Romanov(59)

But I couldn’t see him that way. I still saw him enshrouded in a cloud of mistrust. He betrayed us to the point of our deaths. Could a person feel remorse deep enough to undo that? Even if he did, it meant nothing to me. I would never forget what he did. I would never forgive.

“There was only the tin,” he said in a low voice. “I could find no others.” He pulled out a small bottle, barely the size of my thumb. “And some spell ink.”

My hands stilled in their search of Dr. Botkin’s things. “Nothing other than the relief spells?” I’d been hoping for something stronger. Relief spells were about as useful as a cup of cold tea right now. “You can’t have searched very hard!” I should have gone. I should have done the job instead of letting him.

“I searched everywhere, Nastya. He cleared out his office. He must have done it the night before . . . before all of this.”

I found the tin, but when I popped it open no spells wiggled inside. Empty. Either Yurovsky had used them all for some reason, or he’d lost them. “Give me the spell ink.”

Zash handed over the bottle.

There was hardly enough for six spells. I forced my heart to calm so I could hum while painting the words on Alexei’s skin. I used my own finger as the brush since I didn’t have a paintbrush with me.

I painted four and stowed two in the tin for later. The spells were messy, but when I said, “Oblegcheniye,” two of the four spells melted into Alexei’s skin as they’d always done.

“You’re a spell master,” Zash breathed. “All this time.”

“No. I can make one spell. For my brother.” I wasn’t about to tell him I wanted to be a spell master.

Alexei’s breathing evened out for a moment before the pain seemed to return. The spells had hardly helped. I considered using the last two relief spells, but then I saw a kit for stitches. I eyed Alexei’s hip wound.

It was all I could do for now. I pulled out the curved needle. I unwound the thick thread. And I reminded myself of all the times I’d hemmed my skirt and sewn tight lines to keep the diamonds in my corset. I told myself the blood was batting and tangles, that the skin was two frayed edges of cloth.

And I reminded myself that I was a Romanov. I could do this.





26


By the time I finished sewing up Alexei, both Zash’s and my fingers were stained red. We’d packed and bandaged Alexei’s shot hand and then wrapped what was left of Botkin’s cloth around Alexei’s middle. Other than medical instructions, we didn’t speak.

Joy had settled into a curled position near Alexei’s swollen head. That swelling concerned me the most, but I didn’t dare bleed it since he’d likely die from the extra blood loss and the inability to heal. The fact he was even still breathing proved Iisus’ protection over us.

“Thank you for bringing Joy,” I said to Zash.

“She would hardly let me leave without her.” I caught a tentative grin in his voice as he rubbed his hands on a nearby patch of moss.

I didn’t indulge him. Instead, I stared at my unconscious brother, stained red like the color our enemies wore. My throat clogged. “He’s going to die. Probably within hours.”

Zash stilled. “There is a hospital in Ekaterinburg.”

“And there are Bolsheviks in Ekaterinburg. And the Red Army. And people on the lookout for bloodied and dying Romanovs.” I shoved the medical supplies back into Dr. Botkin’s bag. “You asked me to let you help, but if you’re going to lead us right into the hands of your Bolshevik leaders, then get out of here before I shoot you.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m not trying to lead you back into their hands, Nastya. I suggested the hospital because it is nearby and the tsarevich doesn’t have long.”

“He doesn’t! Because of you!” My voice echoed through the trees, silencing us both with its intensity. And when my echo finally settled, a new sound met my ears that sent my blood draining. A distant holler. A search party.

Everything silenced—my thoughts, the forest, the world.

Yurovsky.

He was here. Hunting for us.

Zash scrambled to his feet, throwing our belongings over his shoulders. I grabbed a pack and scooped up Joy—all I could manage with my injuries. “What of Alexei?” I whispered, panicked. “You must carry him!”

Zash was already laden with travel supplies, but he didn’t hesitate. He lifted Alexei gently but swiftly, and we began to run. It was awkward. Jostling. Painful.

And loud.

I was sure Yurovsky was moments behind us, but he’d been up all night, too. He’d been digging and disposing of bodies and planning and plotting and pacing. But he had bullets to catch us.

Wherever Zash was leading us, I followed, hiking up my skirt with my free hand. Every step sent pain shooting up my ribs. Joy kept quiet in my arms, banging against the Matryoshka doll and bruising my sternum. Oh heavens. The doll! We couldn’t outrun Yurovsky when he had his pocket watch. He was after the doll, and the watch would always point him toward the nearest spell.

I couldn’t give it up—not when it would save Alexei. And I couldn’t hide it because Yurovsky would find it. Iisus! What do I—?

I gasped. “Zash! Stop!”

He slid to a stop in a marshy spot of moss. When I reached him, I dropped Joy. She ran around our ankles, happy to be free of my arms. Then I dove into one of the packs over Zash’s shoulder.