Romanov(68)

“What hurts?” I asked.

“My head,” he croaked. “The throbs grow sharper. And each time, I can’t . . . can’t seem to think.”

I took in the sun’s location in the sky. It had been almost eighteen hours since we’d left Vira’s house. “The numbing spell is likely wearing off—”

“I know!” he snapped. “You think I can’t feel it?”

I recoiled. Alexei never snapped—at least not at me.

“Prosti. Forgive me.” He lifted his head and tenderly tapped his head wound with the tips of his fingers. “I’m irritable.”

“Of course.” I moved to him this time. “We do not have long. Can you manage another hour or two without the spell?”

He nodded, but it seemed sluggish.

“Perhaps you should ride in the stretcher. It’s dry now.” Zash looked helpless across from us, watching our pain.

“No, I like watching you carry it.” Alexei smirked, feeding Joy a piece of bread.

Zash rolled his eyes. “But of course, Your Imperial Highness.” He gathered our belongings and pointed forward. “Onward to Revda!” He led us at a march—a pretty good one, too.

“Back straight, soldier!” Alexei marched after him. “Joy! Nastya! Get in line!” Joy circled their ankles, her tongue hanging out as she panted in delight.

I couldn’t stop the grin as I took up the rear. Alexei was so much like Papa—only with more humor. In a situation such as this, I didn’t know how he managed it.

We walked and I ached. My stomach still felt empty, but at least the horizon held the hope of a train ride—movement and forward motion with promised rest.

Our silly march lost its posture pretty quickly, weighed down by packs and pain. Alexei slowed, so I slowed, so Zash slowed. Zash stayed at the front—the trailblazer. Joy trotted by his heels now and Alexei and I walked side by side.

“You’re having a hard time with Zash, aren’t you?” Alexei asked. The slap and sway of undergrowth muffled most of our conversation.

I shoved a little branch out of our way. “How can you be so amiable with him? He was part of the firing squad.”

“I suppose I’ve seen a lot more soldiers than you. I understand that they are often ordered to do things they don’t want to do.”

“But kill us? Kill me?”

He took his time stepping over a log, ensuring good placement for his feet before committing. A single fall could send him back onto that stretcher—or even dead before we reached Dochkin. “I don’t think he wanted to do it, Nastya.”

“So why did he? I thought he loved us!” We’d shared something precious.

“I think he still does. He’s broken, too. I can see it as clearly as I see yours and feel mine. The Bolsheviks killed his best friend, whom he then had to bury. And then they asked him to murder people he had grown to care about. It broke him so much that he’s no longer with the Bolsheviks. He’s left his post—abandoned Yurovsky. Do you know what that could cost him?”

I shook my head. “I hadn’t really thought of it that way.”

“It could cost him his family. His livelihood. If caught, his life. That should say plenty about how much he regrets taking part in the slaughter.”

Alexei’s perspective didn’t ease my hurt. Of course I didn’t want Zash’s family—Vira—to suffer. And I didn’t want him dead. I didn’t know what I wanted. I wanted all of this undone. That was the only thing that could fix me.

“We need him,” Alexei said.

“I know,” my lips said.

I know, my head said.

I want him, my heart said. I wanted him back—the way things were before Ivan died and Yurovsky took over.

As we walked I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder now and again. A presence whispered up and down my spine, threatening failure. Clawing at us. Yurovsky was not far off. I could feel him catching up.

*

The train whistle met our ears before the station. Zash had led us around the town, keeping to the forest, until we stood opposite the train station. It was situated at the edge of Revda with the tracks between it and the forest, where we currently hid.

Two Bolshevik soldiers sat on a bench near the platform, sharing a smoke and scanning the passersby every few minutes.

“You and Alexei will not be able to board from the platform. It seems Yurovsky has sent a telegram to every train station.” Zash pressed against a tree trunk, several trees deep from the tracks, with enough view. “You must travel up the tracks and board once it’s moving.”

Alexei seemed to barely be listening. He crouched on the ground, curled in on himself, wheezing through the discomfort. It had been only an hour, but the swelling in his head seemed to have spread even farther, bulging over his temple and forehead.

“What of his numbing spell?” I asked. “I can’t lift him onto the train. He needs to be able to do it on his own.”

“Use it when the train whistles for the first time. That will give it enough time to take effect. Once I purchase tickets, I will come find you and we’ll board together.”

My heart pounded with the familiar thrill of danger and mischief, but it sent a rain of nausea into my stomach—the same feeling that came when I examined a plan filled with flaws. Nastya the shvibzik never enacted plans that could fail. She thought through every angle and abandoned them if needed. That always kept the mischief successful and of the best quality.