Romanov(35)

“I’d rather wait until I can’t bear it, since we don’t have much ink.”

I nodded, my hands itching to do something helpful. To remedy the glaring mistake I’d made this morning.

“Nastya . . . do you think Avdeev would kill us?” Alexei asked in a small voice.

I had wondered this over and over, analyzing the way he humiliated Papa or how he took our belongings, our extra food, and our freedom. But still, he had laughed at our play. He had allowed the convent sisters to deliver food. He approved a swing to be hung in the garden even though that had been Ivan and Zash’s idea. He stretched our time out in the fresh air.

“No, Alexei. I don’t think he would.”

*

The sun didn’t come out all day. I didn’t sleep all night. I considered sneaking out to retrieve the letter, but had I been caught, that would have been even worse after my window episode. I’d also thought of asking Ivan—or even Zash—to retrieve it for me. But I couldn’t trust them not to turn it in to Avdeev.

So I waited, tossing and turning all night, sweating in my monogrammed linens, and counting down the minutes. It was the worst night of my life.

I spent the morning playing cards with Maria. We had exhausted the French card game and invented plenty after that. We hardly enjoyed them anymore—we played mostly to cure the boredom. But right now I played them to keep me from smashing my fist against a window as I waited for our turn in the garden.

Commandant Avdeev finally retrieved us for our afternoon outing. I was the first on the stairs. The first out the door. The first to the swing.

And the first to see the indented patch of earth, empty of a paperweight.

It was gone. Someone had found it.

I whipped my gaze around, frantic. Avdeev was talking to a soldier. He didn’t seem bothered. Neither Ivan nor Zash was on duty. Who had found it? Were they waiting to see what I’d do? I’d implicated myself by running to the swing. To the very spot the letter had landed.

“Next time you should use a smaller paperweight.” Papa came up beside me and sat on the swing. “It will fly farther.”

A gust of air released from my lungs. “You found it?”

He patted the spot on the swing beside him. We swung gently. “I do not fault you for trying, Nastya. But this was a bit messier than your usual impishness.”

“I know.” I watched my shoes smear the mud underfoot as we rocked back and forth. “I was caught up in hope. I think I’m losing some of my logic. I am growing desperate, Papa, and I cannot control it.”

“You must.”

And that was that. I had no choice. I must control my desperation. I must be more vigilant. I must be patient and wait for the Matryoshka doll to open and give me its spell. Why was it taking so long?

I stomped away the muddy indent from the paperweight. “Wait . . . how did you retrieve it?” We’d not been allowed into the garden yesterday. I was first out the door today.

“Some soldiers have grown more loyal to me than Avdeev. I do not expect their secrecy to hold under the pressure of a bribe, should Avdeev find out. But we are safe for now.”

“Papa, you are a magician.” How he managed to befriend the soldiers to such a sincere degree baffled me. It was taking me a full month to get through to Zash. But at the same time, as his loyal and adoring daughter, I wasn’t surprised at all.

We returned inside to find the basket of food delivered by the sisters. My face grew warm, thinking of the nun who looked up at my window. Did she see my failed attempt? Did I endanger them? The sight of their food must mean that they were safe, since they were still able to deliver it.

I took the basket to Kharitonov. He manned the tiny kitchen that we were sometimes allowed to cook in. “Thank you, Nastya. Would you like to help make the bread today?”

I always loved when he had to make bread—it gave me something productive to do. That felt as though I was providing for my family. It made me feel like I could survive in a cottage as a common working girl someday.

“Yes, please.” I unloaded the basket of food, setting the eggs on the counter and the milk bottle in the cooler. I pulled out a long parcel wrapped in thick cloth. Inside rested a black loaf of rye. “Actually, I think the sisters sent some.”

Kharitonov’s thick eyebrows popped up. “They don’t usually send us bread.”

“That or it doesn’t always make it to us. I think Avdeev takes it.” I held the loaf to my nose and inhaled. Not warm, but very fresh. Likely baked this morning. I squeezed it lightly to hear the crunch of the crust, as Kharitonov had taught me, but something hard crinkled beneath my fingers. Something that I’d thought was a crease in the cloth.

I unwrapped the rest of the loaf and a small square of paper toppled into my palm. “What . . . what is this?” I unwrapped the paper to find a note written in red ink in French.

I scanned the letter, my breath quickening as I caught words and phrases like friends and the hour has come. I got to the end—to the signature line—but it held no name. All it said was, From someone who is ready to die for you. Officer of the White Army.

This letter . . . was a rescue.





12


“Olga has the best handwriting.” Tatiana bent over the letter as gingerly as she used to tend wounded Russian soldiers. “She should write the response.”