Romanov(43)

Inside the main room Maria writhed on the floor, wailing and clawing at the carpet. I knelt over her, shaking and hollow. What had just happened? “Papa . . . Papa, what do I do?”

But it wasn’t Papa who came to me. It was Alexei. He was in Mamma’s wheelchair and he pressed a hand to my shoulder. “Get her to bed.” His young face hardened into a grim resilience. He’d seen death before when visiting the army with Papa before the revolution. Ivan’s death cut his core, but he knew how to remain calm and be a leader.

I had no idea how to respond. How to process.

“There’s no comfort any of us can bring,” Alexei finished.

Papa carried Maria to her bed. I turned around to face the open door. Zash still rested against the wall on the landing, his face covered. The strength that often came when one of my siblings was crumbling hummed inside me. It felt so feeble. So distant.

I stumbled across the room to close the door to the landing, to free Zash from Maria’s keening, but then angry footsteps entered the stairwell. I leapt back. Zash took a deep breath, drew a sleeve against his eyes, and stood at attention. He didn’t quite manage the stoic Bolshevik demeanor, but I could see the energy it took for him to pull himself together.

I closed the door when I heard Beloborodov’s voice, too frightened to face him. I prayed that he would not enter our space. That instead he was coming up to speak with Avdeev in the commandant’s office.

The stomps reached the landing and Beloborodov barked out an order. “You, go bury that body.”

“Of course, sir.” Zash’s cold reply could be taken as compliance . . . or hatred. I had an idea which one fueled it. He retreated down the steps, his footfalls heavier than I usually heard.

Beloborodov and Avdeev retreated to the office. I breathed out a relieved sigh and went to our opened window. I didn’t want to see Ivan’s body, but neither, I assumed, did Zash. It was as though lending him my gaze and my presence would help give him strength.

Though the whitewash still muted the glass, I could watch through the opening.

Zash stumbled across the lawn with a shovel. The only other Bolsheviks in the vicinity stood at their posts by the gate or by Beloborodov’s car. Zash had to deal with the death of his friend alone.

He barely reached Ivan’s corpse when Beloborodov stomped back out onto the grounds, entered his automobile, and sped away from the Ipatiev House. The moment the gates closed behind him, Zash fell to his knees and scooped Ivan’s bloodied body into his arms.

As he rocked his friend into the afterlife, his weeping was silent but his anguish went deeper than sound. My heart could sense it . . . and it wept with him.

*

Maria no longer spoke. She did not play games. She ate the food as obediently as the three dogs did but with no enthusiasm. Almost as though sleeping. No attempts at conversation were met with a response. She was in a different world.

It was as though I’d already lost her to the Red Army.

When she wasn’t eating, she lay in her bed like Mamma. None of us blamed her. But neither could any of us comfort her. I sat and stroked the fuzz on her head. I rubbed her feet. I snuggled beside her and held her in a hug while sleeping. Because, though I knew not what to do, I had to do something. I was her sister. And whether or not she felt my tears or my love or my soft kisses on her cheek, it was what sisters did.

Two days later, Avdeev entered our quarters. His eyes and jowls sagged, his skin sickly and pale. “I am being replaced. The new commandant arrives this afternoon.”

“Will you remain here to help him?” I asked, oddly hopeful.

“Likely not.”

Papa shook his hand firmly. “Go with our blessings and love.”

Avdeev’s chin quivered. He nodded and then retreated into his office, defeated.

We did our best to straighten our living quarters, though there was little out of place since cleaning was one of the few ways with which we could pass the time. We mended our clothes for the rest of the day, and I made sure to look my best.

I didn’t know why we did this—maybe because, even though Avdeev had been drunk and greedy and unforgiving in many ways, he still took care of us. He still bent for some requests. We had entered a rhythmic understanding of our roles, and he seemed to appreciate it as much as we did.

The new commandant wouldn’t know us. We’d be starting our exile all over again. The fact that one of Avdeev’s charges—a former grand duchess of Russia—had entertained a relationship with one of his own soldiers was an immense oversight. It meant that Avdeev had been too lenient. He had compromised the Red Army.

Ivan had been shot because of it. Because of a kiss.

I checked the Matryoshka doll in my corset, certain the spell would be ready by now. But the seam was still nothing more than a line of light—nothing I could open with my hands. Part of me hated the spell for taking so long. But the other part of me trusted Papa and the time it took for strong magic to age appropriately. Especially if this spell would be as powerful as Papa thought.

We finished our lunch and remained in the main dining room until the new commandant showed up. We heard the gate open. Heard the gate close. The crunch of tires preceded a crunch of boots.

A head came into view from the stairs. I straightened in my seat as he ascended. A brow. Two steely eyes met mine. Eyes I’d seen before. Eyes I’d winked at when I was on a train with his prize, thinking I was leaving him forever.