Romanov(86)

I couldn’t wait a second longer. I walked past Zash, and Yurovsky’s dark gaze finally slid to mine. “But at least we can stop you from causing more.” I choked on tears. “You don’t deserve this mercy.”

He sneered. “Mercies won’t stop me from hunting you and killing—”

I splashed the spell onto Yurovsky’s startled face. My own tears fell with it as I choked on the word. “Pustoy.”





39


“What are you doing?” Zash grabbed my wrist.

I dropped the vial and it shattered on the plank floor, but the spell had been poured. The ink sank into Yurovsky’s skin and a thick film of peace took its place. His features relaxed and he slumped backward into a deep sleep.

I cried harder. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve peace or freedom from the things he’d done. Whether he wanted it or not, he deserved to drown under those weights.

Zash took several deep breaths and wrapped an arm around me. “I . . . don’t understand.”

“Don’t you see?” I rubbed my sleeve across my face. “He will never hunt us any longer. He will have no vendetta against us . . . or against the spell masters he’s been killing. He is no longer a commandant or Bolshevik.”

We were free.

“Don’t do that to me!” Alexei hollered from his bed. “You left me lying here, helpless. Wondering if you were going to use that spell on yourself and turn into a hollow-head.”

I managed a grin for my brother, who raised himself up on one elbow. “Apologies, my tsar.”

He rolled his eyes and then turned somber at Yurovsky’s sleeping form. “We are free of him.” He gave me a firm nod of approval. “Papa would be pleased.”

My heart warmed. This was my first step toward forgiving Yurovsky. Releasing him from his actions. Tearing his claws from my heart and smashing them to powder. No matter if he was ever repentant or ever regretted murdering my family that night, I had to forgive him. Otherwise I would perish from the inside out.

Faced with releasing my hatred of Yurovsky, my forgiveness of Zash was a light of hope and freedom in my heart instead of a burden.

“I’m proud of you,” Zash said.

Dochkin said nothing of my choice or my use of his spell. “We will dress him in peasant’s clothing, give him a pouch of rubles, and deposit him in a village far away from here. For now, though, that spell should keep him sleeping a few hours.”

Dochkin held out a hand toward Zash. Zash helped him to his feet, both grunting from the effort. Dochkin felt his healed throat, then popped his neck. “Not to sound self-praising, but I made a mighty fine spell.” He brushed his hands together and surveyed the scene.

Blood stained his wood floor in a crimson lake with channels of red branching off into the cracks. Glass shards decorated the kitchen from smashed spell bottles.

“Shall we clean it up?” I suggested, not really having the energy to dive back into the sticky blood with a bar of soap.

“Before anything else, we all need rest . . . and food, I think.”

“Food first,” Alexei chirped, rising fully into a sitting position. My, how he’d healed!

A patter of small feet came from around the base of the bed in a broken rhythm. Joy limped into view, panting. She gave a small yap. All I could do was laugh. “You resilient little spaniel, you.” I picked her up and deposited her onto Alexei’s lap, joining him on the bed.

So many hours of our relationship had been spent with him in a bed and me at his side. But today he would finally rise in good health, not on borrowed time.

Zash and I—being the most recovered of the group—helped Alexei and Dochkin outside, per Dochkin’s instructions. We all washed our hands in the creek as best we could, then rounded the house where a carved table stretched along the back wall. It faced a lovely view of a small pasture with a low fence. Inside the pasture a few goats nibbled at flowers, two horses meandered by the creek, and chickens clucked around a coop.

More pens and a vegetable garden could be spotted beyond the coop. Dochkin sat at the table and gestured to a tin bucket by the pasture fence. “Zash, could you—”

“Say no more.” Zash grabbed the bucket and strode out to the pasture.

Less than a quarter hour later, we munched on fresh carrots, tomatoes, and bowls of berries in milk. I could have cried over the simple luxury of it. Joy caught herself a squirrel and made her own meal.

I tried not to stare at Dochkin throughout the meal. He struggled to swallow a piece of carrot and abandoned the root for his bowl of milk. Perhaps his spell hadn’t completed the job as thoroughly as hoped.

“How long have you lived here, Dochkin?” I popped a cowberry into my mouth.

“Longer than you’ve been alive, at least.” His long mustache hid his smile like Papa’s used to, but I knew how to recognize the crinkles around the eyes.

“And no one has ever discovered you?”

“Without a locate spell, like what you used to get here, it’s impossible to find. I spent half my time here crafting spells that erased any traceability.”

“Yurovsky had a pocket watch that could detect spells. Even that wouldn’t have found you?”

“Even that.”

Tension leaked out of my bones and I plopped my elbows on the table. “It seems a wonderful place to study spell mastery.” And to live. “Do you never get lonely?”