Romanov(37)

The swing carried me upward, the momentum sending me straining for the other rope with my free arm. I would not allow my feet to go over my head the way Maria did. No soldier had the right to see my underclothes.

But gravity and momentum were against me. My fingers brushed the opposite rope, but not close enough to grip it. Off I went, balance lost, exhaling my pride and accepting the fact that this would hurt.

But it didn’t. No crunch. No hard earth under my skull.

Instead, strong hands, an arm behind me. Not Papa’s arms—I knew Papa’s touch. The moment my mind registered not Papa, a delighted flutter pinched my stomach.

Zash.

I wasn’t on the swing enough to haul myself up, but I wasn’t off enough to get my feet under me. Instead, my traitorous hand gripped his uniform lapel. This was so awkward.

Zash hauled me off the swing and set me on my feet. My scarf had slipped, revealing my bald head. I released him immediately and reached for the scarf, but he scooped it up from the ground. My hand hung between us, waiting for the flowered square of material. Trembling.

He didn’t give it to me right away. “You don’t need this, you know.”

I never knew how to take compliments, but my face warmed. I slid the fabric from his fingers, our skin brushing briefly. Then I jammed the scarf back onto my head and tried to resurrect my dignity. “I do if I don’t want my head to turn into a sunburned tomato!”

“You’re at no risk of that, with how frequently you wear the scarf—both inside and outside.”

I finally looked into his face. His mouth held the closest thing to a grin I’d seen since the Chugwater play.

“You know what I meant,” he said.

I could hardly catch my breath—though it had nothing to do with the swing. Emotions buzzed like a beehive in my brain. He was flirting. And I liked it—craved it. Danger, danger, danger, the bees hummed, to deter me.

Didn’t they know I thrived on the thrill of danger?

I cleared my throat and stopped the lazy sway of the swing by grabbing the rope. “Thank you . . . Zash.” Then, before he thought I was thanking him for the compliment, I added, “For catching me.”

He winked.

In that moment I saw nothing else but his wink. Again and again and again, and with each mental repeat my stomach lurched as it had when I fell from the swing.

Maria might have feigned drama to catch the attention of Ivan, but I ended up with the true moment of rescue and flattery and winks.

I’d never felt so unsafe at the Ipatiev House as I did just then.

*

“Security has been increased.” Avdeev paced in front of the sitting room window. “You are forbidden from putting your head outside or attempting to signal anyone . . . on pain of being shot.”

He stopped his pacing. “After inspection, the Committee has agreed that we should unseal one window.” He pushed against the window and it opened a small crack. The twitter of birdsong burst into our space.

The window had been unsealed—the entire window! The Window Committee—or whatever Avdeev had called them—had granted us fresh air. Already, our five-room prison smelled fresher. Cleaner. Like life had returned.

“Thank you,” Papa said sincerely.

Avdeev nodded and left. None of us cheered, but we exchanged expressions of such astonishment and delight we might as well have been shouting, “Huzzah!”

Now we could send the White Army officer a reply. This rescue might really happen. What perfect timing for a window to be opened. Almost too perfect. “Papa,” I whispered. “Do you think they know? About the rescue?”

“If they knew, Nastya, they would not have opened the window.”

“But they increased security.” I’d instigated enough sneaky escapades that I recognized the blare of warning in my mind. When things came too easily, that implied a catch. A danger.

“Our escape is being blessed,” Papa said. “But we will proceed with the highest caution. I am counting on your analytical mind.”

Once we deemed it safe, Olga sat to write the response to the White Army officer. We gave the details of the newly opened window and the locations of the upstairs guards. We explained the surprise inspections and how the soldiers had a system of alarm bells they could use at any moment. We also made sure to mention the guards across the street that we never saw but we knew about because they shot at me.

Lastly, we asked if the rescue included our friends—Dr. Botkin, Anna, Cook Kharitonov, etc. Papa asked Olga to also make a small note about his diaries and personal documents that still filled a crate in the outhouse. “Be certain to assure this officer of our composure. Make sure he knows we will remain poised and calm during the rescue and during correspondence.”

It was our longest letter yet and made the rescue seem real. For all we knew we could be free within days!

I slipped away to pull the Matryoshka doll from my blouse. It seemed warmer but still no seam. More than ever, I expected it to open any day. And I would use it on the night of our escape. My mind wandered to the hidden spell ink. If we were to escape soon, I should fill a tin with relief spells for Alexei. For travel. It would be best to have them all formed and ready so I wouldn’t have to make them during our rescue—especially since none of my family save Alexei knew I was secretly doing spell mastery.

Papa read us Scripture before bed as he did every night, and the room shrank as our hearts swelled with hope. What a wild day—almost four hours out in the garden, an unsealed window, a planned rescue, and . . . and a wink that wouldn’t leave my consciousness.