Romanov(74)

What could I do? I had no remedy to offer and conversation seemed to be the last thing to provide comfort.

“I think . . . maybe it’s Dochkin’s spell?” He managed to tilt his head and look up at me.

“But we haven’t used any spells on you. Unless . . . Dochkin’s spell did something to you when it escaped and sped west?” It had flown in his face. “Do you think maybe this feeling is a clue that we’re going the wrong way?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know, Nastya.”

I pulled the Matryoshka doll from my shirt. Only the tiny nugget of the doll was left with an actual spell. The last little doll, so small I wasn’t sure it would actually open. I pulled it from the larger layer and held it in my hand—the size of a black bean. It shimmered a little under the light flashing past the windows. But no seam appeared. No word appeared. It was the last spell. Perhaps it glowed brighter the closer we got to Dochkin?

Alexei returned to our car, unescorted and bedraggled. “Kostya and the others will stop the conductor near Perm for them to find the spell master. After that, it’s up to us.” He sank onto a bench chair and leaned against the armrest. Then he noticed Zash. “What happened?”

Zash shook his head and I explained his discomfort to Alexei.

Alexei seemed barely awake enough to listen. “I am sorry for you, Zash. Perhaps you need rest.”

I handed Alexei a balled-up coat and he was out. Rest wouldn’t help Zash. “Is there nothing I can do?” I felt so helpless, watching the men suffer while I sat with no answers.

“Perhaps this sounds crazy, but I think moving to the back of the train will help.”

I eyed him. “That does sound a bit odd.” I pushed myself up. “But if you think it will help, then let’s go.”

Zash got to his feet, his good arm around his middle. He walked in a half crouch to the back of the car. I opened the door and he managed to cross the hitching well enough. It was only four cars back, but when we arrived in the end car, Zash sank onto a filled burlap sack and gave a sigh. “There is a little relief.”

“So it has to do with our traveling.” My heart sank. “It’s Dochkin’s spell. We must be going the wrong way.”

“If so, then why did it start hurting only now? Why didn’t it direct us sooner?”

“Maybe we were going the right direction at the start, but once we boarded the train it was wrong?” I had barely interacted with spells—let alone powerful, confusing ones like Dochkin’s. “I don’t know, Zash.”

“Neither do I. We are all at a loss here.”

We sat in silence, rocking to the rhythm of the train. I stared at the ex-Bolshevik before me. Hate and bitterness simmered beneath the surface of my mind, wanting to be acknowledged. I managed to ignore them. Maybe I was starting to forgive him? I still didn’t know how. I had never had to try as hard as now.

“Zash . . . tell me about the night of the execution.” The question slipped through my lips softly, as though part of my voice tried to keep it from coming out at all.

He looked up and I held his gaze. I needed to know why he made the decisions he did. He tried to explain before, but I wouldn’t listen. Now . . . I would try harder.

“When Yurovsky was removing all the soldiers who had served under Avdeev, he asked me if I would be willing to shoot one of the prisoners.” He balled his hands together. “I told him I would do it without hesitation. So he let me stay.”

“Because you wanted to stay . . .”

“Because I wanted to stay. And that was the answer I knew he needed. I didn’t think he’d actually do it. Avdeev had never received orders having anything to do with execution. At least not that we knew of. But then a few days in, Yurovsky started assembling a firing squad. He commanded us to arm ourselves and he instructed each man to target a different . . . victim.”

“Why did you agree?” My heart and voice cracked under my hurt. “Why didn’t you stand up to him? Say no?” This was the part I hated the most. The cowardice. The cowardice that led him to help execute my family. The cowardice that kept him bowing to Yurovsky’s will.

“The soldiers who refused—and there were several—were locked in the shed.” His fingers twisted and tightened and cracked under his tension. “What good could they have done? They’ve likely been shot by now.”

“A worthy death,” I breathed.

“I agree.” He dropped his gaze and we both managed to take a breath. “But I couldn’t do that, Nastya. I don’t expect this to make sense to you, but I kept thinking of you and your family being lined up and shot without warning. I imagined you staring into the cold faces of Bolsheviks who did not care about taking life. And . . . I wanted to be the one to do it. I wanted to be there for you.”

His hands slid to his face and I barely caught his words. “You told me you didn’t want to die alone. I figured that if you were going to be killed, perhaps it would bring you some comfort to be shot by a friend. By someone who didn’t do it out of hate or malice.” He shook his head. “Now, saying this, it doesn’t make sense. I see it was the nervous mindset of a fool. But on that day, when everything was moving so fast and I feared for both our lives . . . it made sense to me. I suppose because that’s how I would wish to die.”