Romanov(58)

He might run into Yurovsky, who had likely noticed the disappearance of our bodies—and the Matryoshka doll—by now. What if he found Zash? What if he found us? What if his special watch could detect our location because of the doll in my corset and he was coming after us in the forest?

I rose from my spot by Alexei’s side and found Zash’s discarded pistol. I’d never held a pistol before, but it didn’t seem that difficult. He’d simply lifted it to his head and put a finger on the trigger. I could do that if Yurovsky showed up. But then . . . even if he did appear, how terrible would it be to be killed?

Poor Alexei groaned with every breath. I’d stuffed cloth against his hip wound and pressed my knee against the hole in his hand, but since his blood didn’t clot it wouldn’t do much good.

These were the types of injuries Mamma had dreaded because there was little to do to combat them. These were the things that Rasputin could heal, sucking Mamma’s health away.

My own chest throbbed with each breath—not from emotion, but from the strike of a bullet that had ricocheted off the jewels in my corset. How many times had I been struck? I hurt terribly.

The sun flickered through the leaves overhead, but the shade kept us cool. My throat burned for water. Why had I not asked Zash to get water, too? When he came back we would have to bandage Alexei and leave.

To go . . . where?

To the White Army? We didn’t even know how to find them. Yurovsky said they’d been prepared to launch artillery upon the city. Surely they couldn’t be far.

What was our life for now? Clearly Iisus had given us another chance, but I didn’t know why. I wasn’t sure I wanted it.

I smoothed hair away from Alexei’s brow. Straightened his bloodied collar because he would want it that way, little soldier that he was. For now, my life existed for him. The final heir to the throne of a country that would never accept him. But more than that: He was my brother. And I would save his life.

No matter what it cost me, I would ensure he lived.

I looked at the Matryoshka doll, holding the last two mysterious spells. Yurovsky said the doll would help him find Dochkin. Did the spells lead to him? That must be why Yurovsky wanted the doll so badly. Not to use or confiscate the spells, but to find and kill Dochkin.

Perhaps if I could get Alexei to Dochkin, the spell master could heal him. How powerful was he? His ajnin spell sent us into the spirit realm. It defeated time by bringing our bodies back to us only as injured as they’d been the moment I used the spell.

He had reversed our injuries. With power like that, he could create a spell that could undo my family’s execution. A time spell that reversed the slaughter. If I brought Alexei to him—as his tsarevich—I knew Dochkin would do it for him. For Russia. He was loyal to the Romanovs—there was proof enough of that in the Matryoshka doll.

The sound of something crashing through bushes came from ahead and I threw myself over Alexei’s prone body, grappling for the pistol. As I aimed it toward the bushes, Zash appeared. He saw me, saw the pistol, and pulled up short.

The relief that expelled from my lungs said it all. Though my heart despised him, something in me still trusted him. Still felt safer around him than any other Bolshevik. My arm dropped to the earth and I let the gun fall from it.

“So you are real,” he said softly.

I frowned. “What did you think?”

“I thought perhaps you were sent by Iisus to stop me from taking my life. And perhaps upon my leaving, you would return to heaven.”

“Unfortunately, we’re not angels—we’re just the last two members of our entire family trying to survive.”

Zash tossed me a canteen. “The Ipatiev House was empty except for a handful of soldiers cleaning up the . . . the basement.” Scrubbing away our blood, he meant. “The sisters arrived at the gate almost as soon as I did, so I accepted the food and sent them on their way.”

More rustling sounded from the bushes and I narrowed my eyes. “You brought someone.” He had turned us in—told his soldiers.

The rustling grew louder, but it seemed too fast to be a soldier. Then a russet-and-white bundle of fur burst from the undergrowth and leaped into my lap, licking my face with ferocity.

“Joy!” My eyes burned as I snuggled the spaniel. Another survivor. Another sign of life and hope. “Oh, Joy, you’re alive!” I pressed her face to mine, but she yapped too excitedly to sit still. Then I let her loose on Alexei.

Being the spectacular spaniel she was, she didn’t leap on him, only sniffed around his body and touched her nose to his cheek. He remained still. Cold. No longer strong enough to speak.

“He’s dying, Zash. We have to do something. What spells did you get?”

Joy licked Alexei’s skin—cleaning and healing and showing love in the best way she could.

I beckoned impatiently. “Did you find the tin of relief spells?”

Zash hurried forward and dropped a bundle at my side. Only then did I see how much he was carrying—two packs over his shoulder stuffed with items, three canteens, two rolled-up sleeping mats, and a basket of food. The same basket the sisters would bring to us, only this one carried much more food than what we were ever given.

It was as though Zash knew we had a journey ahead of us. As though he planned to join us on that journey. If I could view him only as an asset—a body of muscle and protection—I was okay with that.