Romanov(88)

“I am old, Grand Duchess Anastasia,” Dochkin went on. “And I will be joining your brother in war. There will come a time when only you will know how to make the spells that will enable your brother to heal when he needs to.”

It was as though he’d ingested my hopes and spoke them out in complete understanding. “Would you teach me?” I breathed.

“I would be honored.”

Alexei scooted to the side as Zash arrived and gingerly lowered himself across from me.

“But what of this place?” I asked. “What of your home? Your spell work?”

“Your animals?” Zash added. “Who will care for them when you leave, Spell Master?” I could see the longing in Zash’s face as he gazed toward the pasture.

“If the tsarevich will permit me to lend some advice . . .” Dochkin faced Alexei, who nodded in encouragement. “This is not a war that will end in a week. We must enter it prepared for a long journey. I believe we will need a base. A base to gather spells. A base to which we can send injured spell masters, injured White soldiers. Somewhere safe.”

Alexei nodded, somber but determined. “You mean here.”

“Da. If there should be those willing to stay behind and care for it.”

The opportunity swam before me like the berries in my bowl of milk earlier. I could stay here. I could stay. “I cannot leave my brother.”

“It’s not leaving me, Nastya. It’s letting me leave.” Alexei picked at a stray thread on the blanket. “You are fearsome, but you are not a soldier for the battlefield. Your talents and passions were not meant for the thick of war. They were meant for the side of it. The healing side. The side that renews the spirit of hope.”

My little brother was instructing me—not commanding, but guiding me toward a solution that he wanted me to choose on my own.

“But what would I do here?” It almost seemed cruel to allow myself to dream of walking in the forest and picking berries or gardening like I once did with Papa. It was the life Papa always wanted for us if we left exile. It felt wrong to take it all for myself.

“You could run the base,” Dochkin offered.

I took in all the animals and the garden and pictured the well-kept home. “I think Zash would be better suited for that.”

“You don’t see it yet, Sister.” Alexei smiled. “Zash works with his hands. You work with your mind.”

I knew what he was trying to say. Spell mastery. “How would I learn spell mastery if Dochkin is gone?”

“First, through my journals,” Dochkin said. “Second, through visits. I have an entire pouch of those locate spells that will bring us back to this house when needed—when Alexei needs a healing spell or when I need to replenish my stock. It will be up to you to learn the spells that heal his injuries so he can continue serving Russia. You must pass on this legacy.”

A legacy of life. A legacy of hope.

This time, it was a choice to be left behind. No, not left behind . . . a choice to determine my future. And to let Alexei determine his. This was our new life—free of crowns and thrones. Free of hunters and Bolsheviks and exile.

We were finally free to live anew.

The same thrill that sparked in my heart shone in Alexei’s eyes. “Do it, Nastya.”

I dared to imagine life not as Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, but as Nastya. A Russian girl who happened to have royal blood. A spell master in training, who would help her people through her voice, her blood, and magic.

“Of course I will.” I was being handed my dreams—the opportunity to help my brother, to help my country, and to help my heart. I was finally going to learn spell mastery at the instruction of Russia’s mightiest teacher.

But I didn’t want to do it alone. While Dochkin and Alexei clapped each other on the back and entered a new conversation about the future, I watched Zash out of the corner of my eye. No one had offered him a future. No one had invited him to stay or leave.

Perhaps . . . that was up to me.





40


“The first step to spell mastery is the spell ink.” Dochkin handed me a stoppered jar.

I took it gingerly, the first lesson of our new day in Dochkin’s house. I was amazed at what a passing night’s sleep could refresh in my mind. It tamed the high emotions of the previous day, sent another drop of healing into our souls, and woke us up fresh and optimistic.

Dochkin’s house wasn’t completely cleaned—the wood floor still had a giant stain of blood—but almost all evidence of the fight that took place yesterday had been scrubbed away.

Yurovsky lay against the wall in a shadowed corner, still asleep. Dochkin had applied a sleeping spell to him to ensure he did not wake up until deposited in the chosen village. Now in peasant dress, Yurovsky looked less shadowed and sinister.

I focused on the jar of spell ink in my hands. “I’ve searched and searched to learn how to make it.” My pulse quickened at the thought of finally having the answer.

“That is the secret no spell master reveals . . . until they are with their student.” Dochkin tapped the jar in my hand. “You can only create spell ink once a spell master has gifted you with ink of his own. That ensures spell mastery is passed on through discretion and passion. You had my Matryoshka doll, but this ink is my first gift to you, Grand Duchess.”