Romanov(51)

We washed as best we could and grabbed a few belongings stuffed in pillowcases. I wanted to scream at them to hurry, but I kept my mouth tightly closed—something Alexei would have commented on had it been a normal day.

At last, after forty minutes, we exited our quarters and met Yurovsky on the landing.

Three soldiers stood with them—one of whom was Zash. I paused, startled, but then hurried forward to let the others out—all of the Romanovs and all of our servants. Dr. Botkin, Anna, Kharitonov, Papa’s manservant.

Yurovsky didn’t let us bring the dogs with us. I understood, as they could get excited or unmanageable during something so crazy as a rescue. They would behave better upstairs. But just in case, I left the door cracked so they could get out if we weren’t able to come back for them.

Papa carried Alexei—both of them in their soldier uniforms. They looked so handsome, even in their frailty. I was proud to belong to them.

Yurovsky and the guards led us to the stairs. We lined ourselves up with proper protocol—like the days of old. Papa in front, carrying Alexei and accepting no assistance. Alexei sat as regally as he could manage in Papa’s arms, even with his bandaged leg and the winces from each jostle. Mamma followed using a walking stick and leaning heavily on Olga. Then Tatiana, Maria, and me.

The servants were behind us—Trupp hauling blankets and Anna carrying pillows. Dr. Botkin lugged his small case of medical tools.

Zash placed himself at the back by me. He stared straight forward, not meeting my eyes, but sweat slid down his temple and I could practically hear his nerves scraping.

Please, Iisus, protect him. I took his hand in mine, but he yanked his away and met my gaze with a look of pure horror. I’d never seen such an expression on a man. Things must be worse than Yurovsky let on. The White Army must be in the city. Maybe even at the very palisade gate.

“What about our personal belongings?” Mamma asked as we descended.

“It’s not necessary right now,” Yurovsky said in what seemed to be a strained calm. “We’ll get them later and bring them down.”

We exited the house into the courtyard and I sucked in the night air. The midnight sun was below the horizon, for a couple hours at least. The darkness carried a threat and a tension I felt in the deepest shadows as we passed. We reentered the house through an adjacent door that led into the basement. My heart stalled. I didn’t want to descend into such darkness. I didn’t want to enter the tomb. What if the White Army did fire artillery and we were buried?

I stalled at the top of the stairs. Zash stopped beside me. He didn’t nudge me forward. He didn’t encourage me to enter. He stood there, trembling even more fiercely, then surveying the night as though searching for the enemy. His gaze finally landed back on me and he took a deep breath. “If you are hiding a spell, now is the time to use it.”

I almost missed his words, he spoke them so quietly. So . . . he knew I had the doll? Perhaps he overheard me talking with Papa, or perhaps Yurovsky had alerted the soldiers, but Zash had just shown that he cared about me. About my safety. About my family.

I opened my mouth. Ajnin. I swallowed hard. I couldn’t respond. I tried again, but the spell practically leapt free. I clamped my lips closed. I couldn’t tell Zash that I had a spell. I couldn’t tell him I wanted him to come with us. The frustration burned my eyes. I can’t speak, I wanted to say.

Instead, I shook my head, trying to convey my predicament.

Zash’s countenance fell in some sort of resignation. He misinterpreted my head shake, but there was nothing I could do about it now. He’d see soon enough. And I prayed—oh, I prayed—that he would be spared. That he would be safe. That he could escape with us.

With a deep breath he straightened. If he could be brave, so could I—despite the fact we were tightening our courage for opposite causes.

I descended the stairs, counting as I went. Twenty-three. The same number of years Papa had sat on the throne. We entered a room with a single naked lightbulb swinging from a cracked plaster ceiling, splashing yellow light from wall to wall.

Mamma stopped and gestured with her walking stick. “Why are there no chairs? No place to sit?” Did Yurovsky expect Mamma and Alexei to sit on the cold ground? How long would we be here?

“Of course.” Yurovsky sent a Bolshevik to fetch a chair.

The man returned within minutes, muttering under his breath as he slammed a chair in front of Mamma and then Alexei. “If the heir wants to die in a chair, very well then. Let him have one.”

This Bolshevik thought we were all going to die. Surely the White Army wouldn’t murder us. They would see that we were captives. They would come here to save us.

Papa set Alexei in the chair. Alexei watched the guards with wide eyes, taking in their every movement. Their every whisper. Their every emotion. His brow wrinkled, seemingly confused by what he saw.

Mamma sank into the other chair.

“Please, everyone, take positions behind the tsar and tsarina.” It was the first time Yurovsky had ever used Papa’s title.

We moved behind our parents, and Papa situated himself in front of Alexei. I didn’t like the idea of him receiving the brunt of the White Army’s arrival. But he was a soldier. He would know what to do and how to protect us.

I folded my arms and stood to the side, in full view of the door, showing Yurovsky I wasn’t afraid. And I still didn’t view him as my leader. Trupp and Kharitonov situated themselves in front of me. Protecting me.