Romanov(63)

“Oh thank you. Thank you.” I clasped my hands over my mouth. “Can we use one of those now?” Zash tucked the spells into his pocket.

“Don’t you dare,” Vira said. “I already used a spell to renew his blood loss. His body needs to soak that one up before you give him another.” She pointed to the maturing spell in Zash’s hand. “Use that in an hour. Don’t wait any longer. I’ve bought the tsarevich time. It is your duty to ensure it isn’t wasted.” Her hand stroked Alexei’s brow without her seeming to notice the movement.

“His head wound is bad.” She returned the clay bottle and silver pin to the hole in the fireplace. “The blood inside is spreading and may take his life at any time.” Her eyes lifted to mine. “You need a stronger spell master.”

Alexei looked so fragile lying there, half his head swollen and purple. His breathing shallow. His knee hadn’t even healed yet from his small fall upon our arrival at the Ipatiev House. How could the bleeding in his head wound abate enough for him to survive? There must be another answer. Another solution. “What if we took him to the White Army?”

“Girl, those soldiers would drop their weapons and surrender to the Bolsheviks the moment they saw the tsarevich in this condition. The fire in their bosoms is lit by the idea of what he is and could be. A feeble, dying boy does not align with that idea. You would crush the hope of the people if they saw him in this state.”

Because my family had always hidden Alexei’s condition from the people, the people created their own image of him—one he could never live up to, no matter the embers of passion in his heart.

“But we could disguise him. We could approach the army as simple peasants. They are in Ekaterinburg!”

“No, they’re not, Nastya.” Zash’s statement was almost lost on me, he spoke it so quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“They were not close enough to rescue you. Yes, they are approaching Ekaterinburg, but Yurovsky used them as . . . as an excuse to plan his . . . execution.”

I gripped the arm of my chair. “You’re wrong. We were contacted by a White Army officer planning a rescue. A rescue that we refused because we didn’t want it to result in the deaths of any of our Bolshevik friends.”

He shook his head slowly. “That White Army officer is dead. Avdeev intercepted the first letter. Beloborodov demanded that he forge responses in the hopes of capturing you and your family in an escape attempt—to speed up the order for an execution.”

Every word he spoke blotted out drop after drop of hope I’d been clinging to. All those letters we’d written and received, with the terrible escape plan . . . all those late nights weaving bedsheets together into a rope and hoping for rescue . . . had been a hoax?

“You knew about all this?” I breathed.

“I only learned of it these past few days.”

“Now is not the time!” Vira shoved a pile of white and grey costumes, trimmed with fur, into my hands. “You need to change and be on your way.”

I stared at the material, trying to recover from what Zash just told me.

“Stop gawking and put them on,” Vira barked. “They are traditional reindeer-skin clothing.”

That explained Vira’s and Zash’s coloring. They must have been from one of the seminomadic people groups of Siberia. What had brought Zash into the Bolshevik army? What brought them into a village at all?

“Will these not bring more attention?” I asked.

“You’ve been shut up in a prison. You don’t know what will bring attention in this area or not. This will be far better than your ragged skirt.”

Zash took the reindeer clothing from me and held out the coat. I allowed him to help me into it, mainly because my ribs ached too much to do it myself. The reindeer skin rested against my body like a blanket of comfort. It alone almost soothed some of my pain.

We were about to leave, for Vira’s safety, but to where? “What can you tell me of . . . Dochkin?”

Vira rose from the floor, her knees creaking and popping like a fresh log in a fire. “What do you know?”

My hand was tempted to stray to the Matryoshka doll, but I kept it firmly at my side. “I know the Red Army never found Vasily Dochkin.”

“Trust me, girl. If the Red Army couldn’t find him with all their gadgets and commandants and persistence, you have no chance.” She avoided my gaze.

“You might be surprised what I know,” I responded. She busied herself brushing off her skirt and adjusting her head scarf. “But you are also not ignorant. You know something.”

She looked up, no surprise or guilt on her face. “All spell masters know of his renown. I’ve heard it said the only way to find Dochkin is through his spells, of which he is very selective to bestow. That is all I know.”

That lined up with what Yurovsky had said when he claimed the doll. It may be a wives’ tale, but it was one worth pursuing. “Thank you for your help.” I reached into my corset, slit through some threads with my thumbnail, and handed her a small pearl. “Is this sufficient payment?”

She pushed it back toward me. “Serving the tsarevich and grand duchess is sufficient enough for me.”

“I would like to pay you. To thank you.”

Vira handed Zash a bundle of items that had not been in the room prior to my falling asleep. “The thanks is accepted. You may pay me by leaving this house and not returning.” She tossed me a flowered head scarf. “A pearl like that could get me shot. To a village woman it is as useless as it is lovely.”