Romanov(52)

“You will all wait here,” Yurovsky said. “We have a truck coming to take you to safety.” He left the room, leaving us with the three soldiers.

So Yurovsky was moving us. That would be my moment to use the spell. If the White Army didn’t arrive before Yurovsky piled us into this truck he mentioned, then I would release the spell, whatever it was. The little coal leaped excitedly against my tongue, as though sensing my plan. I couldn’t wait to set it free. To learn of its power. To help us escape.

We couldn’t allow the Bolsheviks to take us away again. I looked to Papa. He sensed my gaze and met it. I raised my eyebrows and lifted my hand to my chest where the doll sat. He gave a slow nod. That was all I needed.

After about a half hour of shifting my weight and rolling my tongue against the spell, the sounds of machinery rumbled into earshot. It sounded like a truck. Gears ground. Then footsteps. Yurovsky had returned. Most of us had slumped against the wall by this point, but Zash remained rigid, looking sickly under the naked bulb.

I’d never seen him so pale or ill.

Yurovsky opened the door and led a group of soldiers into the room. Did we really need so many to escort us? I didn’t recognize some of their faces.

“Well, here we all are.” Papa faced the commandant. “What are you going to do now?” He was tired of the waiting. Tired of the slinking about.

Only then did I realize Yurovsky held a piece of paper in his left hand. “Please stand.”

We all pushed off the wall and Mamma, with a grumble or two, hauled herself up from her seat. Alexei remained in his chair, unable to stand with or without help at this point.

Yurovsky cleared his throat and held the paper high. “‘In view of the fact that your relatives in Europe continue their assault on Soviet Russia, the presidium of the Ural Regional Soviet has sentenced you to be shot.’”

Papa’s head snapped up. “Wait.” His face paled as though splashed with milk. “What?”

“‘. . . the Regional Soviet, fulfilling the will of the revolution, has decreed that the former Tsar Nikolai Romanov, guilty of countless blood crimes against the people, should be shot.’”

Then Yurovsky pulled a Colt from his pocket and shot Papa in the chest.





21


Ringing.

Silence.

Papa fell to the ground, his uniform turning his impact into a soft flump. Blood pooled. Pulsed. Slower. Slower. Slower.

I heard it.

I heard its chant dying.

Romanov. Ro . . . manov. Ro . . . man . . . ov.

The soldiers all drew guns.

Not just on Papa. Us. All of us. My senses screamed. I couldn’t think. What was happening? Wild panic reflected in Zash’s eyes. He raised his own pistol.

Aimed at my chest.

I’d yet to take a breath. Papa’s heart still pumped. I couldn’t look away from Zash, even as his comrades pulled their triggers. Even as bullets slammed into plaster and bodies and wood. I was frozen. I was dead already.

Zash’s hand trembled.

He looked away.

And he pulled the trigger.





22


My chest crumpled beneath the impact. I tumbled backward into the sea of gunshots, the smell of pistol smoke, the hot blood and cold cement. Screams were lost in the chaos. Glass shattered. Darkness smothered us. I felt myself dying. My hope, at last, snuffed.

Zash . . .

Zash had been my executioner.

My life flickered. I could not see. I could hear only Yurovsky screaming for everyone to stop, then the soldiers running up the stairs, sucking in the night air. Thinking they could escape what they’d done. Leaving us alone. Gasping corpses. Dying together.

In the momentary silence I heard moans from my sisters. A cry from Dr. Botkin. I wanted to weep. I wanted a hand to hold. I didn’t want to die alone. But I couldn’t move. Heat spread through my chest, numbing my body. Hitching my breath.

Footsteps returned and then a command to the soldiers.

To return.

To finish the job.

I finally let myself slip away.





23


Consciousness returned with a shard of pain in my spine. My body swayed. Back and forth. Rough arms under my armpits and others gripping my ankles. Then weightlessness. I landed hard on wood that shuddered from an engine.

Where?

What?

Help.

My eyes cracked open and I sucked a breath. It was lost in the sounds around me. I saw only darkness. I reached up and my hand brushed a canvas wall. Truck. The back of a covered truck. Voices everywhere. Scents of death and betrayal.

Something heavy landed beside me, causing the truck to quake. I turned my head. Moonlight filtered in from a place I couldn’t see. The heavy thing beside me was a body.

Alexei. Still in his small uniform and half wrapped in one of our monogrammed sheets. His skin pale. Blood splashed on his neck. His eyes dead.

And I remembered.

Execution. They killed us. They had killed us all. Except I was alive. My Romanov blood pumped.

Alone. Alone. Alone.

Romanov. Romanov. Romanov.

No. Please. I didn’t want to know what had happened. I didn’t want to be alive. I didn’t want Yurovsky to find me. To hurt me.

A hot tear slid down my temple and into my ear.

Then I heard a sweet but terrible sound. A soft moan from the cherished, ill boy beside me. My Alexei. I turned to face him. Saw his chest rise. I was not alone. He was not alone. With every effort of my will and body, I slid my hand and found his. Sticky and cold and heavy. I wrapped my fingers in his.