Romanov(89)

I gawked. “That’s why it was never recorded in spell books.” Dochkin nodded. “And please, Master Dochkin, call me Nastya. I am not your princess anymore. I am your student.”

He plopped a stack of three black journals on the kitchen table, similar to Papa’s. “Start with these. Now that you have the base of your spell ink, you can read how it works and connects with the spell master. Keep a list of your questions for when I return. Once you’ve mastered these journals, I’ll give you the next set.”

I nodded.

“I’m almost ready!” Alexei strode into the kitchen wearing regular clothing. His face bore a healthy glow after all the rest and healing he’d received.

My spirit spasmed and I almost dropped the spell ink. They were leaving so soon. Today. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye.

“Such a scowl, Sister!” Alexei held out his arms. “Does my common clothing look that bad?”

I dropped the scowl I hadn’t known had made its way to my face. “You are too handsome to ever look fully common, I’m afraid.” I swallowed hard. “It’s difficult to say good-bye.”

He took my hands in his and I only just realized he almost matched me in height. “The bond of our hearts . . .”

My eyes burned. “. . . spans miles, memory, and time.”

“We will return soon—for Dochkin to further your training, and I’m sure I’ll get into a scrape and need a spell sooner rather than later.”

Dochkin loaded tins and bottles of spells into his shoulder pack. “I have plenty that will sustain you until our return, Tsarevich.” He still couldn’t drop the formal titles—he’d have to work on that before they got into the village.

Movement through the door caught my eye. Zash knelt by the little brook in the distance. He had barely spoken a word since yesterday’s conversation on the grass. Afterward, he’d poured every moment into cleaning, caring for the animals, and preparing the wagon in which Alexei, Dochkin, and Yurovsky would depart.

He was the one untied thread to the fabric of my new story.

I’d wanted to speak with him yesterday, in the aftermath. But the conversations and exhaustion and emotion weighing us all down did not allow me to cross that threshold. Now . . . I was procrastinating. Why was I so hesitant when I had such hopes?

Alexei squeezed my hand. “Go to him, Sister.”

“I’m nervous,” I whispered.

Alexei grinned. “That’s a good sign.” I nudged him playfully and obeyed, but not before I caught a last word from him. “His future is in your hands, not mine, Nastya.”

I found Zash out in the garden across from the brook. He sat on his knees beside a pile of stones and worked on twining two sticks together in a cross. His hands worked gently, weaving memories and sorrows into the thick cord.

I knelt beside him in the grass. “I am sorry about Vira.”

His hands stilled. “She knew the risk.”

I held the twine in place while he tied a knot. “I’m sorry all the same.”

“I feared for her life so many times, it’s as though I’ve lived this moment already. A hundred times over. She tried to prepare me. Every time I left home, she made me bid a final farewell.” He held the cross in his lap and stared at it.

“I think she’d be proud of us.”

He nodded. “I was afraid that once she left this world I would feel empty. Alone.”

“You’re . . . not alone.”

He stabbed the cross in the grass, in the center of a bed of flowers. We pushed scoops of dirt around the base to keep it upright. This was how my family should have been buried. Perhaps someday I would be able to give them a proper burial.

“If anything ever happens to me or Alexei . . . will you make sure we’re buried with our family?” My question came after a long silence, but Zash seemed to understand why I asked it.

“Of course.” He stacked stones around the base of the cross. I didn’t help too much, allowing him this closure.

As we sat before the cross, it reminded me of the many times Papa read to us and led us in prayer. It reminded me of the hope and the life that Papa so strongly instilled in us.

Zash helped me to my feet and we brushed the dirt from our clothing. We stood in the garden together—a reminder of the days at Ipatiev, but with a new freedom pointing to our futures.

What did Zash want to do now? Would he return to Ekaterinburg? Search for his tribe of people? Alexei said I held Zash’s future in my hands. I didn’t want that duty. I wanted Zash to feel the same freedom of choice I had. So I asked the same question Alexei had posed to me.

“What do you want, Zash?”

He was quiet for a long time. “I want to love rightly.”

That wasn’t what I’d expected to come out of his mouth.

“All my life I was driven by the loyalty of caring for the people I loved. Caring for fellow herders, caring for Vira. I was taught that nothing was more important than such care. But your family showed me differently. You cared equally as much about those you loved—you would do anything for them. But you also allowed yourselves to love . . . more. You loved your enemies. You loved your friends. You loved the Bolsheviks enough to sacrifice an opportunity to escape.”

My throat pinched the longer he talked. I never felt as though I’d loved well, but Papa certainly did. And Papa was our example. We all wanted to love how he loved.