Romanov(12)

I ran to them, stilling the thunder of my heart. He wouldn’t come in here. Not right now, at least. I tore through his belongings, unfolding every shirt, turning out every sock, bending a fingernail on another pocket watch, slicing my thumb on the thin pages of a journal.

No doll.

No doll.

No doll.

For the first time I considered the fact I might fail. I might fail Papa. I might fail my family. Papa said the doll could be our salvation. Without it, we could perish.

I stuffed Yurovsky’s belongings back into the pack as panic burned behind my eyes. No. No. No. Where was it? Who took it?

I had no new ideas.

I reentered the main room with the weight of defeat. I couldn’t meet Yurovsky’s eyes. Zash loaded our items onto the carriage that would take us to the train station in Tyumen. My heart threatened to still with the memory that we were going to Ekaterinburg. The city between familiar Russia and savage Russia. Nestled in the Ural Mountains and home to the most bitter Russians.

Impossible to be home to us.

I donned my long grey coat that had seen me from St. Petersburg to Tobolsk and would now see me to Ekaterinburg. I knotted the tie around the middle until it pinched and stoppered my emotions. Olga flitted about, searching for any loose items we were forgetting. Did she see all the threads of life we were leaving behind? The piles of memories we’d never revisit? The sheen of hope we were abandoning?

Her gaze landed on me and her eyes lost the anxious busyness and took on a soft tone. She lifted her hand, and suddenly I felt like the little sister. The small one who stood in a crowd, lost. A failure. I stumbled forward and took her hand, wanting to tell her I’d let Papa down but unable to own that fact yet.

“The bond of our hearts—” she whispered.

“—spans miles, memory, and time,” I finished.

We moved past Yurovsky to the tarantass—a rustic, springless carriage meant to take us to the station. His hands rested in a way to intimidate—one on the holstered pistol, the other on the strap of his small satchel that held the orders to send us to Ekaterinburg. He drew out his pocket watch, tracking the seconds to make sure we would be exiled on time.

Tatiana entered the carriage with Dr. Botkin and Kharitonov—her own guard of Bolsheviks filling in the extra spaces in the carriage. We wore our wool kubanka hats and ducked our heads against the downpour.

My hand moved to my stomach, to press down the feelings of sorrow and to touch the bump of jewels. To remind myself that I was defying the Bolsheviks with every step. Olga’s fingers twined the locket at her throat that held a photo of a soldier she’d mended during the war and fallen in love with. Alexei already sat in the carriage clutching his box of toy soldiers as though they were his last loyal army.

We were clinging to the memories—the good ones. The small comforts and victories.

As we climbed into the carriage and settled side by side, close enough to form a human blanket with Alexei across from us underneath a real blanket, I allowed my gaze to follow Yurovsky as he hoisted himself onto the seat with the driver, the collar of his coat turned up tall to block the rain.

My mind buzzed as it clicked clues together.

Olga held her necklace to check its safety. Alexei held his soldiers to keep them secure in his lap. I pressed my palm against the corset to check the jewels. And Yurovsky . . . Yurovsky had held his satchel the same way we did—as though it held something valuable.

Like a magical Matryoshka doll.

The carriage lurched to a start. My sorrow fled. Yurovsky moved his hand to the small bar at the edge of his seat for balance, leaving his satchel loose. It swung back and forth with the movement of the uncomfortable trundle through Tobolsk, sliding against the rain-slicked carriage side. He might lift it onto his lap at any moment.

I pushed at the rusty window lock with my knuckles. It came free and the carriage window dropped with a clunk.

“Nastya.” Olga reached for me, but I ignored her. Hesitance had cost too many imps their perfect opportunities. I would not hesitate.

For Papa.

For my family.

And, to be frank, for my own satisfaction in beating the enemy.

I reached for the satchel, but it was too far, so I pushed the front half of my body through the window. The wind nearly blew my hat off, so I tossed it back into the carriage. Rain pelted my face, its loud splatter drowning out even the splash of horses’ hooves in the mud. Olga tugged at my clothes to pull me back in. But then I felt Alexei’s gentle hand on my knee. Some people supported with their physical strength. Others supported with their emotions. Alexei’s hand was the latter, steadying me with his heart since he couldn’t steady me with his strength. I could almost picture him saying, “Imagine this . . . Nastya defeated the Bolshevik commandant at his own game.”

With one hand I lifted Yurovsky’s satchel so when I inserted my other hand, it wouldn’t pull against his shoulder. I stayed as flat against the carriage as I could, so as not to alert his peripheral. The muscles in my abdomen burned and pinched against the stiff corset. I took advantage of the stiffness and used it for balance.

I picked at the tie. We hit a bump in the road and I plunged my hand into the satchel. My fingers searched, groping for the smooth, round piece of wood. They encountered papers, then something sharp, but did not recoil. Olga was pinching my leg now, too nervous to scream my name. Alexei’s grip had strengthened, revealing his fear.