Romanov(46)

Yurovsky stopped beside me. “You’re pathetic.”

I uncurled and lay before him like an animal exposing its belly in submission. But in my movement, I let the doll loose underneath the worn cabinet. I adjusted my position among the crinkled paper to mask the sound of the doll rolling across the floor to the back of the cabinet shadows.

Yurovsky’s nose wrinkled as he stared at me. “I could call a guard in here to tear every stitch of clothing off your body until we find the doll. No one would stop him. No one would stop me. You are nothing, Citizen. Nothing but an inconvenience to the Soviet.”

He held out his hand. “Now. Would you rather give me the doll on your own, or do we need to see how many bruises it takes?”

I thought of Papa on his knees in front of Avdeev. I thought of Zash swallowing his sorrow to comply with Beloborodov’s wishes. I clamped a fist down on my pride and slipped my hand into the pocket of my skirt. I allowed my fear and emotions to create tears. They weren’t a facade—they were a shield.

“This . . . this is all I have, Commandant. Please.” I held out the tin of relief spells.

He eyed the tin before snatching it from my hand. I scrambled to my feet and put distance between me and the doll. When Yurovsky looked at his pocket watch next, his eyebrows popped in the barest display of surprise.

So I was right—the pocket watch pointed toward spells. And since I no longer had a spell hidden on my person, it didn’t point toward me. It pointed toward the tin in his hand. Maybe that meant it pointed to the spell nearest it?

I wanted to flee the room, but I needed Yurovsky to believe I was a frightened, obedient rabbit. I needed him to believe he broke me. Instead, I seemed to have broken him—or his composure, at least. He glanced back at the watch, then me, then the watch. Not very subtle, Mister Dark-Eyed Bolshevik.

He opened the tin, set the lid aside, and squinted to read the words. Wrong move.

The wiggly relief spells popped out of the tin, flopping to the ground like unnested birds, then bouncing into crevices and hidey-holes. He clapped a hand over the mouth of the tin with a curse, trapping what was left of the spells.

But several were already loose—wiggling their way to freedom where they’d possibly fade or expel their magic on some useless piece of wood. And they would send his pocket watch spinning.

“They are relief spells,” I said meekly. “For Alexei’s knee. That is all I have on me. He was in such pain . . . I couldn’t help but try to relieve it.”

Yurovsky set the tin on the cabinet shelf, beneath which the Matryoshka doll lay in hiding. Then he slipped his watch into his pocket. With a deep breath through his nose, he said, “You may go, Citizen.”

I didn’t wait for him to repeat the order.





18


Yurovsky confiscated our finery. All jewelry upon us—rings, bracelets, necklaces. Well, all jewelry except that in our corsets. Mamma was furious, but Yurovsky allowed Papa to watch him place the items in a box and lock it for safety. “This is standard for prisoners.”

I wasn’t bothered by any of it . . . except the doll. I eyed Yurovsky during his confiscations, watching for any sort of triumphant grin or sign that he’d found the doll. So far . . . nothing. It was safe in the enemy’s lair. My family’s salvation, a hairsbreadth away from being taken away. Not only that, but I’d lost the relief spells for Alexei’s knee.

I needed to get the doll back, but not until I had a plan. Because if I retrieved it, his pocket watch would betray me again.

The second day of Yurovsky’s command arrived, as well as the new schedules and rhythms of the guards. I didn’t have the energy to befriend new Bolsheviks. I didn’t have the will to hope for the arrival of the White Army. We’d heard nothing from the White Army officer since our declination of rescue.

A grey morning greeted us, feeling little different from the dark night. Storm clouds turned the whitewashed windows into dark drapes. The rain pattered against the glass. I moved to the open window and let the rain spray my face for a few seconds until Mamma beckoned me away before I got shot.

For a mere second, I felt life. Then it was gone.

I changed into day clothes and rang the bell to the landing to use the toilet. The door opened. I avoided eye contact with the new Bolshevik soldier. The soldier who would mock my fuzzy head, who would scratch nasty messages on the bathroom wall, who would whisper something about Papa that would turn my blood to angry embers.

So I entered the toilet and did my business, trying not to breathe in the stench of new and old soldiers. Trying not to think of the many times I had passed Zash on my way to this same location—a glimmer of hope and friendship inside a relentless prison. I missed him.

Did he think of me at all?

I could’ve used his help to sneak back into Yurovsky’s office. But when was the right time to retrieve the doll? Papa said to use the spell at the last possible moment. That moment loomed closer and closer now that Yurovsky was at the helm.

The seam on the doll had started to show. It wanted to be used.

Despite Papa’s strange advice, I’d always trusted him. But what if he’d been compromised? He’d been here a long time. Maria had been unable to think safely after her time here. She gave in to Ivan, causing this new mess. Mamma’s headache had become her new cell and she showed no will left to live. Even I had cracked beneath the sorrow of losing Zash, losing Ivan, even losing Avdeev. And now Yurovsky was determined to find the doll. It was only a matter of time.