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Romanov By Nadine Brandes Thomas Nelson Copyright © 2019 Nadine Brandes All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-7852-1724-4 CHAPTER 1 April 25, 1918 Tobolsk, Russia I watched my diaries burn. Pages curled in on themselves, like spider legs accepting death. My past — my stories — turned to ash and tendrils of smoke. But I would not weep for them. The Bolsheviks could take far more precious things from me. I would not give them my tears. I shoved another diary into the white-tiled stove that filled the corner of the bedroom I shared with my three older sisters here in Tobolsk. Here in exile. A photo slipped free from between two pages, as if putting forth a last attempt to escape its fate. I picked up the black-and-white portrait. Tired, hooded eyes, a long, dark beard, and his hair parted meticulously down the middle: Grigori Rasputin. Our friend. Our spell master. He healed Alexei, he counseled Mamma, and he had been about to teach me spell mastery ... until they shot him. The Bolsheviks shot him as easily as they threw back a shot of vodka at the end of the day. Or the beginning of the day, depending on how many deaths weighed down their hands. Now they were coming for us. I threw Rasputin's photo into the fire. That photo, more than any other, could get me in the most trouble if the approaching Bolsheviks conducted a search. Evidence of our connection with the spell master would work against us. And they were searching for any reason to condemn Papa, no matter that he'd abdicated the Russian throne. I snatched my book on spell mastery from my bedside table and shoved it on the bottom of our small bookshelf with the other volumes. It was a German translation — one the Russian guards likely couldn't read — and I'd rebound it with the cover from a German book of folktales. Still, they'd find it if they tried hard enough. The clip, clip, clip of Papa's polished boots sounded down the hallway. They passed my door, stopped, and then returned. The door opened and his calm beard-and-mustached face turned toward me. "Nastya. They're here." I shut the stove door and stood. Papa held himself straight and regal, despite his short stature. We walked down the chilled corridor together. In silence. Ex-tsar and ex-princess. We passed Alexei's room and I glanced in. My thirteen-year-old brother lay thin and haggard on his bed, his skin yellow and eyes like dark bulbs in his skeletal face. He didn't look at us as we passed by. I balled my fingers into fists. I would heal him. No matter the Bolsheviks' quest to murder all spell masters or if they searched us or if they sent us back to St. Petersburg. I would study spell mastery and find a cure for Alexei. Noise came from the entryway and I focused forward. The strain of the Bolsheviks' arrival was overshadowed by the anxiety of not knowing why they were coming. We joined our guards — the ones who had been with us the past year and become our friends — in the entryway. The weathered rug cushioned our weight once we stopped. A new man stood in the doorway, filling it like a giant shadow. He was tall with pale skin, black eyes, and an angular face beneath a mass of curly dark hair. I'd seen his type before, at the few lavish balls and parties Mamma had allowed us to attend. The type who stood on a pedestal in his mind. Usually those types were the scheming grand dukes or political leaders more interested in social climbing and control than dancing or conversation. For some reason they never seemed to like me. The warped windows into the courtyard distorted — but did not conceal — the lines of Red Guards standing at attention and waiting. Our chickens pecked at their valenki boots, tearing off bits of grey felt. The Bolsheviks didn't even blink. There had to be over a hundred of them! Why so many? Papa strode toward the dark-eyed man and extended a hand of greeting. "Welcome to Tobolsk, Commandant." The commandant did not shake it but instead announced in a loud voice, "I am Yakov Yurovsky. By order of Lenin's Central Committee, the Romanov family is to be relocated." Relocated? Could it be that they were going to send us home? We'd been holed up in this cramped house for a year, unable to enter town or breathe more than a few hours of fresh air every day. I longed to be free in the forests again, picking opyata mushrooms, growing a life ... dabbling in spells. I cupped the small f lare of hope in my palms and waited for more explanation. Papa lowered his unshaken hand and asked calmly, "Where?" "That is to be decided." Yurovsky's f lat monotone caused the spark of hope simmering against my skin to wither. "When?" Papa asked. "Immediately." Mamma sat at the edge of the room wrapped in thick blankets and a steely expression despite her own illness. She straightened in her chair. "But our son is too ill to travel." "I am ordered to remove the former tsar without delay." Yurovsky clipped his heels, sending mud from his boots to the entry rug. "The rest of the family is not my concern." I gasped and it echoed across the room until it turned Yurovsky's gaze toward me. He would take Papa without us? Our only solace during this time of exile had been our union. Our strength as a family. The bonds of our Romanov blood keeping us from despair. Please. Please no. Papa lifted his chin and the guards in the room who had come to respect him all seemed to stand taller. He resembled a tsar again. "I will not be separated from my family." "Then you will be taken by force." Yurovsky did not need to gesture to the Bolsheviks outside. We were outnumbered. "You may bring traveling companions, but we will leave by morning. The rest of your family will follow once the boy is ... well." He almost said dead. That word hung heavier in the room than any other. Leave. Tomorrow. By force. Yurovsky's words were final. My control slipped through my fingers, threatening to break out in the form of a scream. They couldn't separate us! Why? Why must they take Papa away so urgently? And without telling us where? Yurovsky turned on his heel and addressed three Bolshevik soldiers. "Oversee the packing." There was no search. I'd burned my diaries for nothing. Instead they were tearing us apart. With Alexei ill and Mamma's health declining ... this might be the last time we were all together. Perhaps Papa sensed my rising outrage because he took my arm and steered me away. "Come, Nastya." "They cannot separate us," I hissed as we left the Bolsheviks behind. "You cannot let them!" "This is not the time to resist." "But where? Where are they sending you?" "Probably to Moscow for trial." My throat burned hotter than the scorched pages of my diaries. "Curse those Bolsheviks. I ought to poke holes in the soles of all their boots!" A smile entered Papa's voice, hidden by his mustache. "That is why you must stay, Nastya. To cheer everyone up with your impish mischief." I ground to a halt. "I am to stay?" He'd made up his mind already? "There are things I need you to do here —" "Nikolai ..." Mamma caught up to us, her composure held together by only the clasp of her brittle fingers on her worn handkerchief. Papa went to her. I stomped away from them, from the pain, leaving him to make the necessary arrangements and decisions he needed to focus on. None of which involved stitching up the gash in my heart. But I wasn't the only one with a gaping wound inside. We would all have to carry this pain. I found myself entering Alexei's room and plopping by his bedside as he coughed — a weak, wheezing thing. But that was much better than the violent hacking last week that had caused a hemorrhage and damaged his kidneys. Alexei had saluted death before. His hemophilia never promised him a long life. But when Rasputin had been alive, he could heal Alexei with a single word, even from a different city through the telephone line. Now, there was nothing to save Alexei except his own will to live. That would change if I could learn more about spell mastery. I itched to pick up that German spell book and read it right under the Bolsheviks' noses. Alexei's coughing subsided and he blinked his hollow eyes toward me. "You look gloomy." I smiled, relieved by the one family member who understood that banter could dispel even the darkest mood. "It's because you're being so lazy, staying here in bed. I've had to do all your chores." "Lucky. Being lazy is incredibly boring." He winked, but it seemed tired. "You've likely killed my poor chickens by now." "They had a hearty breakfast of boot felt." "Poor creatures. To be under your care is a frightening thing." His gaze shifted to the door and he nodded his chin toward it. "What's happening out there? I know the Bolsheviks arrived, but no one has told me anything." Every time Alexei was sick, the family avoided negative conversation around him.