Autumn and, with it, the wondrous warmth. Nastya loves summer, and summers in American are so much warmer than in St. Petersburg. I wish I could bottle it up and give her some of its sunshine and life. But, she doesn’t want it. She longs for her unborn babe and her family. The one thing that gave her hope was cruelly taken from her and I have no way of pulling her from her depression.

  Finally, I break down and, for the first time in my life, sob. I bundle her into my arms and just cry for the unfairness of it all. Eventually, my tears abate and I find her staring at me intently—like I am the strangest creature that she has ever encountered.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed.

  “Don’t be,” she croaks, speaking for the first time in nearly a month.

  She cups my cheek sweetly and gazes at me, as if reading my thoughts.

  “Why do you weep so?” she wonders.

  I give her an incredulous look.

  “Why? Because
of you.”

  “Me?” she asks with a wrinkle of her nose, reminding me of the old Nastya.

  “Yes, you. You’re dying, Anastasia. You’ve given up and it hurts me—physically hurts me—to see your life dwindling away with every day. I’m afraid to wake up in the morning because it might mean I have to accept your death.”

  She glances away, flinching at my words.

  “Death is inevitable,” she reasons and I growl, turning her head back to face me.

  “There is a difference between a natural death and the one that you are chasing,” I snarl.

  She shrugs and my anger rears its ugly head, blinding me with its ferocity.

  “Your father called you his strongest child, but he was wrong. What would he say to see you now?”

  It’s the lowest thing that I’ve ever done and the guilt I feel when I see her bottom lip quiver at my words will surely live with me forever. But, Nastya surprises me—she always surprises me.

  “Honestly, I assume he would demand to know how I could lose a child if I wasn’t properly married and, then, I would have to confess to sleeping with four different men—two who were determined to bring down his crown. . . I’m kind of glad he isn’t here to question me. It would be awkward and horrible, I think.”

  I know that she’s serious, yet I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of her thoughts. My words have the opposite effect, but at least she’s opened up a little.

  “Nastya,” I whisper, nuzzling her throat, “I can’t lose you. Please. . . please, don’t give up. The Anastasia I know and love is a survivor. Your parents named you that for a reason—because you’re like the phoenix. You will always rise up again1. Don’t get bogged down by the ashes, my love. Your life isn’t over—it’s just beginning. There will be new opportunities. Whenever our lives crumble at our feet, we’ll rebuild from the rubble. When you are sad, we will be here to help you find the light again like this.”

  I kiss her sweetly.

  “And when you are ready, we will make another baby. . .”

  I don’t add ‘like this’, but I let the suggestion hang in the air.