Romanov(84)

Life hung on every leaf and sprout. I wasn’t afraid. Perhaps it was because I felt as though I’d finally reached the end—the crossroads of my new life and my old. I sat by the creek and pulled off my boots. I slipped my feet into the icy water and let it wash over my jumbled thoughts.

If I remained how I was—with my family’s slaughter in my mind and all the agony of the past months—how could I move forward? How could I do anything without aching? Without Alexei? To live with my memories meant I would have to forgive Yurovsky, even once Zash killed him. Papa would ask that of me. But did he know how impossible that was?

Then again, I’d thought it would be impossible to soften toward Zash.

Papa. What would you have me do? The question hung in the light summer sky, but I couldn’t imagine his voice. I couldn’t hear his words. He was slipping away. My eyes burned. Don’t leave me.

If I applied the pustoy spell, he would be gone from my mind forever.

Iisus?

If I used this spell, I wouldn’t have to forgive Yurovsky. I wouldn’t have to forgive anyone because I wouldn’t be hurt by their actions. But this would be a false victory. A shortcut. And though it sounded tempting right now, it would have its own trials.

I inspected the vial again. What right did I have to such a spell? It would be selfish for me to take it for myself—I’d be abandoning Zash. Zash who had given up everything to help us—who had just lost his babushka. Who was preparing to kill Yurovsky this very moment.

I should offer the spell to him.

But that would leave me hurting. It would leave me behind, carrying all the memories on my own.

I lay back in the grass, allowing my thoughts to drift to more vulnerable places. Zash had made it clear how he felt about me. I felt something for him, too, tied up in the confused emotions of his betrayal. I wanted to be with him and he wanted to be with me. If I took the spell, would he be willing to help me start over? To build new memories with me?

Could I ask him to do that? Could I ask him to keep his memories and never share them with me? To let me live a happy and free life while he wallowed in his own lonely story?

I couldn’t. It was as simple as that.

I’d told him I was trying to forgive him. As I lay in the grass next to the spell that could rid me of heart pain, I realized that a part of forgiveness was accepting the things someone had done—and the pain that came with that—and moving on with love. Forgiveness was a personal battle that must always be fought in my heart. Daily. And though I was tired of running and surviving and fighting . . . I wasn’t ready to surrender that battle yet.

Zash had lost as much as I had. He deserved the spell.

I couldn’t take the easy way out. Not if it would leave more pain in my wake for others. In this, I thought Papa would have been proud. If I used the spell for Zash, I could be strong enough to help him rebuild his life. I wouldn’t bring up his past. I wouldn’t remind him of his pain.

But I didn’t like the idea of him losing his memories of me. Losing his love for me, even though love could be rebuilt.

I lay in the grass waiting for the gunshot. Waiting for the end of Yurovsky. My heart grew sick thinking of Zash shooting his unconscious commandant. Alone. In a house of dead allies. And I’d left him there.

Suddenly everything became clear, like the blast of sunlight when the breeze blew away the tree branch: the selfishness of my escape. The injustice of me using the memory spell for myself. The fact I’d completely given up on Alexei and let hopelessness win.

I shoved myself to my feet, leaving my shoes by the creek. I’d reached my conclusion. The spell was not for me. But neither would I waste it. I knew what I needed to do. If I waited any longer, I wouldn’t be strong enough to do it.

I burst through the door, letting in a spill of sunlight—a source of strength.

Zash stood over Yurovsky’s body, still holding the cocked pistol. His hand trembled like a rattling carriage. Yurovsky’s chest still rose and fell.

At my entrance, Zash broke from his terrorized trance. “Nastya?” My name from his lips sounded both alarmed and hopeful.

“I’m still here,” I whispered.

Sweat lined his pale forehead and his face bore a twist of torment. He opened his mouth once. Twice. His chin trembled and finally he managed to force out tremulous words. “I . . . I can’t.”

His hand dropped to his side. “All I can think of is the last time I shot a pistol. At . . . at you. It fractured my heart—my very soul. If I take this life, I’ll shatter.” He shook his head. “I’m so, so sorry. I . . . failed you.”

I took the pistol from his hand and set it back on the kitchen table. “You didn’t fail me. You were stronger than me, Zash. I finally realized why Papa always asked me to forgive. Because it takes more strength and courage to forgive than it does to enact revenge.”

I twined my fingers with his. “Revenge would have shattered us both. But you’ve given us the opportunity to be strong. To mend our hearts instead of break them further. And I want you to know . . . I forgive you. For everything.”

A wash of freedom overtook his features. Like he’d stepped into daylight for the first time. He barely maintained his composure as he asked through thick emotion, “Really?”

I nodded.

He took my face in his hands with a fierce joy. As he pressed his forehead to mine, he whispered fervently, “You’ve freed me.”