Romanov(61)

I remained standing by the wall, tense against the strangeness of this house and the mystery of its owner. Where had he brought us?

“Babushka?” Zash called.

Babushka? This was his grandmother’s house? I’d never entered a village house. My own grandmothers had been royalty and not at all the aged women depicted in the storybooks.

Joy squirmed in my arms, wanting to roam the new space and sniff it out. I set her down and she went straight to a large cushioned chair beside the fire and sniffed around it.

An open doorway led into another room from which the supper smell wafted. My stomach growled and I pressed a hand over it, not that it did much good. Perhaps Zash’s babushka was not at home? As the thought crossed my mind, a low, dark voice met my ears.

“I smell magic.” A short, thin form exited what I assumed to be the kitchen, a scarf around her neck and wrinkles weighing down her skin. Her dark-black hair was pulled into a low bun, and her old eyes supported so many wrinkles I could hardly tell where her gaze fell. She bore the same Siberian coloring as Zash.

The wooden spoon in her hand was stained crimson. The supper smell must be coming from borscht—a cabbage, beet, and beef soup that sent my stomach practically leaping from my body.

Her narrowed gaze struck Alexei first, flicking to his bloodied bandage. Then to Zash, whom she greeted with a brief nod, not quite the reception I would expect from a grandmother. And then to me. “You are hiding a spell.” She smacked Zash with the soupy spoon. “And you brought her into my home? Reckless boy.”

I took in this woman’s displeasure. And as I looked to Alexei’s weak and injured body, I realized she might not help us. Desperation filled me like it never had before, and I thought of Papa dropping to his knees in front of Avdeev, begging for an open window. I hadn’t understood his humility then, but now I did. Now I knew that pride meant nothing when set against the life and well-being of a loved one.

“Please,” I gasped. “He said you could help us. Help him. My brother.” I gestured to Alexei. “Please do not send us away.”

She did not acknowledge my plea but addressed Zash. “Who are these people? What have you done, Zash?”





27


Zash told her everything in a matter of minutes. How we were the last Romanovs, how he had helped guard us these past months. How Yurovsky’s pocket watch detected spells. How Yurovsky assigned him to the firing squad. “I helped kill them, Babushka,” he said in a low, torn voice.

“You did what you had to,” she barked.

I balked at her lack of compassion. Did she not hear what he said? We were Romanovs! He helped murder my entire family. If that didn’t move her, she certainly wouldn’t help us.

“But I have a second chance—to help them now. And we need you.” Zash removed the soup spoon from her hand, then pressed her fingers between his palms. “Please, Babushka. For me.”

She rolled her eyes and her countenance seemed to change into something resigned but softer. “Of course I will, boy. You know that. Now, get some soup for you and the girl.” Then she pointed to me. “Sidyet. I’ll see to you next.”

I plopped into the nearest chair, mostly out of relief. The impact stung and sent a ragged breath into my chest. Who was this woman who could help us?

She knelt by Alexei and assessed his wounds, her hands gliding but not touching. Sensing and reading. I caught a low mutter. “This is our tsarevich?”

I was glad Alexei was not conscious to hear that. His heart would break. “He has an illness that does not allow his blood to clot.”

“Hemophilia.”

“Da.” Alexei’s condition had been our family secret, but this woman barely flinched. Had she worked with it before?

“Do you know what I am, Grand Duchess?”

My throat constricted. She’d sensed the Matryoshka doll. She was the one person Zash thought could help Alexei. “You are a spell master.”

She nodded. “Now I am just Vira, the old woman at the end of the lane. A Bolshevik commandant is after you. If your spells lead him here, I will be executed without a second thought. Probably shot in this very room.”

“I thank you for risking your life—”

“It is not for you, Grand Duchess. I do this for Zash. And you must leave within an hour. You understand? I will do what I can for the tsarevich, but I can already tell you it will not be enough.”

My hope fractured. “What do you mean?”

Zash returned to the room with two bowls of steaming borscht. He handed me one, and I took a long moment to breathe in the aroma of herbs and vegetables. The beet-red broth swirled over a mix of potatoes and beef and cabbage. This would be the most flavorful thing I’d eaten in months. No more black bread or broth with lentils.

Vira reached over to her empty fireplace grate and pulled out a brick, behind which sat a small clay bottle stoppered with a cork. “Listen, child. I rid my house of all spells once the Bolsheviks came hunting. Spell masters had two choices: either turn themselves in to the Red Army to serve the new government or be killed. Personally, I think the Red Army is killing them anyway. I didn’t like those options, so I chose to live a life as any other woman might. After all, I was just a simple village spell master.”

She unstoppered the bottle and peered inside. “There’s not much left.”