I was not designed for that. The very notion of returning to battle and leaving this place made me want to crawl into the nearest bedroll.
“I’ve been waiting many years for you to enter my home,” Dochkin said. “I always knew that once you came, it would be time for me to leave.”
“So . . . you will join me?”
“At your command.”
“No, at my request. I will not command you to leave your life and follow me.”
“That is why I shall join you, young Tsar.”
“Alexei.”
Dochkin’s eyes twinkled. “Alexei.”
They shook hands and shared grins. I saw a bond form—between an old spell master and a young boy who never let his illness hold him back from his dreams and duties.
* * *
We were allowed back in the house long enough to grab thick blankets to spread out on the grass. Dochkin gathered some peasant clothes from his dresser for Yurovsky while Zash set to bandaging Yurovsky’s wounds. I looked forward to dumping him in an alleyway. It didn’t seem fair that he’d be able to start a new life. Not when I wasn’t sure what I would do with mine yet.
“Take those blankets and get outside,” Dochkin barked.
Alexei and I scrambled back out into the light. I still tensed watching him move with such ease, having seen him bedridden for the past several months. It could happen again in a second—with a single trip or accident. But I had to let him live and risk and bruise.
Because we were all at risk of accidents. Pain could strike us all in a moment. And just because it could strike Alexei more severely and more swiftly didn’t turn him timid.
We spread the blankets on the grass and rested. Truly rested. Dochkin would not allow us back into the house until we’d done so and I was only too happy to oblige, lying side by side with my healthy brother, soaking up the sun in a way we were never allowed to do at the Ipatiev House or even Tobolsk.
Clouds passed. Time passed. I didn’t count either. I just watched. Zash and Dochkin worked inside the house. I didn’t allow myself to imagine what chores they were tackling or conversations they were having.
Alexei propped himself up on his elbows. “Nastya?”
“Mmm?” I responded sleepily.
“What do you wish to do, Sister?”
I opened my eyes fully. “I want to stay with you, of course.”
Alexei shook his head. “This is your crossroad. This is where you get to make your own way. Do not let me be a tether.”
I pushed myself up until I sat cross-legged. A tether. Like the spell Yurovsky had used on Zash—the one that ate at his insides the farther he got from Yurovsky. “You’re not a tether. I go with you willingly.”
Alexei gave me a stern frown. “You know what I’m asking.”
I picked at a snag in the blanket beneath me. “You know better than anyone else that I wish to learn spell mastery.”
“Ask Dochkin to teach you. Who better to instruct you?”
I shrugged. “He has a different mission . . . young Tsar.”
A shadow fell across us. I spun to face Dochkin. His wrinkled face held warmth in every crease. “There is no greater joy than to pass on one’s passion to an eager student.”
I gulped down a breath. Dochkin sat with us. Across the way Zash pushed a wheelbarrow of soiled cleaning cloths and dumped the contents in a burn pile. He seemed too far. I yearned for him to take part in this conversation, so when he turned our way, I gave a little head jerk. An invitation to sit with us.
“I am old, Grand Duchess Anastasia,” Dochkin went on. “And I will be joining your brother in war. There will come a time when only you will know how to make the spells that will enable your brother to heal when he needs to.”
It was as though he’d ingested my hopes and spoke them out in complete understanding. “Would you teach me?” I breathed.
“I would be honored.”
Alexei scooted to the side as Zash arrived and gingerly lowered himself across from me.
“But what of this place?” I asked. “What of your home? Your spell work?”
“Your animals?” Zash added. “Who will care for them when you leave, Spell Master?” I could see the longing in Zash’s face as he gazed toward the pasture.
“If the tsarevich will permit me to lend some advice . . .” Dochkin faced Alexei, who nodded in encouragement. “This is not a war that will end in a week. We must enter it prepared for a long journey. I believe we will need a base. A base to gather spells. A base to which we can send injured spell masters, injured White soldiers. Somewhere safe.”
Alexei nodded, somber but determined. “You mean here.”
“Da. If there should be those willing to stay behind and care for it.”
The opportunity swam before me like the berries in my bowl of milk earlier. I could stay here. I could stay. “I cannot leave my brother.”
“It’s not leaving me, Nastya. It’s letting me leave.” Alexei picked at a stray thread on the blanket. “You are fearsome, but you are not a soldier for the battlefield. Your talents and passions were not meant for the thick of war. They were meant for the side of it. The healing side. The side that renews the spirit of hope.”
My little brother was instructing me—not commanding, but guiding me toward a solution that he wanted me to choose on my own.
“But what would I do here?” It almost seemed cruel to allow myself to dream of walking in the forest and picking berries or gardening like I once did with Papa. It was the life Papa always wanted for us if we left exile. It felt wrong to take it all for myself.
“You could run the base,” Dochkin offered.
I took in all the animals and the garden and pictured the well-kept home. “I think Zash would be better suited for that.”
“You don’t see it yet, Sister.” Alexei smiled. “Zash works with his hands. You work with your mind.”
I knew what he was trying to say. Spell mastery. “How would I learn spell mastery if Dochkin is gone?”
“First, through my journals,” Dochkin said. “Second, through visits. I have an entire pouch of those locate spells that will bring us back to this house when needed—when Alexei needs a healing spell or when I need to replenish my stock. It will be up to you to learn the spells that heal his injuries so he can continue serving Russia. You must pass on this legacy.”
A legacy of life. A legacy of hope.
This time, it was a choice to be left behind. No, not left behind . . . a choice to determine my future. And to let Alexei determine his. This was our new life—free of crowns and thrones. Free of hunters and Bolsheviks and exile.
We were finally free to live anew.
The same thrill that sparked in my heart shone in Alexei’s eyes. “Do it, Nastya.”
I dared to imagine life not as Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, but as Nastya. A Russian girl who happened to have royal blood. A spell master in training, who would help her people through her voice, her blood, and magic.
“Of course I will.” I was being handed my dreams—the opportunity to help my brother, to help my country, and to help my heart. I was finally going to learn spell mastery at the instruction of Russia’s mightiest teacher.
But I didn’t want to do it alone. While Dochkin and Alexei clapped each other on the back and entered a new conversation about the future, I watched Zash out of the corner of my eye. No one had offered him a future. No one had invited him to stay or leave.
Perhaps . . . that was up to me.
40
“The first step to spell mastery is the spell ink.” Dochkin handed me a stoppered jar.
I took it gingerly, the first lesson of our new day in Dochkin’s house. I was amazed at what a passing night’s sleep could refresh in my mind. It tamed the high emotions of the previous day, sent another drop of healing into our souls, and woke us up fresh and optimistic.
Dochkin’s house wasn’t completely cleaned—the wood floor still had a giant stain of blood�
�but almost all evidence of the fight that took place yesterday had been scrubbed away.
Yurovsky lay against the wall in a shadowed corner, still asleep. Dochkin had applied a sleeping spell to him to ensure he did not wake up until deposited in the chosen village. Now in peasant dress, Yurovsky looked less shadowed and sinister.
I focused on the jar of spell ink in my hands. “I’ve searched and searched to learn how to make it.” My pulse quickened at the thought of finally having the answer.
“That is the secret no spell master reveals . . . until they are with their student.” Dochkin tapped the jar in my hand. “You can only create spell ink once a spell master has gifted you with ink of his own. That ensures spell mastery is passed on through discretion and passion. You had my Matryoshka doll, but this ink is my first gift to you, Grand Duchess.”
I gawked. “That’s why it was never recorded in spell books.” Dochkin nodded. “And please, Master Dochkin, call me Nastya. I am not your princess anymore. I am your student.”
He plopped a stack of three black journals on the kitchen table, similar to Papa’s. “Start with these. Now that you have the base of your spell ink, you can read how it works and connects with the spell master. Keep a list of your questions for when I return. Once you’ve mastered these journals, I’ll give you the next set.”
I nodded.
“I’m almost ready!” Alexei strode into the kitchen wearing regular clothing. His face bore a healthy glow after all the rest and healing he’d received.
My spirit spasmed and I almost dropped the spell ink. They were leaving so soon. Today. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye.
“Such a scowl, Sister!” Alexei held out his arms. “Does my common clothing look that bad?”
I dropped the scowl I hadn’t known had made its way to my face. “You are too handsome to ever look fully common, I’m afraid.” I swallowed hard. “It’s difficult to say good-bye.”
He took my hands in his and I only just realized he almost matched me in height. “The bond of our hearts . . .”
My eyes burned. “. . . spans miles, memory, and time.”
“We will return soon—for Dochkin to further your training, and I’m sure I’ll get into a scrape and need a spell sooner rather than later.”
Dochkin loaded tins and bottles of spells into his shoulder pack. “I have plenty that will sustain you until our return, Tsarevich.” He still couldn’t drop the formal titles—he’d have to work on that before they got into the village.
Movement through the door caught my eye. Zash knelt by the little brook in the distance. He had barely spoken a word since yesterday’s conversation on the grass. Afterward, he’d poured every moment into cleaning, caring for the animals, and preparing the wagon in which Alexei, Dochkin, and Yurovsky would depart.
He was the one untied thread to the fabric of my new story.
I’d wanted to speak with him yesterday, in the aftermath. But the conversations and exhaustion and emotion weighing us all down did not allow me to cross that threshold. Now . . . I was procrastinating. Why was I so hesitant when I had such hopes?
Alexei squeezed my hand. “Go to him, Sister.”
“I’m nervous,” I whispered.
Alexei grinned. “That’s a good sign.” I nudged him playfully and obeyed, but not before I caught a last word from him. “His future is in your hands, not mine, Nastya.”
I found Zash out in the garden across from the brook. He sat on his knees beside a pile of stones and worked on twining two sticks together in a cross. His hands worked gently, weaving memories and sorrows into the thick cord.
I knelt beside him in the grass. “I am sorry about Vira.”
His hands stilled. “She knew the risk.”
I held the twine in place while he tied a knot. “I’m sorry all the same.”
“I feared for her life so many times, it’s as though I’ve lived this moment already. A hundred times over. She tried to prepare me. Every time I left home, she made me bid a final farewell.” He held the cross in his lap and stared at it.
“I think she’d be proud of us.”
He nodded. “I was afraid that once she left this world I would feel empty. Alone.”
“You’re . . . not alone.”
He stabbed the cross in the grass, in the center of a bed of flowers. We pushed scoops of dirt around the base to keep it upright. This was how my family should have been buried. Perhaps someday I would be able to give them a proper burial.
“If anything ever happens to me or Alexei . . . will you make sure we’re buried with our family?” My question came after a long silence, but Zash seemed to understand why I asked it.
“Of course.” He stacked stones around the base of the cross. I didn’t help too much, allowing him this closure.
As we sat before the cross, it reminded me of the many times Papa read to us and led us in prayer. It reminded me of the hope and the life that Papa so strongly instilled in us.
Zash helped me to my feet and we brushed the dirt from our clothing. We stood in the garden together—a reminder of the days at Ipatiev, but with a new freedom pointing to our futures.
What did Zash want to do now? Would he return to Ekaterinburg? Search for his tribe of people? Alexei said I held Zash’s future in my hands. I didn’t want that duty. I wanted Zash to feel the same freedom of choice I had. So I asked the same question Alexei had posed to me.
“What do you want, Zash?”
He was quiet for a long time. “I want to love rightly.”
That wasn’t what I’d expected to come out of his mouth.
“All my life I was driven by the loyalty of caring for the people I loved. Caring for fellow herders, caring for Vira. I was taught that nothing was more important than such care. But your family showed me differently. You cared equally as much about those you loved—you would do anything for them. But you also allowed yourselves to love . . . more. You loved your enemies. You loved your friends. You loved the Bolsheviks enough to sacrifice an opportunity to escape.”
My throat pinched the longer he talked. I never felt as though I’d loved well, but Papa certainly did. And Papa was our example. We all wanted to love how he loved.
“Once I finally opened myself up to love like that, I found myself caring about you. And Alexei. And it’s changed who I am. I’m . . . a better person now, I think. I have a better frame of spirit.”
His vulnerability invited me to be vulnerable, too, and it refreshed me. “I like who you are, Zash. As do Alexei and Dochkin, so much so that they want you to stay here. To use your hands as you did with your people and to . . . help me help them.”
“Is this what you wish, Nastya?”
To affirm him would be to share a deep, confused, raw part of myself. I wanted to say yes. To yell yes. “I can’t do this alone. Will you stay? And help me?”
It was a cheap way out. A coward’s way out. Inviting him for his benefits instead of inviting him to help me because I wanted him.
Still, it seemed enough for him. “Of course I will stay. Of course I’ll help.” The vulnerability had left his voice. It was my fault.
What could I say? How could I make it clear to him what I was feeling? Even I didn’t know. I opened my mouth and closed it several times. But he changed the subject before I could say anything more. “Thank you for not using the memory spell on yourself. I don’t imagine it was for my sake.”
“It was for Alexei’s sake,” I said, and he nodded. “And Papa’s sake. And my sake.” I took his calloused hand and placed it in mine. “And yes, a big part of it was for your sake, too, Zash.”
He looked up.
“I couldn’t abandon you to these memories alone. I’m . . . I’m here.” His breath hitched. But I didn’t dare hope just yet.
“I’m here for you, too, Nastya. I know a lot about the struggles spell masters live with. I would be honored to serve Alexei, Dochkin, and you as . . . as whatever you need from me. The way I should have from the beginning.�
�
“All I want from you . . . is you.” There. I’d said it. The words broke through my hesitation like a galloping horse through a fence. “I want exactly who you are, Zash.”
He looked stunned. Frozen in time. “You mean . . . ?”
I grinned. “You said you like bald ex-princesses. And I’m afraid I only know one. She wants to live life and fight the fight and learn spell mastery with you. She’s wondering if you’ll have her.”
He touched my face lightly, tracing my cheekbone. “Is she certain she wants me? Could she even bring herself to trust me?”
To trust Zash was to believe there was still hope—in humanity, in my future. That frightened me. I wanted to hope, but I still couldn’t think back to a time that hope carried me through. We had saved Alexei, but Yurovsky was going free. Papa had hoped in rescue and life, but he’d been shot. I’d hoped in Zash’s friendship and he’d betrayed me.
But then he repented. He’d asked forgiveness and I dared to set aside my pain and let him in. Partly out of desperation and partly because I couldn’t bear to give up hope fully. Papa never had—not even in the worst of times.
“Yes. With all of my broken Romanov heart.” I peered up into Zash’s face as he drew me closer. His eyes reflected the same caution—the same fear—I felt. But also the same hope. And through that, we were bound.
He twined his fingers with mine and leaned forward with a whispered question. “Is this okay?”
I breathed in the moment, forcing myself to process the question. I was not yet okay, and I knew Zash was not okay yet either. But this—us—was a step toward that. “Yes.”
Then softly, gently, he kissed me. His free hand held me steady, and I knew that this—this moment at least—could not be taken from me. It was fully ours. No matter our futures. No matter our pasts.
We made our way back to the house, back toward Alexei and Dochkin, where we would support each other’s new pursuits. It wasn’t a new mission . . . it was a new lifestyle. We were no longer fighting to preserve our old ways of living. Instead, we were all trailblazing forward into a new life. A life in a war-torn country. A life under the regime of the Soviets who may or may not be overthrown.
Romanov Page 27