Anastasia Romanov: The Last Grand Duchess #10 (13 page)

The Duchesses went there after breakfast so that their mother could choose their clothes for the day. When they left to be examined—every morning!—by the court physician, the Empress lolled around in her flowy dresses, writing letters, and playing with her hateful dog, Eira. Maisie peeked into the boudoir and saw for herself the mauve walls, carpets, and furniture. Even the flowers were purple—roses, lilacs, violets. It seemed unfair to Maisie that her own mother worked hours and hours every day at Fishbaum and Fishbaum, dressed in her wrinkled suits and kitten heels. But wasn't that what made her mother so interesting? The Empress always had a melancholy look on her face. Maybe, Maisie decided, she was just bored, even though she was helping to run an empire.

Meanwhile, the Grand Duchesses started their lessons every day at nine on the dot. Although they got to go outside and play in the snow for an hour before lunch, all afternoon they were stuck inside with a series of tutors, moving from one lesson to the next without pause.

Maisie and Felix didn't see them all day, except for at lunch, which was so formal that Maisie was afraid to do something wrong. The Imperial priest, dressed completely in black except for the giant silver cross that hung around his neck, and with a beard that seemed to never end, rang a bell to begin the meal. The Empress never joined them, preferring to stay in her boudoir with Alexei. Maisie figured out that she probably wanted to protect him from getting injured and having an episode, but still it seemed odd that she kept so much to herself. In the afternoon, she went out in her carriage, surrounded by footmen and coachmen, while the Tsar rode his horse through the surrounding villages.

Then, at exactly 4:00
PM
everyone gathered for tea. The Tsar always had two glasses and one piece of bread with butter. There was never anything sweet like cake or cookies at tea. Just bread and butter. But the Grand Duchesses loved that part of the day. They even changed their clothes just for tea, and sat together knitting or embroidering.

“I think I might lose my mind,” Maisie whispered to Felix as she watched the Tsar refuse a third cup of tea. Just once, she wished he'd do something different.

“Well,” Felix said with a smile, “I have something exciting to show you.”

“You do?” Maisie said.

“Follow me.”

Maisie followed Felix through the endless series of drawing rooms and anterooms, to the door that led from the family's quarters to the central part of the palace.

There, four large Ethiopian bodyguards patrolled in bright red pants and shiny gold jackets. They wore shoes that looked like Aladdin's with their curled toes, and white turbans wrapped around their heads.

“Maisie,” Felix said, “meet Jim Hercules.”

To Maisie's surprise, Jim Hercules said, “Pleased to meet you,” in an American accent.

“What?” Maisie said. “You're
American
?”

“From Alabama,” Jim Hercules said.

“But why are you here? Dressed like that?”

Jim Hercules's face grew serious.

“My parents were slaves,” he said softly. “And I fled the United States for London to escape the bigotry there. I feel at home here,” he added.

“Do you ever get to go back to America?” Maisie asked, her own homesickness giving her an ache.

He nodded. “Every year,” he said.

“Jim Hercules has helped us,” Felix told Maisie.

“He has?”

“I've hidden the egg from Alex,” Jim Hercules said proudly.

“But
we
can get to it, can't we?” Maisie asked, afraid he'd hidden it too well.

“Oh yes,” Jim Hercules said. “Whenever you want to.”

Chapter Ten

THE HOLY MAN

“W
hat we need to do,” Maisie explained to Felix, trying to sound patient, “is give the egg to Anastasia. Then, in case we've had a lesson and not even realized it, we'll go right home.”

The very idea made her smile. Last summer, she would never have believed that Elm Medona would feel like home, or that she'd want to go back there more than anywhere else, even 10 Bethune Street.

“But if we haven't had a lesson and we give Anastasia the egg and Alex sees it, we're doomed,” Felix said, stalling what was surely the inevitable: going home.

Maisie would have argued with him, but Anastasia came into the drawing room and said with great excitement, “We're going sledding! Come on!”

It had been snowing for days, and just this morning when the sun finally came up at nine, it illuminated a snow-covered landscape with icicles glistening from trees.

Felix rushed out, happy to end
that
conversation.

He heard Maisie asking, “Will Alexei come, too?”

“Oh no,” came Tatiana's voice, “he'll stay in his room and play with his trains.”

His entire room was filled with mechanical toys: ships and trains and factories, soldiers and workmen and townsfolk, all of it sent into motion by the Tsarevich with a flip of a switch.

“But Alexander Andropov will join us,” Tatiana added.

“Great,” Maisie said, hoping Tatiana couldn't detect that she felt just the opposite.

The four Grand Duchesses were wrapped in white fur coats with matching hats and muffs, as was Maisie. They sat on the wooden sleds, and raced down the snowy hills laughing with delight. Even Maisie had to admit that this snow-covered landscape looked magical, like something from a fairy tale. And the air, though very cold, felt crisp and fresh, like the purest winter air ever.

Felix raced Anastasia, their cheeks bright red.

Alex sidled up to Maisie.

“I'll find it,” he said, “no matter where you hid it.”

Rather than answer him, Maisie jumped on her sled and flew down the snowy hill. She loved the wind in her face, and the way she heard only it and nothing else.

Until a scream pierced the air.

Maisie brought her sled to a swooshing stop and stood, looking for whom that scream belonged to.

Alex Andropov lay in a heap at the bottom of the hill.

Serves him right
, Maisie thought.

But Felix looked terrified.

Then, in the quiet, Maisie heard Felix telling the Grand Duchesses what she had forgotten:

“We have to get a doctor!” Felix said, panicked. “He has hemophilia.”

The Empress Alexandra, who had been an elusive and mysterious presence all these months, appeared suddenly at Alex Andropov's bedside. She was beautiful in her loose white dress and fair skin, her auburn hair held in soft curls gathered with a diamond barrette that sparkled in the lamplight like the snow outside.

She rested a hand on Alex's forehead.

“Where does it hurt, darling?” she asked, her German accent so different than the Russian ones Maisie and Felix had grown used to hearing.

Alex's face twisted with pain.

“Ankle,” he managed to say.

The Empress folded down the white bedsheet to reveal his twisted, bruised, and swollen left ankle.

She nodded grimly, and tears wet her cheeks.

“Prepare a mud bath,” she ordered one servant.

To another she said, “Bring one of the Tsarevich's devices, please.”

Gently, she pulled the sheet around Alex.

“I'll be back soon,” she said. “Rest.”

“Mud bath?” Felix said, anxiously, after she left the room. “You need more than a mud bath, Alex!”

Alex squeezed his eyes shut, either from pain or to ignore Felix, or both.

“What would they do at home?” Maisie asked. “Maybe we can do that here.”

Alex shook his head.

Now Felix saw tears on his cheeks, too.

“Plasma,” Alex said, writhing with pain.

Felix looked to Maisie for help understanding.

“You mean a transfusion?” she asked Alex, who simply nodded.

“Do they know about transfusions yet?” Felix wondered aloud.

Again Alex shook his head.

“There's nothing else?” Felix asked desperately.

As mad as he was at Alex, he couldn't bear to see someone in so much pain. In fact, he was certain he'd never seen anyone suffer like this. And it seemed to be getting worse.

“I suspect,” Alex panted, “that this device they're bringing . . .” He groaned again. “It's probably a heavy iron one,” he said.

“Will that help at all?” Felix said hopefully.

Alex shrugged. “Will hurt,” he said. “Mine is made of plastic.”

Maisie winced.

“Maybe I could massage your ankle?” Felix offered. Once, when he'd sprained his ankle, his father had put ice on it to reduce the swelling and massaged it carefully.

“No!” Alex said, half-sitting. “That can cause a new hemorrhage!”

A loud clatter at the door caused Maisie and Felix to turn their attention away from Alex to see what had arrived.

Two servants wheeled in what must have been the iron device the Empress had ordered. It looked more like an instrument of torture than a healing instrument.

“Go,” Alex whispered, his feverish eyes also focused on the iron contraption. “Please.”

Maisie and Felix did not hesitate. They hurried out of the room, gripping each other.

Alex Andropov's screams could be heard all the way in the room where everyone gathered for the usual four o'clock tea.

“Isn't there medicine for the pain?” Felix asked.

“Morphine,” Maria said.

“But Mama and Papa don't believe in using it,” Tatiana added.

“Why not?” Maisie asked in disbelief. “I mean, listen to him.”

“It's addictive,” Olga explained. “If they gave it to Alexei every time he had an episode . . .”

She didn't have to finish the sentence. Her meaning was clear. By now, the little boy would be addicted to morphine.

Maisie couldn't even eat her bread and butter, though the Tsar seemed unaware of the screams coming from Alex's room. He sat going over his papers and news dispatches, sipping his second glass of tea.

“Can't you do something?” Maisie asked him angrily.

The Tsar looked at her wearily.

“If I could fix him,” he said quietly, “wouldn't I have fixed my own son by now?”

“But he's in such pain!” Maisie said.

“With luck,” the Tsar said, “he will get through this alive.”

“You mean,” Felix stammered, “he might die?”

“That is always the risk,” the Tsar said, sadly.

A servant offered him another glass of tea, but as usual he refused. Instead, he stood and asked for his horse to be prepared.

The Grand Duchesses returned to their lessons.

And Maisie and Felix went back outside into the cold, darkening St. Petersburg afternoon to avoid the screams of pain coming from Alexander Andropov.

The next morning, the Empress appeared at breakfast.

So unusual was this sight that the Grand Duchesses jumped to their feet, dropping their napkins to the floor and covering their mouths with their hands.

“Sunny!” the Tsar blurted, also standing abruptly and using his special nickname for her.

“The boy,” she said. “He's much worse.”

“Worse?” Maisie asked, unable to imagine that anyone could suffer still more.

The Empress took the Tsar's hands in hers.

“I've called for the Holy Man,” she said simply.

Anastasia touched Felix's shoulder.

“He will save Alex's life,” she whispered. “You'll see.”

Even though Felix wanted Alex to recover, he wasn't at all confident that a priest was the person to save Alex's life.

The entire household, including the Empress and Alexei, gathered that evening to greet this Holy Man when he arrived.

To Felix's surprise, Anastasia called, “He's here!” with great excitement as a dirty man with long matted hair and an even more unkempt beard got out of a coach and walked toward the entrance of the Alexander Palace.

“That's the man who's going to save Alex?” Maisie blurted.

“Yes,” Tatiana said reverentially.

As the man neared, Felix saw that his wrinkled face had deep pockmarks.

The man removed his long, black threadbare coat and deposited it gruffly in the hands of one of the footmen. Beneath the coat he wore obviously fine, expensive clothes: a canary-yellow silk shirt covered with embroidered birds and flowers in every color of the rainbow, tight black velvet pants with knee-high leather boots, and a pale blue silk cord around his waist with huge tassels hanging from it.

Felix's eyes focused on the large gold cross around the man's neck.

But Maisie was almost immediately transfixed by the man's eyes.

They were the color of steel, a light gray that seemed both translucent and impenetrable at the same time.

And the man had set his gaze on Maisie.

He ignored all the others with their outstretched arms and words of greeting, and walked over directly to Maisie.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Before Maisie could answer, he continued questioning her.

“Why are you here in St. Petersburg? Are your parents with you? Are you happy?”

This last question caught her so off guard that Maisie burst into tears.

The man wrapped his arms around her, and his strong stench of body odor and filth enveloped her. Yet she didn't mind, somehow.

“Your parents have disappointed you,” he said firmly. “Everyone has disappointed you.”

“Yes!” Maisie said, sobbing now.

“Let go of all that disappointment, or you will never move forward,” he said.

He released Maisie from his arms and went to each person in turn, taking their hands and looking directly into their eyes, holding their gaze for a long moment before going to the next person.

Anastasia whispered, “Is it true?”

“Yes,” Maisie managed to whisper.

“Yes,” Felix agreed.

“But your family is everything,” Anastasia told them. “You must remember that.”

“It is necessary to have faith,” the Holy Man said, his stinking breath coming out in puffs of cold air.

Finally, he turned his attention to the Empress.

“Mother,” he said to her, and that mesmerizing stare focused on the Empress, whose knees buckled slightly under its intensity.

Maisie couldn't believe that this man could call the Empress
Mother,
that he spoke without being spoken to, that rather than bow or step back from her, he boldly walked right up to her.

“Gregory,” the Empress said in a shaky voice.

“Bring me to the boy,” he said, and strode into the palace, the royal family skittering after
him
.

In Alex's dark bedroom, everyone stood around the bed, leaving room for the Holy Man to stand close to Alex. Candles flickered, sending shadows dancing across the faces of those gathered there.

The Holy Man spoke in low hypnotic tones, his large dirty hands resting on Alex's forehead.

“In Pokrovskoe, on the Tura River, in western Siberia,” he intoned, “there is great freedom. It is there that I, burning with fever in my bed, a mere boy of twelve like you and your friends here, sat up and pointed a finger at the horse thief everyone was searching for.”

Felix blinked. How did this man know that they were twelve years old?

Gregory continued, telling stories of Siberia and nature and faith.

His voice seemed to soothe the people and even the room itself.

After a very long time, Alex Andropov opened his eyes.

Gregory locked his on Alex's.

Felix found himself holding his breath.

Until, suddenly, the Holy Man turned to face the others.

“The boy will live,” he said simply.

At that, the Empress let out a sob of relief and took those dirty hands in her pure white ones, kissing each with gratitude.