“You have to remember he’s been awake even longer than you,” Zash panted, now carrying Alexei over his back like a turtle would its shell. “No matter his desire to persist in following us, his soldiers will be too tired.”
“You are not too tired.” I wanted to accept his logic, but my fear ushered in too many doubts. If Zash could persist for so long, so could Yurovsky.
“My energy is from a different source than mere willpower.” He said this so quietly, I almost didn’t hear. And when I did process it, I wasn’t sure how to respond.
We walked for another hour before stopping at the tree line of a little village not far from Ekaterinburg. The sun hung low in the sky opposite us, sending the shadows of the small carved houses spiking toward our hideout. A long stretch of field rested between the trees and the village. To cross it would bring every eye turning our way.
“The house is not far in.” Zash assessed my appearance. “But perhaps you should cover your head.”
I used another strip from my skirt as a scarf for my baldness. “What about you?” I tried not to let my words sound cutting but didn’t quite succeed. “You look like a Bolshevik.”
“No one will question me for that.”
“And Alexei?” Alexei still wore his tsarevich soldier uniform. Zash lowered him to the ground and we stripped off his coat and stuffed it into one of the packs. Even against the dark strips of skirt wrapping his hip wound, I could see the bloodstain that had soaked through. There was no time to waste. No time to fear. I took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
Zash lifted Alexei and took off across the field. I pulled Joy into my arms and pushed my legs to carry me across the field, though not nearly as fast as Zash. Every muscle ached, every breath stung, but once Zash entered the shadow of a house, he stopped and waited for me.
No one filled the streets around us, but open windows and fluttering curtains betrayed the presence of a few observers. What did it matter? Let them see. Let them see that Anastasia and Alexei Romanov were alive, even if just barely. Maybe word would reach the White Army.
Zash led us down a side street, though there weren’t many to choose from. We walked now, keeping our heads low, and passed a few cottages. He turned down a lane and we walked to the end where a classically quaint house of stone and stucco rose from the shadows.
Without even a knock Zash lifted the latch and entered the house. I had no choice but to follow. The interior smelled of old cotton and hot supper. An uneven wood floor creaked beneath our feet. Zash closed the door behind us, shutting out most of the light, and laid Alexei down on the floor, using Alexei’s coat for a pillow.
I remained standing by the wall, tense against the strangeness of this house and the mystery of its owner. Where had he brought us?
“Babushka?” Zash called.
Babushka? This was his grandmother’s house? I’d never entered a village house. My own grandmothers had been royalty and not at all the aged women depicted in the storybooks.
Joy squirmed in my arms, wanting to roam the new space and sniff it out. I set her down and she went straight to a large cushioned chair beside the fire and sniffed around it.
An open doorway led into another room from which the supper smell wafted. My stomach growled and I pressed a hand over it, not that it did much good. Perhaps Zash’s babushka was not at home? As the thought crossed my mind, a low, dark voice met my ears.
“I smell magic.” A short, thin form exited what I assumed to be the kitchen, a scarf around her neck and wrinkles weighing down her skin. Her dark-black hair was pulled into a low bun, and her old eyes supported so many wrinkles I could hardly tell where her gaze fell. She bore the same Siberian coloring as Zash.
The wooden spoon in her hand was stained crimson. The supper smell must be coming from borscht—a cabbage, beet, and beef soup that sent my stomach practically leaping from my body.
Her narrowed gaze struck Alexei first, flicking to his bloodied bandage. Then to Zash, whom she greeted with a brief nod, not quite the reception I would expect from a grandmother. And then to me. “You are hiding a spell.” She smacked Zash with the soupy spoon. “And you brought her into my home? Reckless boy.”
I took in this woman’s displeasure. And as I looked to Alexei’s weak and injured body, I realized she might not help us. Desperation filled me like it never had before, and I thought of Papa dropping to his knees in front of Avdeev, begging for an open window. I hadn’t understood his humility then, but now I did. Now I knew that pride meant nothing when set against the life and well-being of a loved one.
“Please,” I gasped. “He said you could help us. Help him. My brother.” I gestured to Alexei. “Please do not send us away.”
She did not acknowledge my plea but addressed Zash. “Who are these people? What have you done, Zash?”
27
Zash told her everything in a matter of minutes. How we were the last Romanovs, how he had helped guard us these past months. How Yurovsky’s pocket watch detected spells. How Yurovsky assigned him to the firing squad. “I helped kill them, Babushka,” he said in a low, torn voice.
“You did what you had to,” she barked.
I balked at her lack of compassion. Did she not hear what he said? We were Romanovs! He helped murder my entire family. If that didn’t move her, she certainly wouldn’t help us.
“But I have a second chance—to help them now. And we need you.” Zash removed the soup spoon from her hand, then pressed her fingers between his palms. “Please, Babushka. For me.”
She rolled her eyes and her countenance seemed to change into something resigned but softer. “Of course I will, boy. You know that. Now, get some soup for you and the girl.” Then she pointed to me. “Sidyet. I’ll see to you next.”
I plopped into the nearest chair, mostly out of relief. The impact stung and sent a ragged breath into my chest. Who was this woman who could help us?
She knelt by Alexei and assessed his wounds, her hands gliding but not touching. Sensing and reading. I caught a low mutter. “This is our tsarevich?”
I was glad Alexei was not conscious to hear that. His heart would break. “He has an illness that does not allow his blood to clot.”
“Hemophilia.”
“Da.” Alexei’s condition had been our family secret, but this woman barely flinched. Had she worked with it before?
“Do you know what I am, Grand Duchess?”
My throat constricted. She’d sensed the Matryoshka doll. She was the one person Zash thought could help Alexei. “You are a spell master.”
She nodded. “Now I am just Vira, the old woman at the end of the lane. A Bolshevik commandant is after you. If your spells lead him here, I will be executed without a second thought. Probably shot in this very room.”
“I thank you for risking your life—”
“It is not for you, Grand Duchess. I do this for Zash. And you must leave within an hour. You understand? I will do what I can for the tsarevich, but I can already tell you it will not be enough.”
My hope fractured. “What do you mean?”
Zash returned to the room with two bowls of steaming borscht. He handed me one, and I took a long moment to breathe in the aroma of herbs and vegetables. The beet-red broth swirled over a mix of potatoes and beef and cabbage. This would be the most flavorful thing I’d eaten in months. No more black bread or broth with lentils.
Vira reached over to her empty fireplace grate and pulled out a brick, behind which sat a small clay bottle stoppered with a cork. “Listen, child. I rid my house of all spells once the Bolsheviks came hunting. Spell masters had two choices: either turn themselves in to the Red Army to serve the new government or be killed. Personally, I think the Red Army is killing them anyway. I didn’t like those options, so I chose to live a life as any other woman might. After all, I was just a simple village spell master.”
She unstoppered the bottle and peered inside. “There’s not much left.”
“I was planning to bring y
ou more, Babushka.” Zash had given his spell ink to me. That’s why he’d had it in his pack—for his grandmother.
She waved him away. “This will do.” Then she returned to our conversation. “I am a local who used to create simple spells for colds and bruises and broken bones. A few spells of wisdom and memory stirring here and there. But nothing the likes of which might heal the tsarevich.” She reached back inside the hole left from the brick and pulled out a silver pin. “Now eat your soup and let me work.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes away as she dipped the pin into the bottle and drew out a tiny drop of the glistening rainbow liquid. “But you’ve been hiding spell ink!”
“Your commandant may be able to detect spells, but nothing can detect spell ink. It is neutral when a spell master makes it and only activated once you blend your voice or blood with it.”
“Spell masters make it? How?”
She eyed me through slits. “You’re a bit curious for a grand duchess. Is this really the time to interrogate me about spell mastery?”
I shook my head and spooned some borscht into my mouth. It warmed me like an internal fire. Reminding me of life. “Was it hard to start a new life?” I asked quietly as she worked.
“It is if you separate the two—old life and new life. But once you learn that it’s all one life and each day is a new page, it gets a bit easier to let your story take an unexpected path.” She set out four squares of paper and bent over the first one, meticulously dotting out a word. A spell.
As she did this she hummed and occasionally sang in a weathered voice and a language I did not recognize. Alexei stirred but not in discomfort. He seemed to be soothed. Her humming went on for several minutes and did not appear to be stopping soon.
I ate my borscht.
She told me one hour. With each slurp of soup the seconds seemed to increase. My body ached to lie down and sleep. To remain seated on the cushioned chair. To test the fates and see if I would truly wake up to this same life and nightmare. But ticking in the back of my head was the knowledge we would be leaving. Soon. Most likely returning to the forest, and once we did that, I didn’t know where we’d go. I couldn’t follow Zash again. It was doubtful he had a second spell-master babushka hiding in a local village.
I didn’t know when I’d finished the soup, but I still felt empty inside. Zash took my bowl and returned with it full again. This time he added a dollop of sour cream. It turned the red soup a light pink and brought the extra fat my stomach craved. In another lifetime—a more polite lifetime—I would have declined, knowing it had taken Vira hours to make it when she hadn’t expected guests. But I accepted the soup and ate every last drop.
Alexei moaned and my head snapped up. His eyes fluttered. Vira continued humming but made eye contact with him. He frowned. Blinked a few times, and then his voice came out in a croak. “Spell woman . . .”
“Tishe, Tsarevich,” she tried to soothe.
“Will you fight with me?”
She stopped creating the spells for a moment. A lump rose in my throat. Was he aware of what he was saying? He’d been unconscious for quite some time.
“I am making spells for you—to help you.” Her voice remained in that soothing tone as when singing.
“Make a spell for the White Army. Join them. Help them . . . fight.” His voice grew weaker, but his gaze remained fixed on hers.
She took a deep breath and I feared she would abandon helping him at all. “Tsarevich, if you come back to me healthy and ready to lead . . . then I will fight for you.”
That seemed to be all Alexei needed. He returned to the darkness and Vira returned to her small paper squares with her bottle as though nothing had passed between them. But both Zash and I remained silent, soaking in the moment. No one could have missed the intensity of their exchange. They had understood each other in a way I’d never communicated with Alexei before. Even now, I wasn’t sure what he had asked of her. Somehow she knew.
Vira’s low singing filled the room. It went beyond my ears and into my very skin, soothing me. Swaying me. I relaxed. And the next thing I knew I’d folded in half and left the darkened little cottage in exchange for dreamless bliss.
* * *
I startled awake at the clatter of wood on wood. I’d dropped my soup bowl. The heaviness in my eyes and limbs told me I hadn’t slept for long. But I’d slept enough for my ribs to scream in pain and demand I adjust my position.
Vira had finished her spell making. No more singing. Dim light came from the lowering of the sun. It had been longer than an hour. She and Zash spoke softly.
“You have chosen them, Zash. They are under your care now. You’ve made yourself their provider.”
“But what of you?”
She snorted. “I will manage.”
Zash shook his head. “How?”
“Don’t press me, boy. I’ve been saving your soldier pay, not squandering it. It’s enough to get me by. You have new duties now.” She handed him one paper square. “Use this one on the girl. Her ribs are broken. This will set them, but they will still pain her for some time. These other three are for the tsarevich.”
“I’ll take them.” I pushed myself up to a sitting position and held out my hand.
“I know my boy. I don’t know you, even if you are the grand duchess.” She passed the squares to Zash. “One will close up his wounds, but it must sit in the paper for an hour before it is mature enough. Neither spell will stop the internal bleeding. It was all I could do and I’ve already used an extra hour to write it. The other two spells are identical—they numb his pain. This should allow him to wake and to function enough to walk. Each lasts for twenty-four hours, but there is no healing power in them.”
“Oh thank you. Thank you.” I clasped my hands over my mouth. “Can we use one of those now?” Zash tucked the spells into his pocket.
“Don’t you dare,” Vira said. “I already used a spell to renew his blood loss. His body needs to soak that one up before you give him another.” She pointed to the maturing spell in Zash’s hand. “Use that in an hour. Don’t wait any longer. I’ve bought the tsarevich time. It is your duty to ensure it isn’t wasted.” Her hand stroked Alexei’s brow without her seeming to notice the movement.
“His head wound is bad.” She returned the clay bottle and silver pin to the hole in the fireplace. “The blood inside is spreading and may take his life at any time.” Her eyes lifted to mine. “You need a stronger spell master.”
Alexei looked so fragile lying there, half his head swollen and purple. His breathing shallow. His knee hadn’t even healed yet from his small fall upon our arrival at the Ipatiev House. How could the bleeding in his head wound abate enough for him to survive? There must be another answer. Another solution. “What if we took him to the White Army?”
“Girl, those soldiers would drop their weapons and surrender to the Bolsheviks the moment they saw the tsarevich in this condition. The fire in their bosoms is lit by the idea of what he is and could be. A feeble, dying boy does not align with that idea. You would crush the hope of the people if they saw him in this state.”
Because my family had always hidden Alexei’s condition from the people, the people created their own image of him—one he could never live up to, no matter the embers of passion in his heart.
“But we could disguise him. We could approach the army as simple peasants. They are in Ekaterinburg!”
“No, they’re not, Nastya.” Zash’s statement was almost lost on me, he spoke it so quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“They were not close enough to rescue you. Yes, they are approaching Ekaterinburg, but Yurovsky used them as . . . as an excuse to plan his . . . execution.”
I gripped the arm of my chair. “You’re wrong. We were contacted by a White Army officer planning a rescue. A rescue that we refused because we didn’t want it to result in the deaths of any of our Bolshevik friends.”
He shook his head slowly. “That White Army officer is dead. A
vdeev intercepted the first letter. Beloborodov demanded that he forge responses in the hopes of capturing you and your family in an escape attempt—to speed up the order for an execution.”
Every word he spoke blotted out drop after drop of hope I’d been clinging to. All those letters we’d written and received, with the terrible escape plan . . . all those late nights weaving bedsheets together into a rope and hoping for rescue . . . had been a hoax?
“You knew about all this?” I breathed.
“I only learned of it these past few days.”
“Now is not the time!” Vira shoved a pile of white and grey costumes, trimmed with fur, into my hands. “You need to change and be on your way.”
I stared at the material, trying to recover from what Zash just told me.
“Stop gawking and put them on,” Vira barked. “They are traditional reindeer-skin clothing.”
That explained Vira’s and Zash’s coloring. They must have been from one of the seminomadic people groups of Siberia. What had brought Zash into the Bolshevik army? What brought them into a village at all?
“Will these not bring more attention?” I asked.
“You’ve been shut up in a prison. You don’t know what will bring attention in this area or not. This will be far better than your ragged skirt.”
Zash took the reindeer clothing from me and held out the coat. I allowed him to help me into it, mainly because my ribs ached too much to do it myself. The reindeer skin rested against my body like a blanket of comfort. It alone almost soothed some of my pain.
We were about to leave, for Vira’s safety, but to where? “What can you tell me of . . . Dochkin?”
Vira rose from the floor, her knees creaking and popping like a fresh log in a fire. “What do you know?”
My hand was tempted to stray to the Matryoshka doll, but I kept it firmly at my side. “I know the Red Army never found Vasily Dochkin.”
“Trust me, girl. If the Red Army couldn’t find him with all their gadgets and commandants and persistence, you have no chance.” She avoided my gaze.
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