Romanov(34)

I scribbled the details on the stationery, glancing up as the sisters approached. They were almost here. I wrote what I could, ink dribbling down my hand, smearing on the paper. I almost blotted it with my nightdress, but that would leave evidence or lead to questions. So I dabbed it with another piece of paper and then grabbed one of Papa’s paperweights.

The sisters were at the gate.

I crumpled the letter of information around the paperweight, then tied it with one of Maria’s lace hair ribbons. The sisters handed their basket of food to the soldiers and turned to leave. In mere seconds they would be passing by the palisade directly across from me.

My hands trembled.

I couldn’t allow myself to think of the repercussions. Not with something as important as the lives of my family at stake. I would have to throw the weight over both palisades. I must not miss.

The rain lessened. The sun shone through a crack in the sky. Alexei stirred behind me. The sisters walked across from me, making the sign of the cross toward our windows. I pushed the fortochka all the way open so they’d see me.

Then I stepped back, thinking of the times Papa and I had thrown snowballs and he’d corrected my stance. I cranked my arm back and threw. The paperweight sailed through the window, arced over the garden . . .

. . . and fell inside the palisade, next to our swing.

It sat there for all the Bolsheviks to see. A crumpled white piece of evidence. My skin chilled. What had I done? Had any guards seen?

I poked my head out the window to glance down. To see if any guards stood watch against the wall below. Nothing. All clear. No soldiers in sight—

A gunshot.

Pain exploded in my face.





11


“It is because the children are suffocating! We all are!” Papa stood in front of Commandant Avdeev like Tsar Nikolai would have. Feet set firmly apart, spine straight. Leader. Protector. Papa.

I stood in his shadow, pressing a cloth to my burning cheek. A soldier had shot at me. The sill above my head had shattered and the bullet ricocheted into the plaster on the bedroom wall.

Right. Above. Alexei.

Until that moment I hadn’t realized the Bolsheviks hid manned machine guns in the towers across from the Ipatiev House. The shrapnel scrapes on my face didn’t burn nearly as hot as my remorse. Alexei could have been killed. I could have been killed, though that currently didn’t bother me as much as the mental image of that note lying by the swing. At this very moment. Waiting to be picked up and read by one of Commandant Avdeev’s soldiers. Then we’d be shot.

And this time, the Bolsheviks wouldn’t miss.

“She was foolish.” Commandant Avdeev—fully sober and rigid with anger—eyed me and I was glad that my face bore my shame. I needed him to see humility. Obedience.

Three Bolsheviks stood behind Papa and me. They were not our friends—I’d never seen them before and heat radiated off their uniforms, filling the already stuffy room. I imagined the barrels of their guns pressing into my spine. Blowing a hole between my shoulders. Papa weeping . . .

“Commandant, I implore you, allow us to open a window.” Papa’s tone remained submissive. “We cannot breathe. Nastya was desperate for air.”

“And allow you to repeat this offense?” Avdeev waved a hand toward me. “You were warned repeatedly!” There was no sign of softening and I knew it was because of the Bolsheviks behind us. Avdeev had a position to maintain—a persona to uphold.

“Please, Commandant. Please put in a request.”

A Bolshevik made a scoffing sound in the back of his throat from behind me. Avdeev lifted his chin and steeled his features. “Say it again.”

Papa swallowed. He was reading the situation same as I was. He’d show the humility that would humor the soldiers behind us and save face for Avdeev. Because that was Papa. Humble. Selfless. “Please.”

“Again.”

“Please.”

“Again.”

My throat closed. My eyes stung. Papa lowered himself to his knees. Knelt before his captor in complete humiliation. “I beg you, Commandant.”

“Again.”

*

“Imagine this,” I ground out to Alexei that evening at his bedside. “I steal a gun and make Commandant Avdeev bow to all of us.”

Alexei didn’t play along. “Did he agree to open a window?”

“No.” I picked at the ruff of my dress collar. It needed mending. I was so tired of mending, I’d rather endure a frayed collar. Or chop it off altogether. “But he didn’t say he wouldn’t. I think he’ll try.”

“Was that really why you were at the fortochka, Nastya?” Alexei knew me too well.

I shook my head. The window had been resealed. I wanted to monitor the piece of paper still sitting in the grass outside. Because of the rain we hadn’t been able to retrieve it. I prayed the water washed away any of the contents. But if a guard found it, we’d be ruined.

“I admire your courage,” Alexei said.

I hadn’t felt courageous. I’d felt only reckless. And because of that, I had opened the fortochka. I had disobeyed the rules and risked our lives. I had sent Papa to his knees, pleading with Avdeev until the Bolsheviks laughed and my heart screamed.

And I had failed.

I absentmindedly fiddled with Alexei’s blanket. The relief spell had worn off after only a day. “Do you need me to write another spell?”