Romanov(80)

“Well, I wasn’t exactly paying attention to what you were doing—since I was bleeding out, you know—but I told you the ink is loyal to the Romanov name, because I am loyal to the Romanov name . . . and I crafted the ink.”

“So . . . it just obeyed?”

“It is like the ink inside the Matryoshka doll. Do you know how my doll worked?”

“It released the next spell at certain times,” I said. “I couldn’t figure out if there was a pattern.”

“The doll created spells according to your need. The ink in each was not formed into a spell until it was needed. Each layer heard your pleas, sensed the needs of the Romanov family, and then became the spell you needed at the time. That is why I hide away in my little cottage. Only I have ever been able to set such a spell as that. I use my own language—known to no other spell master. My Matryoshka spells are the closest thing to a wish. That is why the commandant wanted to find me so terribly. I’m too powerful an enemy to the Soviets.”

Zash seemed to have swallowed his confusion enough to join the conversation. “But the spell that zoomed west. How did that help us? It gave us nothing other than to head west—no specifics on how to find you.”

Dochkin’s mustache crinkled. “It was not intended to give you directions. If you recall”—his gaze slid to meet mine—“you were whispering your needs to the doll. That spell brought those desires to me so I could start on the spells for your arrival.”

It took three swallows to dislodge my voice. “So . . . you have the spells I wished for?” I thought about my desires that I’d proclaimed to the doll—that Alexei would be healed and that Dochkin would reverse the pain of my family’s deaths. That he would undo the entire event.

A clatter startled all four of us as Yurovsky tossed the bloodied knife onto the floor. He seemed to have caught his breath and stood from his chair. He then faced the many bottles on Dochkin’s table.

Dochkin took a deep breath, watching Yurovsky pick up one bottle and examine the handwritten label. “Yes, Nastya. I have the spells you asked for, but they will not be what you expect.”

I shifted my gaze from Yurovsky and his greedy fingers and landed on Alexei. The spells weren’t what I expected? Why didn’t that surprise me? “You can save Alexei, can’t you?”

“I’ve managed to make a spell that will restore his body to a state without bruises or bleeding or wounds, but his hemophilia will remain.”

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” Alexei croaked from the bed. “And that’s far more healing than I’ve ever had before.” He fixed Dochkin with a serious look. “Do you think you can apply the spell in time for me?”

Dochkin shook his head and my heart might as well have stopped. “I cannot, my tsarevich. But your sister, the grand duchess, will be the one who might.”

“Because you won’t heal in time to apply it,” I concluded.

He gave me a grim smile. “I’m not going to heal at all, Grand Duchess. I will not survive the return. A throat slit is a race between suffocation and bleeding out. I suspect your spell caught me with mere seconds left.” He patted my arm. “It’s time for you to go.”

I stumbled back. “But . . . we need you!”

“I’m old, and I did what I could for my tsar.” He toyed with his mustache like Papa used to, hiding a sad smile.

Alexei looked even more distraught. “I’d hoped you would join me . . . and help in the war.”

“I am sorry, my tsarevich. I would have liked that.” Dochkin adopted a serious tone. A soldier-like tone that returned Alexei to a state of strength. “The most I can do now is heal your body.”

Dochkin’s eyes flicked to where Yurovsky stuffed a spell bottle into his coat. “It’s time to go, Nastya. You need to keep him from destroying or taking those spells—those are the spells that might save you. Let me show you where they are.”

He directed me past Yurovsky. I still squeezed my body tight so I wouldn’t touch him, even though I would have passed through him. Dochkin pointed to a metal tin beside a half-eaten loaf of bread. “Those are minor healing spells. They can help with pain.”

He pointed to a cupboard opposite us. “There is a pistol on the second shelf, but I ran out of bullets after the last commandant hunted me.” He gestured to the bullet straps crossing Yurovsky’s chest. “Those should work, but you have no chance of retrieving both pistol and bullet before he stops you. You don’t want the pistol to fall into his hands either. Use that as a last resort.”

I nodded, though a pistol sounded awfully handy just now.

He stopped by the windowsill where two glass vials sat pushed against the wood frame, soaking up the light. He pointed to the larger one. “This is for Alexei. You must pour it over his bare skin. All of it. There is no spell word. Just say Romanov and the spell will do the rest. It must soak into his skin, so do not let his body be disturbed after you’ve applied it.”

I nodded, my heart thundering at each clink of Yurovsky thumbing through spells and vials and jars. Any second he could turn and find these. Smash them.

“There was another request that came with that Matryoshka spell,” Dochkin said softly. Zash stilled from across the room.

“Mine,” I breathed. “The one that will reverse this tragedy—that will take us back to that night so I can save my family.” Tears sprang to my eyes. “Please. Tell me you’ve made it.” I scanned the windowsill and captured the smaller vial with my gaze. I wanted to erase the pain. Erase the loss. This man had created a spell to heal Alexei. He could do it. I knew he could.