Romanov(7)

The best place to hide an item was on your person. But when you couldn’t manage that, the next best place was to hide it in plain view. People searched there last.

*

“Any news?” A Bolshevik snickered as I passed. They’d been with us for two weeks and not one of them had softened. Fifty remaining Bolsheviks with guns who didn’t care to know us.

Fifty men who laughed at me, knowing I’d received no letter from Maria. The calculations didn’t add up. She should have arrived in Moscow within three or four days, and then a couple days for them to settle in and Maria to write, then three days for the letter to reach me.

Still, no letter.

I tried not to be concerned. The post took a long time. Besides, the Bolsheviks had to examine every piece of post. Perhaps the trial had kept her too busy. Maybe they weren’t allowing her to write.

Longing spiked in me, but I shut it down. I wanted to be out of Tobolsk. Out of Siberia. I wanted to be home. At the very least I wanted permission to make a place our home—any place, as long as it was ours. Together.

My thoughts drifted beyond my control—to the unthinkable. That the train had been attacked on the way to Moscow, or that the revolutionaries had gone after Papa on his way to the trial, or that the Bolsheviks had pulled out their guns and—

“Has the post come?” Alexei asked weakly as I passed his room. He lay in bed, attached to the electrotherapy machines to stimulate his weak leg muscles. I was out of spells with which to help him. He had only just begun to sit up on his own.

I shook my head. Then I returned to my room and toyed with the Matryoshka doll again. Nothing had changed. Did I need to speak a certain word to prompt it open? My bottle of spell ink was dry, and Rasputin had never told me how to make more.

The doorknob creaked, and I barely returned the doll to its spot before my older sister Tatiana entered. Her short auburn hair flipped out elegantly above her shoulders. Always put together. Always beautiful.

“I have work for you,” she said.

Always bossy. But I’d take any distraction I could.

She shoved a sewing kit into my hands. “Before she left, Mamma told us to dispose of the medicines.”

Medicines was our code word for “jewels.”

“We will do our mending in here,” she said in a tone as crisp as the frozen leaves outside.

I plopped on the bed, grabbed the corset I loathed wearing, and set to work opening a seam. “At least there’s something we can do to resist this revolution.”

“Tishe,” Tatiana hushed. She pored over her work as though stitching a soldier’s head wound—something she’d done plenty of times during the war. It reminded me that this was a mission. I needed to remain on guard.

I tucked a strand of pearls between the ribbing of my corset, then threaded my needle. I pinched it too tightly as I shoved it through the material and it pricked me. We would not be able to pack any riches in our valises when we joined Papa, Mamma, and Maria. We would have to wear the jewels so that, should we escape the Red Army’s hold, we had money with which to live on.

“Do you think we will join them soon?” Tatiana, at least, would give me a straight answer. She was like Papa in that way.

Tatiana shoved a diamond bracelet into the hem of her coat cuff. “It will likely be another few weeks.”

I sewed a thick length of cloth over my seam. “We’ve received no news. Are you . . . concerned?” I pulled the stitches tight so they would withstand any upcoming travel.

“Double knot it.” Her needle flew through the fabric. “Of course I wish we had news, but I think the Bolsheviks are keeping it from us. They will let a letter through soon.”

“Accursed Bolsheviks.” I knotted my thread so forcefully, it snapped. A prickle swept up my arms and I snapped my gaze toward the doorway.

Zash the Bolshevik stood there watching us. My hands stilled. How did he arrive so silently? And how much had he heard? His sneer of loathing told me he’d caught at least my muttered curse. I gave him a sheepish grin. “Can you blame me?”

Tatiana knotted her thread before giving him a more sophisticated response. “Do you bring news, sir?”

“You are to do your mending and recreational activities in the sitting room.” He no longer wore his budenovka hat, and I took in his sweep of black hair. He stood out from the other Bolsheviks with his prominent cheekbones. The textured coloring of his skin spoke of many years spent beneath the sun. Not smooth and even like the men in the palaces. His was a soldier’s skin. A wild skin. I quite liked it.

“In addition, doors to bedrooms are no longer allowed to be closed.”

“What about for sleeping?” I exclaimed.

“Not even then.”

I opened my mouth, but Tatiana rested a hand on my arm. “We will comply, of course.” Her calm tone echoed Papa’s heart. I snapped my mouth shut. Humility. Obedience. For Papa.

But leaving our doors open would release the small amounts of heat we managed to keep in our sleeping quarters. It would be freezing. And no privacy! Not even to change clothing!

Zash stayed in the doorway until we’d gathered up our sewing. The “medicines” remained tucked in our baggage, waiting for us to take out piece by piece. I was lucky I’d gotten that pearl bracelet sewed up in time.

Tatiana led the way to the sitting room, but I took longer, releasing my irritation upon my corset and overcoat as I folded them. It wasn’t Zash’s fault. He was delivering orders, so by the time I’d gathered my mending, I was in a proper state of mind.