Chapter One
A thousand memories ago, Ilya once saw a Tsarevna.
She was not that much younger than himself, perhaps only by a year or two at the time. Nonetheless, they were both children under the eyes of God above. But children of the same world, as much as he wished, they could never be. Yet, for a single moment, those many years ago, Ilya felt as if they knew each other entirely.
The young boy would never forget the small and gentle smile of the Tsarevna. He could still feel his heart bursting with warmth as if it were the very day of their meeting. In a crowd of thousands and thousands, their eyes had met. He had pushed through the crowd to keep her gaze. There was a twinkle in her blue eyes when he tripped on cobblestone in the street. But he pulled himself up off the ground to call out her name.
A name he could never forget.
"Ilya Nikolayevich, for the last time! Wake up!"
"Net," the young man grumbled, refusing to depart from his daydream.
Whack!
Ilya yelped loudly as his chair fell over and he crashed onto the floor, hitting his head on an unused sack of flour. The seams of the burlap sack burst and flour spilled all over his head and chest Hastily shaking flour out of his hair, Ilya glared at the rackety, old broom held by Alexandra Sergeevna Mikhailova.
"What the hell, Sasha?" he yelled angrily, shoving the busted sack away. He could tell that his blonde friend was smirking without having to look, although he was a bit distracted by the flour in his eyes and the pain in his ass from landing on the stone floor.
"We have orders to finish, Ilyusha," she teased, using another one of the many nicknames she knew he hated. "Can't leave the customers waiting on the first day of Vasyutin!"
How could he forget? Vasyutin was a celebration once every spring in honor of Tsar Alexei Yuryevich Vasyutin, who was celebrating the decennial of his reign this year. Personally, Ilya thought the holiday was nothing compared to the celebrations of the old Vasyutin royals. But he would never dare say a word of his thoughts in their town, which was only fifty kilometers away from the capital of Moscow where Tsar Alexei Yuryevich reigned.
"I want to sleep," Ilya grumbled.
She ignored him. "I heard from Maria Andreeva that Irina Stepanova's family is planning a banquet and mama said that almost every family in town ordered at least a dozen cakes and pastries, which means that we'll outsell the Sokolovs for certain this year!" Alexandra recalled excitedly. Without a doubt, the seventeen-year-old took after her father with her talent for baking; but she was the most similar to her mother when it came to handling finances and competition with the other bakeries. She even took it upon herself to warm up to Maria Andreeva, an upcoming gossip that had the ability to rival even the most experienced. Together, they managed to steer almost every family in the Moscow Oblast into their little bakery.
Ilya was about to respond with a question about the Stepanovs, especially their pretty daughter Irina, whom he may or may not had a fling with a year back. But three loud stomps from the floor upstairs gave Ilya and Alexandra the order to head up to the bakery shop. They glanced at each other with knowing looks and Ilya sighed tiredly. Spring brought a string of holidays, which meant early mornings and late nights for him. Ilya took one step towards the stairs leading up from the basement but stopped upon the realization that he was still covered with flour. Alexandra giggled at his appearance and handed him a towel left on the table he'd taken a nap on. Waking up at five in the morning wasn't the preferred lifestyle of everyone.
"Here." Alexandra brushed some flour off his cheek with a cheeky grin. "Clean up, take that batch of Pirozhki out of the oven to cool, then come upstairs. I'll stall for you, but be quick."
"Ilyusha! A letter from Tolya came in the mail today!"
"Who?"
Ilya knew exactly who Anatoly Sergeevich Mikhailov, his adopted brother for nine years, was. They were born only a few months apart, with Anatoly as the elder, and their fathers had been good friends. So, the day that Ilya's father passed, he was taken in by the Mikhailov family and found both a playmate and rival in Anatoly. But, as it seemed, the elder of them won their rivalry. Anatoly was studying at university miles away in the grand city of Moscow to enter politics while Ilya was baking Pirozhki at five in the morning.
Alexandra did not seem to find his joke as funny as he did. "It's Anatoly, you pridurok."
"Sasha," warned Sergey Mikhailov, entering the front of the bakery while balancing several trays of warm poppy seed rolls. "Be kind to Ilya."
"Sorry Papa," Alexandra sighed.
Sergey couldn't help but smile at his youngest child. "Now, why don't you read the rest of Tolya's letter. And read it aloud, dochenka."
Alexandra's mood instantly lifted. She flipped open the envelope and practically ripped out the letter. "Hello dear family," she read brightly, "I hope you are having a good Vasyutin. The celebrations are quite beautiful here in Moscow and we have been given time off from our studies for the next six days. I know that the bakery is full of business, but I was wondering if Sasha and Ilya would like to join me in Moscow for the next few days of celebration! Sasha can tour my university in preparation for her graduation and Ilya can...get out of the bakery for once." A pause, then, "can we go? Please!"
A personality trait that Alexandra possessed all to herself was, without a doubt, her volatility.
"Well," Sergey trailed off in thought, "your brother is right. The bakery is very busy at the moment due to the holidays. But—"
Alexandra stared at her father intently.
"—I think it would be a wonderful opportunity for you to see universities, Sasha. Although I'm not sure how I feel about having you go off alone to Moscow for your first trip without us."
Alexandra's blue eyes turned pleading. "But Ilyusha is invited too! And he's twenty, so he can be my guardian!"
"I don't know, Sasha," Ilya sighed dramatically, "business is pretty tight. I need to stay to help with all the orders coming in. Unless you can get someone to fill my shifts."
Alexandra straightened with the idea of a challenge. "Papa," she addressed her father with posture like a soldier, "if I find someone to fill Ilyusha's place in the bakery, can we go to Moscow?"
Sergey chuckled. "I don't see why not. But this person must be a good worker. And mama must approve."
Alexandra nodded stiffly. Maria Pavlova was a tough, strict, Russian mother, but she loved her only daughter more than anything else in the world. If Sasha really wanted something, she would get it.
"Who is that I hear talking about me?"
Alexandra took a deep breath. "It was me, mama."
The short, sharp-eyed Maria carried two trays of Paska cakes yet to be glazed that she placed on a back counter. "Ilya, get the Borodinsky bread out of the oven," she said curtly to her adopted son. Ilya nodded without hesitation and moved past his adopted mother to complete her command. Behind him, the family continued conversing.
"What does Tolya's letter say, Sasha?" Maria Pavlova asked. Although she hid her emotions well, Maria was always eager for news of her eldest child.
"Tolya invited Ilyusha and me to Moscow for the rest of Vasyutin!" happily answered Alexandra.
"No." Sasha's excited face shrunk. "We have too many orders and too little time to finish them all, especially if you and Ilya leave. What would you even do in Moscow?"
Ilya yelped after touching the hot tray of bread, having forgotten to put on gloves.
"I can get someone to help in the kitchens while we're gone, mama!"Maria huffed, putting her hands on her wide hips. "And who do you suggest?"
Alexandra opened her mouth to answer.
"Don't you say that Maria Andreeva girl!"
Alexandra closed her mouth, looking guilty.
Sergey chuckled at his wife and daughter, placing a gentle hand on his wife's shoulder. "Masha, my milaya," he said affectionately, "give Sasha some time to find someone other than that girl. I'm sure there's some young, eager child willing to help out in exchange for a few sweets."
"Why should we find some strange child when we have our own workers that work for free," argued Maria grumpily, save for the affectionate touch of her hand on her husband's arm.
"I promise that I'll find you someone good, mama," stated Alexandra, taking her mother's hand in her own.
Ilya watched the scene quietly. He kept still, afraid to make a noise and break the peaceful silence of the family before his eyes. But little did he know, it was too late for the Mikhailov family and himself.
It all started with that damned trip to Moscow.