My hands trembled.
I couldn’t allow myself to think of the repercussions. Not with something as important as the lives of my family at stake. I would have to throw the weight over both palisades. I must not miss.
The rain lessened. The sun shone through a crack in the sky. Alexei stirred behind me. The sisters walked across from me, making the sign of the cross toward our windows. I pushed the fortochka all the way open so they’d see me.
Then I stepped back, thinking of the times Papa and I had thrown snowballs and he’d corrected my stance. I cranked my arm back and threw. The paperweight sailed through the window, arced over the garden . . .
. . . and fell inside the palisade, next to our swing.
It sat there for all the Bolsheviks to see. A crumpled white piece of evidence. My skin chilled. What had I done? Had any guards seen?
I poked my head out the window to glance down. To see if any guards stood watch against the wall below. Nothing. All clear. No soldiers in sight—
A gunshot.
Pain exploded in my face.
11
“It is because the children are suffocating! We all are!” Papa stood in front of Commandant Avdeev like Tsar Nikolai would have. Feet set firmly apart, spine straight. Leader. Protector. Papa.
I stood in his shadow, pressing a cloth to my burning cheek. A soldier had shot at me. The sill above my head had shattered and the bullet ricocheted into the plaster on the bedroom wall.
Right. Above. Alexei.
Until that moment I hadn’t realized the Bolsheviks hid manned machine guns in the towers across from the Ipatiev House. The shrapnel scrapes on my face didn’t burn nearly as hot as my remorse. Alexei could have been killed. I could have been killed, though that currently didn’t bother me as much as the mental image of that note lying by the swing. At this very moment. Waiting to be picked up and read by one of Commandant Avdeev’s soldiers. Then we’d be shot.
And this time, the Bolsheviks wouldn’t miss.
“She was foolish.” Commandant Avdeev—fully sober and rigid with anger—eyed me and I was glad that my face bore my shame. I needed him to see humility. Obedience.
Three Bolsheviks stood behind Papa and me. They were not our friends—I’d never seen them before and heat radiated off their uniforms, filling the already stuffy room. I imagined the barrels of their guns pressing into my spine. Blowing a hole between my shoulders. Papa weeping . . .
“Commandant, I implore you, allow us to open a window.” Papa’s tone remained submissive. “We cannot breathe. Nastya was desperate for air.”
“And allow you to repeat this offense?” Avdeev waved a hand toward me. “You were warned repeatedly!” There was no sign of softening and I knew it was because of the Bolsheviks behind us. Avdeev had a position to maintain—a persona to uphold.
“Please, Commandant. Please put in a request.”
A Bolshevik made a scoffing sound in the back of his throat from behind me. Avdeev lifted his chin and steeled his features. “Say it again.”
Papa swallowed. He was reading the situation same as I was. He’d show the humility that would humor the soldiers behind us and save face for Avdeev. Because that was Papa. Humble. Selfless. “Please.”
“Again.”
“Please.”
“Again.”
My throat closed. My eyes stung. Papa lowered himself to his knees. Knelt before his captor in complete humiliation. “I beg you, Commandant.”
“Again.”
* * *
“Imagine this,” I ground out to Alexei that evening at his bedside. “I steal a gun and make Commandant Avdeev bow to all of us.”
Alexei didn’t play along. “Did he agree to open a window?”
“No.” I picked at the ruff of my dress collar. It needed mending. I was so tired of mending, I’d rather endure a frayed collar. Or chop it off altogether. “But he didn’t say he wouldn’t. I think he’ll try.”
“Was that really why you were at the fortochka, Nastya?” Alexei knew me too well.
I shook my head. The window had been resealed. I wanted to monitor the piece of paper still sitting in the grass outside. Because of the rain we hadn’t been able to retrieve it. I prayed the water washed away any of the contents. But if a guard found it, we’d be ruined.
“I admire your courage,” Alexei said.
I hadn’t felt courageous. I’d felt only reckless. And because of that, I had opened the fortochka. I had disobeyed the rules and risked our lives. I had sent Papa to his knees, pleading with Avdeev until the Bolsheviks laughed and my heart screamed.
And I had failed.
I absentmindedly fiddled with Alexei’s blanket. The relief spell had worn off after only a day. “Do you need me to write another spell?”
“I’d rather wait until I can’t bear it, since we don’t have much ink.”
I nodded, my hands itching to do something helpful. To remedy the glaring mistake I’d made this morning.
“Nastya . . . do you think Avdeev would kill us?” Alexei asked in a small voice.
I had wondered this over and over, analyzing the way he humiliated Papa or how he took our belongings, our extra food, and our freedom. But still, he had laughed at our play. He had allowed the convent sisters to deliver food. He approved a swing to be hung in the garden even though that had been Ivan and Zash’s idea. He stretched our time out in the fresh air.
“No, Alexei. I don’t think he would.”
* * *
The sun didn’t come out all day. I didn’t sleep all night. I considered sneaking out to retrieve the letter, but had I been caught, that would have been even worse after my window episode. I’d also thought of asking Ivan—or even Zash—to retrieve it for me. But I couldn’t trust them not to turn it in to Avdeev.
So I waited, tossing and turning all night, sweating in my monogrammed linens, and counting down the minutes. It was the worst night of my life.
I spent the morning playing cards with Maria. We had exhausted the French card game and invented plenty after that. We hardly enjoyed them anymore—we played mostly to cure the boredom. But right now I played them to keep me from smashing my fist against a window as I waited for our turn in the garden.
Commandant Avdeev finally retrieved us for our afternoon outing. I was the first on the stairs. The first out the door. The first to the swing.
And the first to see the indented patch of earth, empty of a paperweight.
It was gone. Someone had found it.
I whipped my gaze around, frantic. Avdeev was talking to a soldier. He didn’t seem bothered. Neither Ivan nor Zash was on duty. Who had found it? Were they waiting to see what I’d do? I’d implicated myself by running to the swing. To the very spot the letter had landed.
“Next time you should use a smaller paperweight.” Papa came up beside me and sat on the swing. “It will fly farther.”
A gust of air released from my lungs. “You found it?”
He patted the spot on the swing beside him. We swung gently. “I do not fault you for trying, Nastya. But this was a bit messier than your usual impishness.”
“I know.” I watched my shoes smear the mud underfoot as we rocked back and forth. “I was caught up in hope. I think I’m losing some of my logic. I am growing desperate, Papa, and I cannot control it.”
“You must.”
And that was that. I had no choice. I must control my desperation. I must be more vigilant. I must be patient and wait for the Matryoshka doll to open and give me its spell. Why was it taking so long?
I stomped away the muddy indent from the paperweight. “Wait . . . how did you retrieve it?” We’d not been allowed into the garden yesterday. I was first out the door today.
“Some soldiers have grown more loyal to me than Avdeev. I do not expect their secrecy to hold under the pressure of a bribe, should Avdeev find out. But we are safe for now.”
“Papa, you are a magician.” How he managed to befriend the soldiers to such a
sincere degree baffled me. It was taking me a full month to get through to Zash. But at the same time, as his loyal and adoring daughter, I wasn’t surprised at all.
We returned inside to find the basket of food delivered by the sisters. My face grew warm, thinking of the nun who looked up at my window. Did she see my failed attempt? Did I endanger them? The sight of their food must mean that they were safe, since they were still able to deliver it.
I took the basket to Kharitonov. He manned the tiny kitchen that we were sometimes allowed to cook in. “Thank you, Nastya. Would you like to help make the bread today?”
I always loved when he had to make bread—it gave me something productive to do. That felt as though I was providing for my family. It made me feel like I could survive in a cottage as a common working girl someday.
“Yes, please.” I unloaded the basket of food, setting the eggs on the counter and the milk bottle in the cooler. I pulled out a long parcel wrapped in thick cloth. Inside rested a black loaf of rye. “Actually, I think the sisters sent some.”
Kharitonov’s thick eyebrows popped up. “They don’t usually send us bread.”
“That or it doesn’t always make it to us. I think Avdeev takes it.” I held the loaf to my nose and inhaled. Not warm, but very fresh. Likely baked this morning. I squeezed it lightly to hear the crunch of the crust, as Kharitonov had taught me, but something hard crinkled beneath my fingers. Something that I’d thought was a crease in the cloth.
I unwrapped the rest of the loaf and a small square of paper toppled into my palm. “What . . . what is this?” I unwrapped the paper to find a note written in red ink in French.
I scanned the letter, my breath quickening as I caught words and phrases like friends and the hour has come. I got to the end—to the signature line—but it held no name. All it said was, From someone who is ready to die for you. Officer of the White Army.
This letter . . . was a rescue.
12
“Olga has the best handwriting.” Tatiana bent over the letter as gingerly as she used to tend wounded Russian soldiers. “She should write the response.”
My family encircled the note, reading and rereading it. The officer’s letter said the White Army was only fifty miles away from Ekaterinburg. It told us to listen for any movement outside—to wait and hope. To be ready any time of day. It told us to send a reply—hidden in the cream bottle—with a mapped layout of our rooms. It was happening. Our rescue!
I had to stop myself from thinking too far ahead—from dreaming of me and my family living in a cottage; Papa sawing wood and me dabbling in spell ink to create words that would heal Alexei’s pain.
Dr. Botkin sketched a quick map on the back because he had the steadiest hand, and Olga wrote a short reply in French, per Papa’s dictation.
All our windows are shut and Alexei is too sick and unable to walk. No risk whatsoever must be taken without being absolutely certain of the result. We are almost always under close observation.
We couldn’t afford a half-baked rescue attempt. Whoever this White officer was, his plan needed to be flawless. Foolproof. Perfect.
He was lucky that I was an expert in such things.
Three days passed with no response. We wore our jewel-encrusted clothing, and all of us except Mamma took shifts throughout the night to listen for any unusual sounds. The guards sensed our tension.
“Are you alright?” Ivan asked Maria during a garden excursion. He seemed truly concerned.
“Being shut inside the house takes its toll,” she replied softly.
After another two days, we received a response. Papa read it first this time but shook his head when he got to the end. “He talks of an escape from an upstairs window. Did he not read that all our windows are sealed?”
“What else does it say?” I took it from him. Maria and Alexei read over my shoulder.
Would it be possible to tranquilize the little one in some way and lower him out the window without his feeling any pain?
“The little one?” Alexei scoffed. “Who is this general? If he’s so loyal, why doesn’t he use the proper titles?”
“Stop being so sensitive, little tsarevich,” I teased, though the officer’s choice of reference regarding Alexei peeved me as well.
Could I figure out some sort of spell with my remaining ink that would numb Alexei? Maybe another relief spell or two would help him enough to manage a window escape. But that still didn’t change the fact our windows were sealed.
The bell from the landing rang and Maria shoved the note down her blouse. Commandant Avdeev entered and Papa rose from his chair. It was still an hour until our appointed recreation time in the garden. Did he see the concern—the guilt—on our faces? Had he found out about the letters?
“Everyone is to go into the garden—including the tsarina.”
“Is there a reason for the extra time in the fresh air?” Papa put his hands in his pockets, likely to hide any sweating.
No other soldiers were with Avdeev, and he responded in the friendly manner that slipped out when he wasn’t saving face. “I hope to have some good news for you.”
We obeyed. Kharitonov carried Alexei into the fresh air and placed him on the swing. I tied a head scarf over my baldness, nervous about Zash seeing me since he’d mostly been on outdoor watch these past few days. Mamma came out in her wheelchair, pale with a hand to her head. We set her in the shade so the heat wouldn’t aggravate her ache.
I wanted to go to her, but since sharing her secret about Rasputin’s spell mastery, she had established an emotional distance from me.
Avdeev lined us up, stiff commandant once again now that his soldiers were present. “You will remain outside under close watch until you are summoned. The Committee for the Examination of the Question of Windows in the House of Special Purpose is here to inspect your quarters.”
Papa gave a bow. “Thank you. Let us know how we can help.”
Window inspection—were they checking to make sure they were secure? Had Avdeev seen the White Army’s letter? He couldn’t have. He said he hoped for some good news for us.
We did not see the committee, but we stayed outside through lunchtime. I didn’t even mind the missed meal. We giggled and played chase with the dogs. With every moment of inhaled sunlight, I filled with sustenance far more valuable than food—the sustenance of hope, of light, of the sense of freedom.
Some of the guards joined in the laughter, though most stayed at their posts. Zash and Ivan patrolled across the garden. I avoided going near them, tugging my head scarf a little tighter.
Maria, however, seemed to overcome her self-consciousness. She fluttered her eyelashes at Ivan and Zash. “Will you push us on the swing?”
Before they could answer, she grabbed my hand and pulled me after her. My heart pattered faster than my feet as I ran with her to the swing. Toward Zash.
We sat close together, linking elbows. Ivan did the pushing. Zash stood by the tree trunk, arms folded, watching. I peeked his way as we swung. What did he see in me now? Why did I care?
His face betrayed nothing. He stood stiffer than the tree, all professional Bolshevik. With each back and forth, my grin grew because he remained so stoic. The longer he stayed serious, the funnier it became. Soon I was giggling just as hard as Maria. Zash wouldn’t crack, though his eyes seemed to twinkle the way Papa’s did when he hid a grin beneath his mustache.
On the next forward swing Maria released my arm and toppled backward off the swing with a squeal. Right into Ivan’s arms. Oy, what an obvious flirtation! I would have rolled my eyes, but her abrupt departure from the swing sent me lurching since she had been the support on my right side.
The swing carried me upward, the momentum sending me straining for the other rope with my free arm. I would not allow my feet to go over my head the way Maria did. No soldier had the right to see my underclothes.
But gravity and momentum were against me. My fingers brushed the opposite rope, but not close enough to grip it. Of
f I went, balance lost, exhaling my pride and accepting the fact that this would hurt.
But it didn’t. No crunch. No hard earth under my skull.
Instead, strong hands, an arm behind me. Not Papa’s arms—I knew Papa’s touch. The moment my mind registered not Papa, a delighted flutter pinched my stomach.
Zash.
I wasn’t on the swing enough to haul myself up, but I wasn’t off enough to get my feet under me. Instead, my traitorous hand gripped his uniform lapel. This was so awkward.
Zash hauled me off the swing and set me on my feet. My scarf had slipped, revealing my bald head. I released him immediately and reached for the scarf, but he scooped it up from the ground. My hand hung between us, waiting for the flowered square of material. Trembling.
He didn’t give it to me right away. “You don’t need this, you know.”
I never knew how to take compliments, but my face warmed. I slid the fabric from his fingers, our skin brushing briefly. Then I jammed the scarf back onto my head and tried to resurrect my dignity. “I do if I don’t want my head to turn into a sunburned tomato!”
“You’re at no risk of that, with how frequently you wear the scarf—both inside and outside.”
I finally looked into his face. His mouth held the closest thing to a grin I’d seen since the Chugwater play.
“You know what I meant,” he said.
I could hardly catch my breath—though it had nothing to do with the swing. Emotions buzzed like a beehive in my brain. He was flirting. And I liked it—craved it. Danger, danger, danger, the bees hummed, to deter me.
Didn’t they know I thrived on the thrill of danger?
I cleared my throat and stopped the lazy sway of the swing by grabbing the rope. “Thank you . . . Zash.” Then, before he thought I was thanking him for the compliment, I added, “For catching me.”
He winked.
In that moment I saw nothing else but his wink. Again and again and again, and with each mental repeat my stomach lurched as it had when I fell from the swing.
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