Romanov(90)

“Once I finally opened myself up to love like that, I found myself caring about you. And Alexei. And it’s changed who I am. I’m . . . a better person now, I think. I have a better frame of spirit.”

His vulnerability invited me to be vulnerable, too, and it refreshed me. “I like who you are, Zash. As do Alexei and Dochkin, so much so that they want you to stay here. To use your hands as you did with your people and to . . . help me help them.”

“Is this what you wish, Nastya?”

To affirm him would be to share a deep, confused, raw part of myself. I wanted to say yes. To yell yes. “I can’t do this alone. Will you stay? And help me?”

It was a cheap way out. A coward’s way out. Inviting him for his benefits instead of inviting him to help me because I wanted him.

Still, it seemed enough for him. “Of course I will stay. Of course I’ll help.” The vulnerability had left his voice. It was my fault.

What could I say? How could I make it clear to him what I was feeling? Even I didn’t know. I opened my mouth and closed it several times. But he changed the subject before I could say anything more. “Thank you for not using the memory spell on yourself. I don’t imagine it was for my sake.”

“It was for Alexei’s sake,” I said, and he nodded. “And Papa’s sake. And my sake.” I took his calloused hand and placed it in mine. “And yes, a big part of it was for your sake, too, Zash.”

He looked up.

“I couldn’t abandon you to these memories alone. I’m . . . I’m here.” His breath hitched. But I didn’t dare hope just yet.

“I’m here for you, too, Nastya. I know a lot about the struggles spell masters live with. I would be honored to serve Alexei, Dochkin, and you as . . . as whatever you need from me. The way I should have from the beginning.”

“All I want from you . . . is you.” There. I’d said it. The words broke through my hesitation like a galloping horse through a fence. “I want exactly who you are, Zash.”

He looked stunned. Frozen in time. “You mean . . . ?”

I grinned. “You said you like bald ex-princesses. And I’m afraid I only know one. She wants to live life and fight the fight and learn spell mastery with you. She’s wondering if you’ll have her.”

He touched my face lightly, tracing my cheekbone. “Is she certain she wants me? Could she even bring herself to trust me?”

To trust Zash was to believe there was still hope—in humanity, in my future. That frightened me. I wanted to hope, but I still couldn’t think back to a time that hope carried me through. We had saved Alexei, but Yurovsky was going free. Papa had hoped in rescue and life, but he’d been shot. I’d hoped in Zash’s friendship and he’d betrayed me.

But then he repented. He’d asked forgiveness and I dared to set aside my pain and let him in. Partly out of desperation and partly because I couldn’t bear to give up hope fully. Papa never had—not even in the worst of times.

“Yes. With all of my broken Romanov heart.” I peered up into Zash’s face as he drew me closer. His eyes reflected the same caution—the same fear—I felt. But also the same hope. And through that, we were bound.

He twined his fingers with mine and leaned forward with a whispered question. “Is this okay?”

I breathed in the moment, forcing myself to process the question. I was not yet okay, and I knew Zash was not okay yet either. But this—us—was a step toward that. “Yes.”

Then softly, gently, he kissed me. His free hand held me steady, and I knew that this—this moment at least—could not be taken from me. It was fully ours. No matter our futures. No matter our pasts.

We made our way back to the house, back toward Alexei and Dochkin, where we would support each other’s new pursuits. It wasn’t a new mission . . . it was a new lifestyle. We were no longer fighting to preserve our old ways of living. Instead, we were all trailblazing forward into a new life. A life in a war-torn country. A life under the regime of the Soviets who may or may not be overthrown.

But it was a life together. A life anew. And we were finally ready.

As we crossed the lawn, Zash held out his hand for mine.

I stared at it for a long moment, seeing not just the calluses or the strength or the earth in the creases, but instead seeing all the promises it held. Healing. Forgiveness. A shared story. The promise of walking through life with someone who knew my bloodied past. A hand willing to touch the skin of a Romanov and feel only joy.

So I allowed Zash to take my hand—no, I gave him my hand. Willingly. Hopefully. And with no plans of ever letting go.





Author’s Note


Phew! We made it! I know this book was drastically different from the movie we all love and quote, so I want to thank you first and foremost for letting me take you on a new journey down the actual paths of history.

When drafting this manuscript, I could only tackle it for a couple of hours at a time because the true story was too heavy for my soul. But as I explored the depth of character of the Romanov family, their kindness, and the true caring they had for their people, I grew thankful I got to discover their story on such a level. And I’m even more thankful I get to share it with you.

I wanted to tell Anastasia’s story—the true, historical tale of what she went through at the end of her family line, and then the fictional story of how I think she might have lived after that horrible night of July 16–17, 1918. Knowing her upbringing under a caring father and a devoted family, I think she would have struggled with forgiveness, but her desire to live a joyous and impish life would have won out in the end. She really was nicknamed shvibzik and, yes, she really pulled pranks all the time and performed silly plays.