Romanov(36)

My family encircled the note, reading and rereading it. The officer’s letter said the White Army was only fifty miles away from Ekaterinburg. It told us to listen for any movement outside—to wait and hope. To be ready any time of day. It told us to send a reply—hidden in the cream bottle—with a mapped layout of our rooms. It was happening. Our rescue!

I had to stop myself from thinking too far ahead—from dreaming of me and my family living in a cottage; Papa sawing wood and me dabbling in spell ink to create words that would heal Alexei’s pain.

Dr. Botkin sketched a quick map on the back because he had the steadiest hand, and Olga wrote a short reply in French, per Papa’s dictation.

All our windows are shut and Alexei is too sick and unable to walk. No risk whatsoever must be taken without being absolutely certain of the result. We are almost always under close observation.



We couldn’t afford a half-baked rescue attempt. Whoever this White officer was, his plan needed to be flawless. Foolproof. Perfect.

He was lucky that I was an expert in such things.

Three days passed with no response. We wore our jewel-encrusted clothing, and all of us except Mamma took shifts throughout the night to listen for any unusual sounds. The guards sensed our tension.

“Are you alright?” Ivan asked Maria during a garden excursion. He seemed truly concerned.

“Being shut inside the house takes its toll,” she replied softly.

After another two days, we received a response. Papa read it first this time but shook his head when he got to the end. “He talks of an escape from an upstairs window. Did he not read that all our windows are sealed?”

“What else does it say?” I took it from him. Maria and Alexei read over my shoulder.

Would it be possible to tranquilize the little one in some way and lower him out the window without his feeling any pain?



“The little one?” Alexei scoffed. “Who is this general? If he’s so loyal, why doesn’t he use the proper titles?”

“Stop being so sensitive, little tsarevich,” I teased, though the officer’s choice of reference regarding Alexei peeved me as well.

Could I figure out some sort of spell with my remaining ink that would numb Alexei? Maybe another relief spell or two would help him enough to manage a window escape. But that still didn’t change the fact our windows were sealed.

The bell from the landing rang and Maria shoved the note down her blouse. Commandant Avdeev entered and Papa rose from his chair. It was still an hour until our appointed recreation time in the garden. Did he see the concern—the guilt—on our faces? Had he found out about the letters?

“Everyone is to go into the garden—including the tsarina.”

“Is there a reason for the extra time in the fresh air?” Papa put his hands in his pockets, likely to hide any sweating.

No other soldiers were with Avdeev, and he responded in the friendly manner that slipped out when he wasn’t saving face. “I hope to have some good news for you.”

We obeyed. Kharitonov carried Alexei into the fresh air and placed him on the swing. I tied a head scarf over my baldness, nervous about Zash seeing me since he’d mostly been on outdoor watch these past few days. Mamma came out in her wheelchair, pale with a hand to her head. We set her in the shade so the heat wouldn’t aggravate her ache.

I wanted to go to her, but since sharing her secret about Rasputin’s spell mastery, she had established an emotional distance from me.

Avdeev lined us up, stiff commandant once again now that his soldiers were present. “You will remain outside under close watch until you are summoned. The Committee for the Examination of the Question of Windows in the House of Special Purpose is here to inspect your quarters.”

Papa gave a bow. “Thank you. Let us know how we can help.”

Window inspection—were they checking to make sure they were secure? Had Avdeev seen the White Army’s letter? He couldn’t have. He said he hoped for some good news for us.

We did not see the committee, but we stayed outside through lunchtime. I didn’t even mind the missed meal. We giggled and played chase with the dogs. With every moment of inhaled sunlight, I filled with sustenance far more valuable than food—the sustenance of hope, of light, of the sense of freedom.

Some of the guards joined in the laughter, though most stayed at their posts. Zash and Ivan patrolled across the garden. I avoided going near them, tugging my head scarf a little tighter.

Maria, however, seemed to overcome her self-consciousness. She fluttered her eyelashes at Ivan and Zash. “Will you push us on the swing?”

Before they could answer, she grabbed my hand and pulled me after her. My heart pattered faster than my feet as I ran with her to the swing. Toward Zash.

We sat close together, linking elbows. Ivan did the pushing. Zash stood by the tree trunk, arms folded, watching. I peeked his way as we swung. What did he see in me now? Why did I care?

His face betrayed nothing. He stood stiffer than the tree, all professional Bolshevik. With each back and forth, my grin grew because he remained so stoic. The longer he stayed serious, the funnier it became. Soon I was giggling just as hard as Maria. Zash wouldn’t crack, though his eyes seemed to twinkle the way Papa’s did when he hid a grin beneath his mustache.

On the next forward swing Maria released my arm and toppled backward off the swing with a squeal. Right into Ivan’s arms. Oy, what an obvious flirtation! I would have rolled my eyes, but her abrupt departure from the swing sent me lurching since she had been the support on my right side.