Romanov(67)

“I want to understand!” As if there was any reason he could give that would make his choice acceptable.

“You’re . . . you’re not in a place to hear it yet.”

“You don’t know me!” I practically screamed. “You don’t know where I am or what I’m feeling.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m not in a place where I can talk about it yet.”

As if it were hard for him. As if he hurt. I wanted to scoff at his hurt—to dismiss it as inconsequential. But I couldn’t. Everyone’s heart had its own aches—and that was not something I could scoff at.

“Very well. But please . . . please explain soon.” I wanted my ache to disappear. I highly doubted Zash’s words could do that. But Dochkin could. With a reversing spell that would undo the execution, he could heal my ache. He could even fix Zash.

Dochkin could return us to that night. I could catch Zash before he tied himself to Yurovsky and tell him what was about to happen. And then I could kill Yurovsky.

We could all heal once we found Dochkin.

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you yet, Nastya. Truly. I can barely even ask your forgiveness.”

“Which I cannot give,” I said in a low voice. “You know that, don’t you?” Forgiveness. What did that even mean in a time like this? Papa always told us to forgive our captors. To show them love. Would he apply that to Zash? To Yurovsky? I could forgive the soldiers for doing their duty and guarding us. I could forgive them for not knowing us and for being deceived by propaganda.

But Zash knew us. Zash knew me. He’d given the impression he . . . possibly loved me.

“I can’t expect you to forgive me, but I can still ask. Perhaps your heart will change.”

“This has nothing to do with my heart. This is about your actions.” Some things were not forgivable. At least not by me. He could plead with Iisus as much as he desired. But I was human. And my heart was broken. All my forgiveness had leaked away.

“Is there nothing I can do?” he whispered.

I lifted my chin. “You can save Alexei’s life. And then disappear from mine.”

He nodded and we continued in silence. Resigned. His humility ate at me—causing an odd mixture of regret and disgust. He had no right to be humble. He had no right to ask for forgiveness. He owed the help he was giving. It was not charity. It was not kindness.

It was penance.

So then why did I feel as though I not only had caused him more sorrow and myself more sorrow . . . but also had grieved Papa’s heart?

Papa’s dead, my bitterness reminded me. He can’t grieve or rejoice any longer.





30


“Yurovsky will be watching the train stations.” Alexei sank onto a log as Zash pulled a loaf of bread from one of the packs—the last loaf brought to the Ipatiev House by the sisters. I recalled the rescue notes between us and the White Army officer. The forged letters that Zash claimed had been penned by Bolsheviks.

Zash broke the loaf into thirds and handed out the pieces. I was pleased to see he gave the greatest third to Alexei. “He’s too busy hunting us.”

The bruise on Alexei’s head had spread and the swelling seemed to have grown. We needed to get to Dochkin as soon as possible.

“If not him, there will at least be guards,” Alexei said.

I tore off a corner of the bread. Dry and dissatisfying . . . like my bitterness. “Could we go in disguise?” Revda was only a few hours away. My feet ached and my knees trembled at the idea of walking again. I’d not had enough sustenance to withstand this type of physical exertion.

Zash scooped the soft middle from his piece of bread. “Alexei’s right. If they are watching for us, they will find us.”

I waited for one of them to offer an alternative. A better idea. It didn’t come. “We can’t walk to Dochkin. We have no way of knowing how far west he lives.” Not for the first time, I silently sent up a thank-you that Zash had had the sense to pull out his compass when the spell disappeared.

“Disguises won’t work, but I agree that we still need to take the train.” Alexei nibbled at his loaf. “But speaking of disguise . . . what is Nastya wearing?”

I straightened my reindeer clothing, imagining how much softer it would be without my bejeweled corset underneath. “It’s from Vira.”

“It’s from our tribe,” Zash said.

“Your tribe?” Alexei snapped his fingers. “That explains your good looks. Siberian.”

“You’re one of very few who would think so positively of the Siberian coloring.” Zash finished his bread and picked the crumbs off his lap.

“So . . . your family was nomadic?” Alexei asked. I forgot he hadn’t been awake when Vira and Zash gave me the clothing.

“Seminomadic. I was, too, until the revolution. Vira did spell mastery for the tribe and I worked with the other men, breeding reindeer, trading pelts for spell ink and other needs. Working with my hands . . .” He glanced at his palms as if their lines now held shame. “But when spell mastery was made illegal and spell masters were being hunted, I joined the ranks.”

“Why would you—?” Alexei let out a hiss of pain and bent over his bread. I gripped my log to keep myself from rushing to his side. Years of hearing his groans and agony had taught me that I could not help take it away. But I could help him keep his honor. Alexei hated coddling, so I remained in my seat.