Romanov(14)

I caught the gaze of one man—a bold revolutionary. But the longer he stared, the more his attempted indifference melted into something else. Pity? Guilt? His hand seemed half-raised, as though to wave or even reach for us. But then, as if struck by intense shame, he melted into the shadows.

The Bolsheviks shoved us into the droshkies. Most of the carriages were open with one long bench seat for passengers, but Alexei, Olga, Tatiana, and I were put in a covered droshky. Zash climbed in with us. I had not interacted with him on the train since he’d been in a different compartment.

He didn’t have his pack with him. Did it still hold the spell ink?

Before the door closed, I saw only Dr. Botkin and Kharitonov through the downpour, climbing into an open droshky of their own. Nagorny got two steps out of the train carriage, his hand raised in a farewell, before a Bolshevik shoved him out of sight.

“Wait, what of our other servants? Our friends?” I asked.

“They’re not joining you.” Zash didn’t meet our eyes.

“What?” Alexei lurched toward the window. “Wait! May we say farewell?”

The droshky trundled forward and Zash shut the door. “I am sorry.” As though to cement the situation, he pulled the drapes shut.

Five sets of lungs released quickened breaths, mixing in the tiny space. I couldn’t bring myself to inhale again. There was no air. There was no light. I gripped the curtain fabric with a shuddering breath like a lifeline, pulling it to let in a stream of dim light, but Zash grabbed my fist with his own.

He was gentle but firm, prying my fingers off. “It is for your safety.”

“Since when do Bolsheviks care about our safety?”

He straightened the curtain. “Since our commandant ordered us to. Ekaterinburg is not pleased to have you. It is best if you are not seen by any other locals. It could incite a lynching.”

I pressed back into the old cushions of the carriage seat and closed my eyes. In Tobolsk the people had brought us gifts and smiles and hope. But Ekaterinburg was all Bolsheviks and revolutionaries.

Alexei slipped his hand into mine. I wanted to press it to my heart, but he needed assurance as well as I. “How long to our new lodging?” How long to Papa? Maria? Mamma?

“I expect it is half an hour to the Ipatiev House.”

“Who is Ipatiev?”

Zash shrugged. “The man who owned the house before the Ekaterinburg Soviet claimed it for your exile.”

How typical of the Bolsheviks to steal a person’s home for their purposes.

The half hour was the longest of my life. With no light and no fresh air, I felt buried. Alexei’s breathing quickened like a young bird’s. He hadn’t handled the journey well, physically. Emotionally, however, he’d maintained a soldier’s resolve. Mamma would be heartbroken to see his frail state. But soon he would be in a bed and a stable place . . . for as long as the Bolsheviks would allow us to stay.

To live.

I pressed a hand to the Matryoshka doll still shoved in my jewel-lined corset. We would survive. I had the key.

Zash peeked out of the curtains and then drew one open. The splash of light splitting the storm clouds rebounded off the snow and stung my eyes, but I gulped it in. “Here it is.” He pointed.

The carriage passed through a palisade of sawed timber and telegraph poles, about twelve feet in height. The white stucco walls of the Ipatiev House, with carved doors and window frames, were classic Russian style. It was significantly smaller than the governor’s house in Tobolsk. Linden trees shaded parts of the house and street, but a stiff rotation of guards tainted its natural loveliness.

We rolled to the entrance at 49 Voznesensky Prospekt. The heavy wooden courtyard doors slammed shut behind us. We had entered a fortress.

No one rushed out of the house to greet us. Instead, Zash led us in one at a time. First Olga went, then Tatiana, then it was my turn. Zash held open the door and took my upper arm to “lead” me into the house whether or not I wanted it. I would have dragged him behind me in my haste had I the strength.

We entered through a sentry of guards and then the door. Despite the chill outside, the house brought an immediate stuffiness. It seemed too dark, and I couldn’t place the reason until I passed a window. I couldn’t see out—the glass had been whitewashed.

A Bolshevik soldier patted me down. He was extremely thorough but avoided the bosom area, as was appropriate. Ah, the power of being a woman.

He straightened and looked me in the eye. “We received a telegram that you stole a magical item from Commandant Yurovsky in Tobolsk.”

My jaw dropped as my tired and cold mind scrambled for a response. “Stole? Magical item? I don’t know what he’s talking about. I found one of my babushka’s dolls with his belongings. It was sentimental to me.”

“What happened to it?”

I thrust emotion into my voice. “The guards took it away when I was on the train.”

“Which guard?”

“How should I know? One dressed as a Bolshevik.”

His mouth thinned. “Your belongings will be searched thoroughly.”

I swallowed. Nodded. Compliant. “Of course. Do what you must.” Would they search the soldiers’ packs? Zash’s?

He shoved me onward and relief poured through my aching bones. Yurovsky had telegrammed. He knew. But did he know what the doll held? Even I didn’t know.