(A/N) this chapter may include some more sensitive subjects including child abuse and rape, it will not be overly descriptive but if you are uncomfortable you may want to avoid this.
"So, it is not just talking amongst the girls?" Natasha knew they were talking about her, her English was not flawless but it was good, good enough to understand the majority.
She was being held by the shoulder, Ivan's sweaty, hairy hand clutching her as if he was scared of losing her again.
"Nyet, it is in the blood, she has the VIII gene - gemofiliya."
Natasha knew that word, Ivan must have been ignorant of the English but the word sounded almost the same in both languages. She was a carrier of the curse of the Czar and his family. It was rare, she knew that the disease that undoubtedly would have killed the young Czarovich Alexei had he not been murdered.
She carried the gene, the poison was in her blood as it had been in his. Yelena was older, the second little chick of Ivan. They usually shared their secrets, their pain like the time he had taken her away, to teach her 'the ways of a man.' She had returned bleeding, in pain and inconsolable.
It had been a jibe for years, calling Natasha a Romanova because they knew nothing of her story, even her partonomic was lost in the fire that undoubtedly killed her Mama. Natasha was clever, witty and had the same red toned hair as the Grand Duchess. She had even heard they used to refer to the young Anastasia as Nastya, which had a similarity to her own name.
Of course, as a much younger child Natasha had dreamed it could be true, that she could be the true princess, as was the English word, and take her place to rule Russia, to expose Ivan and to have him executed for what he had done to Yelena and some of the other pretty, shapely girls.
Madame B sighed, before turning to give Natasha one of her smiles, the type of smile that made anyone's stomach shrivel like a prune and threaten to empty itself. She took out a wrinkled hand from her side, her long nails were always manicured and a bright red. Red like the blood she taught them to spill. Her hand went to take Natasha by the hip. She wanted to suck her skin away from the hand but she knew any sign of the disgust she felt would result in a hard slap across the face so that everyone could see the mark.
Madame's cold, fingers scrambled at the edge of the vest Natasha wore and lifted it almost to her breasts.
"Look," She said to Ivan, "I noticed this earlier, and this." She lifted the vest further,
"Up," she commanded and Natasha was made to lift her arms and have the covering pulled off of her completely.
The cold hit her almost as deeply as the exposure. She desperately wanted to cover herself but knew it would come with punishment. 'Your bodies are not yours, they are disposable and of great use to you, no shame will come of showing them.' Ivan had told them this when they were on the cusp of their teenage years, and they had never been allowed to forget it.
"These marks, she gestured with a look of disgust and the claw-like marks on Natasha's stomach. It was still a little swollen. The sight of her own body made her feel sick, the reminder that she had tried and failed to care.
"Your little Natashka, she is a mother."
Natasha dared not to look at Ivan, she knew what was coming, and sure enough just as she was beginning to think it would not come, Ivan slapped her hard across the cheek. She stumbled at the shock and at the hurt she felt on the inside.
"You are disgusting Natashka – a shlyukha. What have you done with it, this otrod'ye."
Natasha felt a strong need to throw up, how dare he?
The image would always be in her head, the beautiful baby girl, scrawny from lack of nutrition when it had been in her belly. It had the fairest of eyebrows and its hair was so blonde that it barely showed against the scalp. She would never know the colour of her eyes, they had been closed at birth and Natasha had only the heart to wrap her beautiful baby girl in a warm blanket, her father's coat and bury her in a place where the ice would keep her perfect forever.
"Where Natashka!" Ivan demanded, gripping her shoulder once more and turning her naked form to look at him.
"Fat," he sneered under his breath, knowing she could hear him. Not knowing she dreaded the day when all the fat she had gained while carrying her baby was gone.
"Mertvyy."
"In English," He taunted, smiling in a wicked way, in a twisted way. The way that made her want to trust him, to warm to him even though she knew what he was.
"Dead."
He smiled,
"The curse you carry has fared you well Natashka. Soon you will be ready for the graduation. No more accidental children. You will work effectively, proficiently and with a little more ice in your heart. Go."
Why did they have to know, she had left her baby safe, she had left everything safe and secure so that she could morn the life she would have had without the knowledge of the two people who had raised her, and raised her to despise them. She had come back had she not? She could have stayed away for ever after those eighteen months which had been the best in her life, when she had felt a hero. Stupid girl. She could never be a hero. She was an assassin, a spy, and now, in both the literal and in title; a widow.