Romanov(66)

I spun to face Zash, but he stared at his compass. “The spell went west. Exactly west. Like a shot arrow.”

My mouth formed a silent O. “It’s leading us to Dochkin.” That was the spell. That’s what I’d asked for when I tried to open it this morning—for help finding Dochkin. It wasn’t wasted. It was directing us. Finally, we had a destination. Or, at least, a direction.

“Nastya? Nastya!” Alexei woke in a panic, shoving the reindeer coat off of him.

I knelt at his side. “I’m right here.” I recalled how I felt upon waking this morning—not ready to remember. Not ready to grieve. “How are you feeling?”

His gaze locked onto mine and he held it, as though it was the only offer of safety. “I feel . . . strange. I know that I’m hurt, but I don’t feel much of it.” He lifted his shot hand and examined the now-closed wound. “Are we ghosts again?”

I took his hand. “No. We visited Zash’s babushka—a village spell master—and she managed to gift us some spells to help us.”

“How long do I have?”

“If we use the final numbing spell tonight, you have until tomorrow evening. About thirty hours.” That didn’t sound like much. I prayed that Dochkin wasn’t too far west. We were on the edge of Siberia. Cities like Moscow and St. Petersburg were days away. “How’s your head?”

“It doesn’t hurt right now, but I feel . . . sluggish. I can’t seem to focus my vision.” He lifted his head. “I’m likely dying. Will you be alright with that, Nastya?”

I jerked back. “Nyet! No, I will not!” He asked me so calmly that it stirred my anger. “You are all I have left, Alexei!”

“Well, what are our options?”

Once I caught my breath again, I filled him in on our recent discoveries. How Yurovsky could track spells with his watch, how Dochkin was the only one who could help with Alexei’s injuries, how the Matryoshka doll sent a spell that pointed the direction we needed to travel.

“We should go.” Alexei hauled himself to his feet, using the trunk of a tree for leverage. “It is lucky Dochkin lives in the west, since the train can take us that same direction.”

“Are you certain you can walk?”

“For now.” I admired his push to be strong, his will to be a soldier and leader. But also his willingness to admit when he needed us. He knew stubbornness only hindered. “Besides, the stretcher is soggy.”

There was, indeed, an imprint from where Zash’s body had pressed the material into the wet ground.

Joy returned to our spot, saw Alexei up and moving, and ran circles around his feet. “Joy!” Alexei scooped her into his arms. “Joy, you crazy pup! You’re alive!” For the first time Alexei showed a crack in his armor to stay strong.

“Zash found her.” I didn’t want to give him credit. I didn’t want to stir any gratefulness in Alexei’s heart toward my executioner, but Zash was helping us. He seemed as though he cared about our survival and I didn’t understand it. I wasn’t ready to understand it, because to accept it meant to move past what he did. I could picture Papa telling me to care for the soldiers.

But he didn’t care for me!

Joy’s barks echoed through the forest and I couldn’t stop the heightened alertness that tingled my ears. If Yurovsky was anywhere close, he’d hear us.

“Tishe. Let’s go.” I took the bedrolls and carried them over my shoulder. After a bit of protest, Zash gave me a pack of goods and he took the stretcher since it was too awkward for me to carry.

Off we went. West toward Revda.

This time as we walked, there was less panic. Less pain. Less distraction from our predicament. Zash led the way with his compass, keeping us due west, though picking the paths of least resistance, like game trails. Alexei trudged behind with Joy. His walking seemed awkward and tentative. It kept our going slow, but it left us with more energy since we weren’t carrying him. We picked some bilberries as we walked, the dark, sweet fruit reminding me painfully of other days.

I let the silence continue for a while, though Alexei tossed a stick for Joy to fetch every few steps. Eventually, the silence grew heavier than the packs and even the stretcher. I never used to back down from a challenge. So I willed myself to quicken my pace until I was level with Zash. He raised his eyebrows as though surprised I’d come this near him. He wouldn’t be happy to discover why.

I chewed on my lip for a moment. It pained me to speak with him and show . . . vulnerability. “Why?” I cleared my throat and tried again for a stronger voice. “Why did you shoot us, Zash?”

He stumbled on a fallen stick and it cracked in half with a snap. “I . . . shot only the one bullet—the one you saw.”

“The one at me.” Did he think that excused him?

“Da.”

“Did you know my camisole held jewels in it? Did you know the bullet would ricochet?” A small part of me clung to this hope that might redeem him.

He shook his head. “Nyet. I did not know.”

So he’d intended to kill me. I almost lost hold of my voice completely. “You know, shooting one bullet instead of ten doesn’t make you any less guilty of what you’ve done.”

“I know what I’ve done, Nastya.” He choked on an inhale. “And I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t think . . . I don’t think you’ll understand.”