Romanov(39)

All us girls sighed and sank deeper into the story. I pictured the Catherine Palace with its gold floors and tall windows. I imagined twirling in a lovely gown with hair still on my head—braided and pearled and assembled in a way that would make me appear graceful.

“It was a whirlwind meeting and we visited only long enough to know we both wished for more time. She went back to Hesse and I stayed in Russia. For five years we didn’t get to see each other. We didn’t get to write to each other. But then she visited for six weeks and I determined, during that time, to win her as my wife.”

“Only I said no.” Mamma covered her grin with a handkerchief. We knew the story—she’d said no despite adoring him and despite being the courting age of seventeen.

“She may have said no, but she did agree to write me letters in secret when she went back home. Not only that, but she turned down all other marriage proposals—including one that would have made her the next queen of the United Kingdom!”

“That proposal was my grandmother, Queen Victoria’s, doing. I don’t even think he wanted to marry me.”

“His loss.” Papa waved a hand in the air. “Finally, another wedding brought us together in Coburg and I knew if I didn’t win her then, I would not have another chance. So I declared my undying affection in the most romantic way possible—”

“You begged me through tears, if I recall,” Mamma chirped.

“—in the most romantic way possible. And you know what she said?”

We all knew this part of the story and turned to Mamma to finish it. Her pale cheeks flushed and she gave Papa an apologetic pout. “I said, ‘Very well. Who else is there to marry, anyway?’”

“Yes, you did say that. And all I heard was a resounding yes.” He planted a kiss right on her lips. “There was no one else to marry because you had refused all the other princes.”

A knock on the door interrupted us. The knock was so light I might have imagined it, but everyone stilled. Avdeev never knocked—he walked in. The knock did not repeat, but the knob turned slowly and the door inched open.

Our first sight was a nose and then brown hair. Ivan. He saw us and his freckled face broke into an enormous grin. “I hear there is a birthday to celebrate.”

Maria bloomed pink as a pomegranate. Her hand fumbled for mine amidst the folds of our dresses and I squeezed it. Ivan didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped into the room and held before him a tiny decorated chocolate cake.

Everyone gasped. Cake. Real cake!

Ivan glanced over his shoulder back out into the hallway. Then he strode in and placed the cake on the table. He held Maria’s gaze and reddened a little himself. “Happy birthday, Grand Duchess Maria.”

His other hand deposited the basket of food from the sisters. With a little bow he left, and all of our astonished faces turned as one toward Maria. Her jaw hung open and she rose slowly, approaching the cake.

“There’s a note,” she whispered, lifting a small torn piece of paper from the top of the cake. “‘May this cake be sweet, lovely, and unexpected . . . like you have been to me.’”

My heart melted right along with the thin frosting dripping down the side of the cake. And I decided never to scold her about Ivan again. We all hugged her and then divided up the small treat. I didn’t know if he’d purchased it, baked it, or bribed someone for it, but it tasted like clouds and dreams.

“Nastya, take that basket in to Kharitonov,” Papa said with a meaningful look.

I nodded and took it to the kitchen. By the time I arrived in the small cooking space, I’d found the letter from the White Army officer. I unfurled it and read it quickly. Enough to get an idea of its contents. This one wasn’t asking for information.

This letter held the plan for our escape.





14


It was the worst rescue plan I’d ever read. “I could plan an escape better than this,” I hissed to Papa.

“Joy could make a better plan,” Alexei grumbled. The spaniel sniffed as though agreeing.

According to the letter, we were supposed to wait for a signal at night. Once that signal—whatever it was—came, we were to barricade the door with furniture and then climb out our one open window using a rope that we were supposed to make between now and then.

I couldn’t imagine Mamma or Alexei strong enough to shimmy down a shoddy rope in the dark. And what about the night patrols who constantly guarded our windows? What about the guards who monitored the perimeter between the two palisades? What about the ones with machine guns on the ground floor who watched the area below us at all times ever since word came of the White Army’s approach?

“We told them of all these dangers,” Papa said. “This officer and his men don’t wish to die. They will have thought through everything.” He didn’t sound confident.

That night we all waited, fully clothed, out of view of the windows. My sisters and I had braided sheets into a rope with plenty of knots to hold on to. The tension caused by this flabby rescue plan had dampened Maria’s birthday joy.

We sat the closest and she spent most of the time fidgeting with the note that Ivan had delivered with his little cake. “I need to tell him. I can’t escape without him. I can’t, Nastya.”

I didn’t know what to say. Everything felt too rushed. “The rescue probably won’t happen tonight. It’s too soon. They’ll wait until tomorrow night.”