Life hung on every leaf and sprout. I wasn’t afraid. Perhaps it was because I felt as though I’d finally reached the end—the crossroads of my new life and my old. I sat by the creek and pulled off my boots. I slipped my feet into the icy water and let it wash over my jumbled thoughts.
If I remained how I was—with my family’s slaughter in my mind and all the agony of the past months—how could I move forward? How could I do anything without aching? Without Alexei? To live with my memories meant I would have to forgive Yurovsky, even once Zash killed him. Papa would ask that of me. But did he know how impossible that was?
Then again, I’d thought it would be impossible to soften toward Zash.
Papa. What would you have me do? The question hung in the light summer sky, but I couldn’t imagine his voice. I couldn’t hear his words. He was slipping away. My eyes burned. Don’t leave me.
If I applied the pustoy spell, he would be gone from my mind forever.
Iisus?
If I used this spell, I wouldn’t have to forgive Yurovsky. I wouldn’t have to forgive anyone because I wouldn’t be hurt by their actions. But this would be a false victory. A shortcut. And though it sounded tempting right now, it would have its own trials.
I inspected the vial again. What right did I have to such a spell? It would be selfish for me to take it for myself—I’d be abandoning Zash. Zash who had given up everything to help us—who had just lost his babushka. Who was preparing to kill Yurovsky this very moment.
I should offer the spell to him.
But that would leave me hurting. It would leave me behind, carrying all the memories on my own.
I lay back in the grass, allowing my thoughts to drift to more vulnerable places. Zash had made it clear how he felt about me. I felt something for him, too, tied up in the confused emotions of his betrayal. I wanted to be with him and he wanted to be with me. If I took the spell, would he be willing to help me start over? To build new memories with me?
Could I ask him to do that? Could I ask him to keep his memories and never share them with me? To let me live a happy and free life while he wallowed in his own lonely story?
I couldn’t. It was as simple as that.
I’d told him I was trying to forgive him. As I lay in the grass next to the spell that could rid me of heart pain, I realized that a part of forgiveness was accepting the things someone had done—and the pain that came with that—and moving on with love. Forgiveness was a personal battle that must always be fought in my heart. Daily. And though I was tired of running and surviving and fighting . . . I wasn’t ready to surrender that battle yet.
Zash had lost as much as I had. He deserved the spell.
I couldn’t take the easy way out. Not if it would leave more pain in my wake for others. In this, I thought Papa would have been proud. If I used the spell for Zash, I could be strong enough to help him rebuild his life. I wouldn’t bring up his past. I wouldn’t remind him of his pain.
But I didn’t like the idea of him losing his memories of me. Losing his love for me, even though love could be rebuilt.
I lay in the grass waiting for the gunshot. Waiting for the end of Yurovsky. My heart grew sick thinking of Zash shooting his unconscious commandant. Alone. In a house of dead allies. And I’d left him there.
Suddenly everything became clear, like the blast of sunlight when the breeze blew away the tree branch: the selfishness of my escape. The injustice of me using the memory spell for myself. The fact I’d completely given up on Alexei and let hopelessness win.
I shoved myself to my feet, leaving my shoes by the creek. I’d reached my conclusion. The spell was not for me. But neither would I waste it. I knew what I needed to do. If I waited any longer, I wouldn’t be strong enough to do it.
I burst through the door, letting in a spill of sunlight—a source of strength.
Zash stood over Yurovsky’s body, still holding the cocked pistol. His hand trembled like a rattling carriage. Yurovsky’s chest still rose and fell.
At my entrance, Zash broke from his terrorized trance. “Nastya?” My name from his lips sounded both alarmed and hopeful.
“I’m still here,” I whispered.
Sweat lined his pale forehead and his face bore a twist of torment. He opened his mouth once. Twice. His chin trembled and finally he managed to force out tremulous words. “I . . . I can’t.”
His hand dropped to his side. “All I can think of is the last time I shot a pistol. At . . . at you. It fractured my heart—my very soul. If I take this life, I’ll shatter.” He shook his head. “I’m so, so sorry. I . . . failed you.”
I took the pistol from his hand and set it back on the kitchen table. “You didn’t fail me. You were stronger than me, Zash. I finally realized why Papa always asked me to forgive. Because it takes more strength and courage to forgive than it does to enact revenge.”
I twined my fingers with his. “Revenge would have shattered us both. But you’ve given us the opportunity to be strong. To mend our hearts instead of break them further. And I want you to know . . . I forgive you. For everything.”
A wash of freedom overtook his features. Like he’d stepped into daylight for the first time. He barely maintained his composure as he asked through thick emotion, “Really?”
I nodded.
He took my face in his hands with a fierce joy. As he pressed his forehead to mine, he whispered fervently, “You’ve freed me.”
So then why was I the one who felt freed?
“Don’t you dare kiss when I’m in the room,” came a feeble voice.
I jerked away from Zash so forcefully we both lost our balance. But as I landed hard on my elbows, I had eyes only for Alexei. He’d hardly moved from his supine position. But his head now angled toward me and he managed a weak wink.
“Alexei!” I screeched. I bolted to his side, careful not to touch him, not wanting to interfere with the spell. The ink was nowhere to be seen. It had soaked into his body just as Dochkin had said. “You’re alive! You’re alive!”
“Well, you did tell him to hang on.” Zash grinned, coming up beside me.
Alexei frowned at me. “Someone hit you in the face. You look like a plum.”
“I won’t even tell you what you look like.”
His gaze moved to Dochkin’s body on the floor. “Is he . . . ?”
I knelt beside Dochkin. “I did what I could.” I placed a hand on his chest but felt no movement. The slice in his neck had sealed. “I think he’s gone.”
“Wait.” Zash joined me and held Yurovsky’s blade under Dochkin’s nose.
“What are you—?” A tiny cloud fogged the knife blade. I gasped. “Is that . . . breath?” The cloud came again. Another breath. “He’s alive!”
“Why is it taking him so long to wake?” Alexei asked.
I racked my brain for my meager knowledge of spell mastery. “Likely because he was so close to death, he’s old, and I used only a tiny splash of your healing spell on him. Let’s be careful not to move him.”
The swelling in Alexei’s head had mostly gone. All his wounds were closed. “How are you feeling?”
“Better by the minute. Weak, though.”
“You’re prolonging the inevitable,” Yurovsky rasped through swollen and cracked lips from his spot on the floor.
Zash recoiled, despite Yurovsky’s bonds. Even I backed up a step, Yurovsky’s voice as threatening as his fists or blade or bullets had been.
“Well, let’s all wake up at the same time, shall we?” Alexei said.
“He’s been sickly his whole life—never able to rule.” Yurovsky wouldn’t even address Alexei as his own person.
“I don’t need to rule,” Alexei retorted. “That is not my future. I’m not trying to get the throne back—I listen to the demands of my people, even if they demand my disappearance.”
“They demanded your death.”
“No, that was you,” Alexei said calmly. “You received an order to disobey the laws of our Russia. No t
rial. No proper burial. You slaughtered the royal family and tried to defile our stories.”
“Your story is ended, little tsar. What future can you have without your family? Without your papa to carry you around?”
“Can someone please gag him?” Alexei asked.
I threw a spare blanket onto Yurovsky’s head and enjoyed watching him writhe with bound hands and legs to get out from under the itchy material. None of us were willing to go close enough to gag him.
Dochkin’s breaths grew stronger. His chest visibly rose and fell now. My risk taking had worked. When, finally, his eyes opened, they crinkled into a frown. “Wasn’t I supposed to die?”
“Something you should learn about us Romanovs is that we like to defy supposed tos.”
“Indeed.” He struggled to sit up and Zash helped prop him against the bed frame. “Well done, Grand Duchess.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. “But there is one last thing I must do.” I pulled the memory spell from my dress pocket and unstoppered it. My breath quickened.
“What’s that?” Alexei asked.
“This spell . . . Dochkin made for me.”
Zash watched the unstoppered spell tremble in my hands. “Please don’t do this,” he said softly. “Let me help you heal. Let me help you understand. We can heal together.”
Yurovsky had escaped the smothering blanket and squinted at me through the dried blood with his good eye. “With every spell you use, you condemn yourself further. The Red Army will find you all and finish the job.”
“Isn’t it interesting how the Red Army focuses all their efforts on murdering the noncompliant rather than actually serving the people?” Dochkin mused.
“Dochkin, you are to hand yourself in to the Soviets.”
“You have no way to take me in, little Bolshevik,” Dochkin said, not even giving him a glance. “And your slice with that knife proved the Soviet has no interest in negotiation.”
“If I die, you will be hunted!” Yurovsky shrieked.
“I’ve been hunted my whole life.”
Yurovsky’s and Dochkin’s voices passed through my consciousness like a distant echo. I stared at the memory spell. It flickered. Flowed. Called my name. Romanov. Romanov. Romanov.
It wanted to serve me. I gripped the vial with resolve.
“Nastya, what are you doing?” Alexei asked quietly.
Zash reached for the spell. “Wait. Please.”
I yanked it back. My throat burned. My eyes stung. The spell gurgled and climbed its way toward the opening, as though sensing I was ready. “None of us deserves to live with the pain and grief that is now woven in our stories.”
I couldn’t wait a second longer. I walked past Zash, and Yurovsky’s dark gaze finally slid to mine. “But at least we can stop you from causing more.” I choked on tears. “You don’t deserve this mercy.”
He sneered. “Mercies won’t stop me from hunting you and killing—”
I splashed the spell onto Yurovsky’s startled face. My own tears fell with it as I choked on the word. “Pustoy.”
39
“What are you doing?” Zash grabbed my wrist.
I dropped the vial and it shattered on the plank floor, but the spell had been poured. The ink sank into Yurovsky’s skin and a thick film of peace took its place. His features relaxed and he slumped backward into a deep sleep.
I cried harder. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve peace or freedom from the things he’d done. Whether he wanted it or not, he deserved to drown under those weights.
Zash took several deep breaths and wrapped an arm around me. “I . . . don’t understand.”
“Don’t you see?” I rubbed my sleeve across my face. “He will never hunt us any longer. He will have no vendetta against us . . . or against the spell masters he’s been killing. He is no longer a commandant or Bolshevik.”
We were free.
“Don’t do that to me!” Alexei hollered from his bed. “You left me lying here, helpless. Wondering if you were going to use that spell on yourself and turn into a hollow-head.”
I managed a grin for my brother, who raised himself up on one elbow. “Apologies, my tsar.”
He rolled his eyes and then turned somber at Yurovsky’s sleeping form. “We are free of him.” He gave me a firm nod of approval. “Papa would be pleased.”
My heart warmed. This was my first step toward forgiving Yurovsky. Releasing him from his actions. Tearing his claws from my heart and smashing them to powder. No matter if he was ever repentant or ever regretted murdering my family that night, I had to forgive him. Otherwise I would perish from the inside out.
Faced with releasing my hatred of Yurovsky, my forgiveness of Zash was a light of hope and freedom in my heart instead of a burden.
“I’m proud of you,” Zash said.
Dochkin said nothing of my choice or my use of his spell. “We will dress him in peasant’s clothing, give him a pouch of rubles, and deposit him in a village far away from here. For now, though, that spell should keep him sleeping a few hours.”
Dochkin held out a hand toward Zash. Zash helped him to his feet, both grunting from the effort. Dochkin felt his healed throat, then popped his neck. “Not to sound self-praising, but I made a mighty fine spell.” He brushed his hands together and surveyed the scene.
Blood stained his wood floor in a crimson lake with channels of red branching off into the cracks. Glass shards decorated the kitchen from smashed spell bottles.
“Shall we clean it up?” I suggested, not really having the energy to dive back into the sticky blood with a bar of soap.
“Before anything else, we all need rest . . . and food, I think.”
“Food first,” Alexei chirped, rising fully into a sitting position. My, how he’d healed!
A patter of small feet came from around the base of the bed in a broken rhythm. Joy limped into view, panting. She gave a small yap. All I could do was laugh. “You resilient little spaniel, you.” I picked her up and deposited her onto Alexei’s lap, joining him on the bed.
So many hours of our relationship had been spent with him in a bed and me at his side. But today he would finally rise in good health, not on borrowed time.
Zash and I—being the most recovered of the group—helped Alexei and Dochkin outside, per Dochkin’s instructions. We all washed our hands in the creek as best we could, then rounded the house where a carved table stretched along the back wall. It faced a lovely view of a small pasture with a low fence. Inside the pasture a few goats nibbled at flowers, two horses meandered by the creek, and chickens clucked around a coop.
More pens and a vegetable garden could be spotted beyond the coop. Dochkin sat at the table and gestured to a tin bucket by the pasture fence. “Zash, could you—”
“Say no more.” Zash grabbed the bucket and strode out to the pasture.
Less than a quarter hour later, we munched on fresh carrots, tomatoes, and bowls of berries in milk. I could have cried over the simple luxury of it. Joy caught herself a squirrel and made her own meal.
I tried not to stare at Dochkin throughout the meal. He struggled to swallow a piece of carrot and abandoned the root for his bowl of milk. Perhaps his spell hadn’t completed the job as thoroughly as hoped.
“How long have you lived here, Dochkin?” I popped a cowberry into my mouth.
“Longer than you’ve been alive, at least.” His long mustache hid his smile like Papa’s used to, but I knew how to recognize the crinkles around the eyes.
“And no one has ever discovered you?”
“Without a locate spell, like what you used to get here, it’s impossible to find. I spent half my time here crafting spells that erased any traceability.”
“Yurovsky had a pocket watch that could detect spells. Even that wouldn’t have found you?”
“Even that.”
Tension leaked out of my bones and I plopped my elbows on the table. “It seems a wonderful place to study spell mastery.” And to live. “Do you
never get lonely?”
“There’s a village not far—a few hours’ walk. I venture there at least twice a month.” He opened his arms to gesture to the landscape around us. “Peace, quiet, and safety are all well. But community and relationship are what truly fill a person’s life. Of course I use an alias when in the village, but the people there are good. I help them where I can.” He tossed part of his carrot toward Joy, who sniffed it once and turned away in disgust. “Tell me, Grand Duchess . . . why so many questions?”
I flicked my gaze to Alexei. He knew my aspirations and dreams. But would telling Dochkin imply that I wanted to act on them? I played with the berries remaining in my bowl. “I’ve always . . . always wanted to be a spell master. And this type of life—learning and farming and serving the people—is similar to the dreams Papa would speak of for our family. I can’t help thinking about how much he would love it here.”
Alexei nodded sadly, setting aside his now-finished second helping of berries and milk. “He would have loved it, but he wouldn’t have stayed. Not with the current unrest.”
“Please expound.” Dochkin folded his hands on the table in front of him.
Alexei lifted his head. “I want to entreat your help, Spell Master. You have healed me, which shows you are loyal. Would you consider serving with me?”
Dochkin looked politely interested. “How so, my tsarevich?”
“I would like to rendezvous with the White Army. They are gathering as many spell masters to help them as will join. You know many spell masters across the country. And you are the most powerful. I invite you to take up the fight. Though I am not your tsar, I am a soldier of the people. And I know you are, too.”
I couldn’t read the expression on Dochkin’s face. But I was more interested in understanding Alexei. He was ready to return to the front lines. To help his fellow soldiers and his country in the only way left to him. In the way he was designed to do.
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