Anastasia Forever

by Joy Preble

  Anne grins. “Chances are good.”

  I frown at her. And decide she’s probably right.

  “Come, dearest,” Tasha says. “We don’t want to be late. Wouldn’t want your friend Viktor thinking ill of us, would we?”

  I watch myself press a kiss to Tasha’s forehead, then take her hand. The room is suddenly familiar with its burnished wood floor and shining grand piano in one corner. We’re in Tasha’s music studio—the small but thriving business that was sustaining her. It sat on the first floor of a building near Trafalgar Square, right below the tiny flat she rented. The room smells exactly as I remember—a heady combination of paper and furniture polish and the cut flowers she insisted on keeping in a crystal vase on the small table near the window. It was her one consistent luxury.

  She smiles, then traces one long, graceful finger over his-my lower lip. My own lip feels the touch of her fingertip. Like the room itself, the gesture is familiar. So much comes flooding back that I feel almost paralyzed with it. We had been lovers, Tasha and I. I had slept with women before her, although not many. My Brotherhood vows had slipped away slowly, then quicker as the years began to turn and the Revolution seemed farther away. Always there was my search for Anastasia. But then there had been Tasha. And something inside me had changed.

  “Ethan.” Anne’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. I focus on her—those luminous brown eyes, auburn hair pulled back, tiny sprinkling of freckles over her nose. How long have I been standing here, pondering the past?

  Anne gestures toward the door. “We need to follow them, right? I mean that’s got to be the whole point of this. That and figuring out how to get back to my house before my parents realize I’m gone. Although I guess the other alternative is that they realize you’re spending the night. I’m not really sure which would freak them out more.”

  With a jolt, I realize that Tasha and the other me have left the studio. Anne and I stand alone in the room, the perfume of the stalks of forsythia in the cut-glass vase filling the air with their scent.

  Anne squeezes my hand. “You loved her. It’s okay.” But there’s wariness in her eyes that I’d rather not be there.

  I wrap my free hand over our clasped palms. “I know this is strange. I—”

  “Ethan. It’s your past. And it might not even be the way it was. We need to remember that, right? Like what Tess and I saw. Maybe we’re seeing what was. Maybe we’re not. We don’t even know why this is happening exactly. So no worries. You loved her. She was your girlfriend. I get it. Lots of people have exes. Except I guess normally the new girlfriend doesn’t get quite so up close and personal with the past. Lucky me, huh?”

  I let Anne pull me to the door, then stop at the threshold and look back. Memories flood through me. Me leaning over Tasha as she sat at the keyboard. Kissing the back of her neck. Caressing her long hair. Drinking tea with her in the late afternoon. Making love to her as the last of the sun filtered in thin shafts through her bedroom window. And later, leaving her with only a note of apology. But never, ever the truth about who and what I was then.

  Love requires truth. Did I love Tasha? I think I did. But not enough. Not in the right ways.

  Outside, there’s a noise—a car horn and the sound of horse hooves clipping against the pavement. Like me, I think suddenly. Old and new colliding for dominance, both existing in the same space. Even when I’m not magically transported to the past, I’m there anyway, just through my existence.

  “Hey,” Anne says quietly. Her cheeks look slightly flushed and it takes a few seconds before she meets my gaze. “Ethan. I know you’re thinking about her. But you need to think and walk. We don’t want to lose them, right?”

  She looks down at herself. “Terrific. My first time in London, and I’m wearing old shorts and tacky flip-flops. Let’s hope we stay invisible.”

  She rolls her eyes, and in that moment it’s Anne who’s familiar again and Tasha who’s the distant memory. What was is not important. Only what is. We need the past to explain the present, to understand how Viktor is once again immortal. And I need to figure out how to save Anne from a fate with Baba Yaga that she absolutely does not deserve. Anne to whom I always owe the truth. Anne who I love in a way that transcends past, present, and future.

  •••

  We head out. The noise and bustle of London envelops us. Tasha and my past self are still visible about half a block from us, walking at a brisk clip.

  We follow them, dodging a family pushing a baby carriage and a cluster of uniformed schoolboys laughing and jostling each other. If they see us, they make no show of it. We seem to be as invisible to them as we were to Tasha and my past self.

  Anne points ahead of us. “Look. They’re turning.”

  We do the same, and as we round the corner, I get my bearings.

  “We’re not far from the theater,” I tell Anne. “The one where the Royal Ballet performed back then. Assuming that the details of what we’re experiencing are accurate to what actually occurred. Actually I don’t think it was even called the Royal Ballet then. I think—”

  “Doesn’t matter, Ethan. Whatever it was, it’s where we’re going. You guys were meeting Viktor, right? That’s the important thing. It’s got to be.”

  She’s right, of course. And once again I’m painfully conscious that many things in my past meant more than I ever understood.

  The other Ethan and Tasha step from the crooked sidewalk to cross the crowded boulevard to the other side. My gaze stays on them as I take Anne’s hand and we step off the curb. Then she’s yanking me back as a carriage pulled by two black horses comes inches from colliding with us. The side of the carriage scrapes against my arm as we scramble out of reach.

  Anne huffs out a breath. “Can we try not to get killed?”

  We dash the rest of the way without incident. At the opposite curb, Anne comes to a sudden halt, a curious look in her brown eyes.

  “If I hadn’t pulled you back, would that carriage have hit you? The Cossacks didn’t seem to be able to touch Tess and me, but is that really how this works? What if it doesn’t? When Tess fell, she hurt herself. What if colliding with the carriage is like that?”

  I rub my arm. There’s a definite abrasion. And thus a clear risk. I work to keep my tone light. “Don’t know,” I say. “So how about I just watch where I’m going? That should work for now.”

  Anne narrows her eyes at me, and I know my attempt at humor has fallen flat, but we leave it at that and continue walking.

  Is she right? Could I—could she—have been hurt? Somehow we always circle back to the same issue. I can love Anne all I want, but I can’t promise to keep her safe. And I despise how that makes me feel. Just as I despised myself for leaving Tasha without ever telling her the truth.

  Tasha, who now walks into the theater with me, even as I follow behind her with Anne. Already I can make out the posters advertising the evening’s performance of Giselle. The ballet troupe was new then, just starting out. But there’s a buzz of excitement in the air from the entering patrons—all of whom seem wholly unaware of our presence.

  In front of the doors, Anne turns to me, her voice low. “So does any of this feel familiar? Do you remember going with Tasha to meet Viktor? I know it was a long time ago, but you have to remember something. Don’t you?”

  “Yes and no. It’s not as easy you think. Time is a funny thing, Anne. We don’t always know that big moments are big. Certain things—like when Anastasia was taken, when her family was murdered—they’re unforgettable. But a random moment of a random day that you had no idea wasn’t necessarily random? So much else goes on. So many other memories fill the space.”

  “Well, start thinking.” She flashes a brief smile. “We’re here for a reason, right? But it’s your past, Ethan, not mine. I may be sneaking peeks into your head, but you’re still the one who knows what’s
real and what’s not.”

  We stand at the wooden doors, ballet-goers angling around us and into the theater. Anne’s tone hints at an annoyance I haven’t felt until now. Something sparks inside me—rises quickly and with a dark intensity I don’t consciously summon. Without meaning to, I read her emotions. They rush into my head, a tangle of fear and confusion and, yes, anger. The ease with which her thoughts meld with mine shocks me.

  Anne looks at me sharply. Presses a hand to her forehead.

  “Hey,” she says, and now it’s more than annoyance that I hear. “Don’t do that. You’re poking around in my head again, aren’t you? That is so not fair. Let me make it easy for you. I don’t want to be here, but I am. And in case you’re wondering, yes, it’s totally weird to watch you making out with your old girlfriend. So there it is, okay? You can stop trying to pick it out of my brain.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “And don’t bother apologizing,” Anne says. “If I wasn’t in your head too, I probably wouldn’t be so pissed right now.”

  Oh.

  “Let’s do this,” she says.

  I open the door. We step inside.

  The Ballet Theater, Evening Maybe Wednesday, Maybe Not

  Anne

  I stomp by him into the theater. It’s a good thing I’m invisible to everyone else because that way no one will notice when I kick him in the shin. Does he have any idea how creepy it feels to have him dip into my thoughts like he’s looking for something in a crowded closet? Okay, I was peeking into his brain too. But I didn’t mean to. I just don’t seem to have an option to avoid it. It’s like the channel is open and neither of us can close it.

  I glance at him, but his expression is pretty neutral. Does he know that I’m wondering—for not the first time—what secret stuff he’s still keeping from me?

  I don’t know if he can read everything in my head. But if you’re in there, Ethan, here’s what I hate right now: that I know how much you cared about Tasha. Clearly you guys did stuff together, but I’d have preferred to avoid the video clip. It’s one thing to know that your boyfriend had a love life before you. It’s another thing to catch him reliving it. Call me petty, but that’s the way it is.

  And here’s what else I hate right now: that I can’t think these thoughts in private. Okay, you can’t think yours either, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. It just makes me scared and frustrated. I mean seriously, Ethan—I don’t want to read your “Hey, we used to have lots of sex” thoughts about your ex any more than you want to know about Ben’s post-latte peck on the lips. Not that those two compare by any vast stretch of the imagination.

  Ethan’s brows are knitted together. I try not to think that this makes him look cute, which would certainly dilute the “I think this sucks” vibe that I’d prefer to give off.

  And then someone bustles past us into the theater and I look up.

  It’s absolutely beautiful. This is the first thought I have. And the second. And the third.

  I forget that I’m arguing with Ethan. I forget how scared I am or how I hate that I’m jealous of this girl who doesn’t even really exist anymore. I don’t bother to scan the lobby for Tasha and the Ethan doppelgänger. Or for Viktor. For the first time in a long while, I don’t feel guilty about Ben or worried about my parents. Or freaked about Baba Yaga and sad for Anastasia and Lily, my rusalka grandmother.

  Instead, I let myself just look. I gaze around the old theater—with its curving stage and high ceiling and ornate box seats and balcony—and breathe in what I’ve missed so very much. Ballet.

  The dancers aren’t on stage yet, but I can sense them behind the red velvet curtain getting ready. As if I’m back there too, I can see them shimmying into costumes and warming up. Smell the rosin as they rub it into the soles of their slippers. See the girls rising en pointe as they ready themselves to perform.

  My eyes fill with tears. My throat tightens. I was never going to be a great ballerina. I’m not thin enough or dedicated enough. I hated what it did to my feet. My talent is only middle of the road.

  But I loved dancing. The pure joy of it. I liked how it made my body feel—lithe and limber, as though if I tried hard enough, I could float above the stage. In those months when my brother was dying, I practiced harder. It was the only thing that let me forget that my family was imploding.

  And then one afternoon Tess and I went to see Swan Lake in a different gorgeous theater and noticed this handsome blue-eyed guy watching me. The guy who turned out to be Ethan. The one who changed everything.

  I’m angry with him still, for reasons I can name and some I can’t. And I can tell he’s not totally happy either.

  But I let him slip his arm around me and feel the strange thrill of knowing that we’re basically invisible to everyone else. If he kissed me right now, no one would see us. People might sense it—like you sense a ghost or get déjà vu. But they’d go on anyway and walk to their seats and Giselle would start, and no one would know that we were standing behind them, his lips pressed against mine. Tess will definitely appreciate this story if I choose to share it with her. This is the kind of stuff she loves.

  Ethan’s arm tightens around my shoulders. My heart hammers harder—both at the thought of losing myself into a kiss and the realization that he probably knows what I’m thinking. I feel my face grow warm.

  “Look,” Ethan says, and my thoughts refocus. He gestures.

  In the box seats above us to our right, Tasha and the other Ethan settle themselves into plush chairs. The two of them, but no Viktor.

  My Ethan’s blue eyes scan the auditorium, then his gaze returns to the box seats. He scrubs a hand over his face. If he’s sensed my kissing thoughts, his expression doesn’t show it. He looks tired and serious, a hint of five-o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin. Of course, I’m standing in a beautiful old theater wearing shorts, a tank top, and bedazzled black flip-flops. It is totally unfair that he looks as hot as always, while I probably look like I fell out of bed and into a whirlwind—which is basically what happened.

  “I remember something,” Ethan says. His eyes brighten. Still no sign that he read my make-out fantasies.

  “Viktor had arranged for the box seats—and that bothered me. It would have been private, but it also called attention. People always want to see who’s sitting up there. That wasn’t usually the way we did things. We rarely made ourselves obvious.”

  The auditorium begins to darken. The other Ethan leans in to whisper something in Tasha’s ear. In the dimming light, I can see her smile, then tilt her head back like she was laughing. And then they both look behind them as a third figure comes into view.

  Even with his face in partial shadow, I have no trouble identifying Viktor. All arrogance, he stalks into the room, and when past Ethan stands to shake Viktor’s hand, the light from the stage catches Viktor’s face. His dark eyes glitter in a way that makes my stomach clench, and goose bumps prickle my arms and legs.

  Next to me, my Ethan links his fingers with mine. “Nothing to be afraid of,” he says. “Not from him.”

  His tone is neutral, pleasant even. But underneath, I feel his anger mingle with my own. Viktor has caused so much hurt, so much damage. I need to use that fear and anger to figure out why we’re here and what we need to see.

  “Looks like they’re staying put,” Ethan says. “C’mon.” He squeezes my hand. And we head toward the staircase that leads to the box seats.

  The music begins as we’re walking. Again, I’m reminded of how much I love dance—the grace of it, the stories of the ballets, the feeling that I can almost defy gravity.

  “I don’t know Giselle,” I say as we reach the first landing and move to the second flight of stairs.

  “Giselle’s a girl with a weak heart. She falls in love with a nobleman. Only she has no idea that he’s already betrothed to
someone else. When she finds out, this weakens her even more and she dies. Her friend the gamekeeper, who loved her deeply, mourns at her grave. And then—this is a tragic ballet—the wilis rise.”

  “Wilis?”

  “They’re Slavic. Spirits of—oh.” Ethan stops dead still on the last stair before the second landing. He drops my hand. A strange look crosses his face. “I really had forgotten. This is—”

  “Is what?” My heart skips half a beat. Isn’t going back in time and watching another Ethan with another girl enough without adding in some Slavic folklore craziness? By the look on his face, the answer is a resounding no.

  “The Wilis take her. It’s another name for rusalka—female spirits who’ve been jilted by their lovers. They seek revenge on men. They take Giselle. And then they go after her nobleman. Because they think he should die.”

  My beat-skipping heart moves to racing. “And? Do I want to know?”

  We step onto the landing, empty of people except for us. “And Giselle saves him,” Ethan says. “It’s the inevitable. She protects him and the Wilis can’t drown him. She doesn’t give in to their hatred. Her nobleman lives, and she can rest in peace.”

  My mouth goes dry. “Like Lily. Except Lily can’t go free without my help. Unless…”

  “I don’t know, Anne. Giselle is about love, about forgiveness. Lily’s a rusalka, a wili, yes. But the rest of it…”

  I push away the thought. “She forgives her nobleman. She doesn’t give in. Lily could do that, right? It could happen.”

  It could. Anything could, I guess. But I know what he’s thinking because I’m thinking it too. What if Lily does forgive Viktor for trying to kill her, for making her so desperate to protect her daughter from him that she gave her up for adoption—so he wouldn’t know she existed—and then leaped into the river? Will it be enough to free her from her curse? Or will Viktor still have to die? And my promise to Baba Yaga—what about that? I still haven’t found the source of Viktor’s new immortality.