AN: A quick note on the ages of the Romanov children in this. Since for the bulk of the movie this fic is based off of Anastasia is 18 years old, only a year older than when her historical real-life counterpart died, I have bumped up all the children's ages during their time in the House of Special purpose by one year.

So Anastasia is 18, Alexei is 15, Olga is 24, and so on and so forth...

Measles & Abdication

10 Years Later...

"Papa's coming home!" Seventeen year old Anastasia Romanov raced through several corridors of the Catherine Palace, eager to alert anyone who might not yet know the wonderful news.

A woman cleaning a large oriental vase looked up as Anastasia tore across the top of the grand staircase. Shaking her head, she gave the vase an extra rub with her cloth and set it down gently.

"Papa's–" Anastasia almost banged into Lili, one of her mother's favorite ladies-in-waiting. She halted to a stop so quickly she lost her balance (despite swinging her arms frantically to regain it) and fell backwards, flat on her bottom.

"Good heavens!" gasped Lili, bending over and offering her hand to the princess. "Are you all right?"

Back on her feet, Anastasia hastily smoothed her pale purple dress and shook a lock of red hair out of her eyes. "I... I'm fine. Thank you, Lili. You can let go of my hand now."

She let go and curtsied. "Yes, of course, your highness."

"Have you heard the news?" Anastasia asked. "Papa's coming home."

"Very exciting," Lili said, smiling at her.

"He could even be back here in time for my birthday." That was, perhaps, the best part of all; the thought alone made the youngest grand duchess flush with delight.

"Wouldn't that be just lovely, having the tsar returning just time in time to see his little girl becoming a real lady," Lili agreed warmly, reaching out and patting the girl's cheek fondly.

The faintest squeak of a wheelchair was heard, followed by, "Oy, Ana! What's all this about Papa coming back? Nobody's told me anything."

Alexei had grown over the last ten years from a charming little china-doll boy into a handsome lad of fifteen with a charismatic smile and gold-hued auburn hair. It was a shame, really, that he was so rarely fit to be seen in public – always recovering from this or that injury – for court ladies truly enjoyed seeing his face. His nickname, Sunbeam, had only grown more appropriate with the passing of time. One appearance from him did seem to allow a trickle more light and happiness to spread into any given gathering.

The person pushing Alexei's wheelchair had also grown a great deal. Over the course of one short decade, Dimitri had gone from a scrappy kitchen boy to a well-built young man strong enough to carry the Tsarevich upstairs or over raised thresholds whenever that rat Derevenko oh so conveniently made himself scarce.

"We girls were in the room when Mama read the letter," Anastasia explained gently. "Tatiana was meant to tell you."

"Tatiana is at her lessons with Gilliard." Alexei rolled his eyes. "How can she think of lessons with such exciting news?"

"That's Governess for you," laughed Anastasia.

"And you're not the least bit worried about why he's coming back?" Dimitri cut in.

"I do not believe the prince and princess were addressing you," snapped Lili, whipping her head around and glaring at him stonily. "And, in future, you would do better to add if your highness will pardon, to a callous sentence such as that!"

Anastasia stuck out her hand in Lili's direction and shook her head. "No, that's not necessary."

"Ana is right, Lili." Alexei craned his neck to look at Dimitri, giving him a kind smile. "He is my friend. He can speak as he likes."

"So, Dimitri," Anastasia pressed, "what was that you were saying?"

"I was saying," he continued, "that it's a little strange the tsar would come back now, what with all the trouble in Saint Petersburg lately."

"What trouble?" asked Alexei.

"Some people smashed the windows of a bakery and started a riot over bread," Anastasia explained with a half-shrug. "It's nothing Papa can't put right."

"How can it be nothing if he's coming home?" Dimitri put in.

Lili glared at him.

Anastasia was slightly more forgiving, but her expression was hardening as well.

So much for being allowed to speak my mind, Dimitri thought.

"Maybe he's right, Ana," Alexei said softly, shifting a little in his wheelchair. "Maybe Papa's in real trouble. That would mean we're all in real trouble. Danger, even."

"No, of course not!" Anastasia sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as her brother. "It's a good thing Papa's coming home."

"I wonder what's going to happen to us," were his next, ominous words.

Anastasia frowned and raised an eyebrow at Dimitri, gesturing down at Alexei ever so slightly with her chin.

"I was just saying..." Dimitri tried, not quite apologetically enough.

"Don't talk anymore, okay?" Anastasia sighed, rubbing her temples. "It's only going to upset me."

"Fine." Dimitri tightened his grip on Alexei's wheelchair ever so slightly. "I'll be quiet."

She nodded somberly. "Good." She glanced over her shoulder. "Now, I have more people to share the news with, so which way was I going?"

Lili pointed behind herself with her thumb. "That way, I believe, your highness."

"Thank you." With that, Anastasia gave one last (now somewhat forced) happy smile to Alexei and brushed curtly past Dimitri.

It couldn't be a bad thing that Papa was coming back. It just couldn't be!

What did a kitchen boy understand about politics anyway? Probably even less than she – youngest daughter who had no need to learn of such things – did.

Dimitri probably didn't know what in the blazes he was talking about.

And, even if he did, for in spite of everything she knew a little of the rumors, he had no business scaring Alexei with it. Whether or not the Tsarevich gave him permission to. Just because you were allowed to say something, didn't mean you should.

Then, Dimitri had never been the poster child for diplomacy.

If the subject matter were not so serious, Anastasia might have laughed at her own thoughts. After all, she was hardly one to talk about bridling the tongue or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

Maybe the real reason Dimitri words cut so deep, got so horridly under her skin, was simply because she just didn't want to believe them. She wanted her papa to be able to fix everything.

The way she'd always used to think he could.


Nicholas was not back for his daughter's birthday, much to Anastasia's disappointment.

In fact, there had been no news of him at all following the initial message that he was returning, and there had been reports of more riots in Saint Petersburg. The worry on everyone's mind – the one they didn't dare speak of – was that the poor tsar was trapped somewhere, these mad hoards blocking his path.

Still, Anastasia tried to be cheerful and keep everybody's spirits up. After all, even without Papa there to share it with them, it was a special occasion. And it seemed her siblings, Mama, and the servants had all gone to great lengths to make it nice for her. The least she could do was laugh and joke and tease them like nothing was wrong. They were counting on her, it seemed, to help them not to be so gloomy.

Olga and Tatiana had both made her ribbon bookmarks with little black cameos of the four of them, the Tsarina gave her a crystal egg to keep rings and bracelets in, and Gilliard presented her with a leather-bound French novel.

Alexei's gift was an almost five-foot-long scarf he'd knitted himself. It was pitifully ugly. Even Anastasia herself had to fight back a wince as she accepted it. She managed to hide her expression with a kiss she planted on his frail white cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I'll wear it next time we go out to play in the snow." Hopefully no one would see it tucked under her woolen coat and sable collar.

Maria's gift was last. Her hands were shaking as she handed a sleek velvet box to her sister.

Anastasia hadn't expected anything so fancy. Princesses though they were, all four of them had a limited allowance that Nicholas and Alexandra were very firm about. Which meant their birthday gifts to each other were more heartfelt than they were extravagant.

"What's this?" Anastasia asked.

"Open it and find out," Alexandra encouraged her.

Maria had a goofy grin forming on her face as Anastasia lifted the lid and the tiny silver hinges squeaked ever so slightly.

Within folds of lavender satin was the most elegant string of milky-white pearls imaginable.

Anastasia couldn't speak, her voice caught in her throat. All she could do was gaze down at the angelic beauty of the object in her hands. It was like holding a box that contained a series of miniature moons. They seemed almost to glow in their perfection.

"I've been saving up," Maria told her, blushing. "I've been buying one pearl at a time for years now. Mama's helped some. She paid for the box, since I spent the rest of my allowance on the pearls and sweets."

"Oh, Mashka!" Tears began to flood Anastasia's eyes as she flung herself into her sister's arms. "Oh!"

"You like it?"

"No, I love it!" She knew then that it would become her second-favorite piece of jewelry, right after the necklace Grandmama had given her to wind up her music box with.

Maria eyes were streaming as Anastasia pulled away. But not with emotion. Her nose was runny, too. She coughed into the crock of her arm, shaking again.

"Are you all right?" Olga reached over and put her hand on Maria's shoulder.

"Fine," she said, her voice weak from coughing. "I think I might have a slight cold. I've had chills today."

Tatiana felt her forehead. "You're warm."

"I'm fine," Maria repeated, forcing a smile. "Really."

Alexandra looked concerned but said nothing.

"Aren't you going to try Mashka's pearls on?" Alexei asked, looking over at Anastasia.

She nodded and, lifting them out of the box, fastened the moony string around her neck.

Behind Alexei's wheelchair, Dimitri caught his breath, immediately feeling like an idiotka.

Anastasia wasn't even that pretty, really. Even growing much taller and thinner over the years, she still looked like a stumpy little girl compared to her sisters. With the exception of Maria, who was only a few inches taller and shared more facial features with her younger sister than she did with the big pair.

Yet, even so, sometimes Dimitri felt oddly attracted to the imperial family's household imp. Sometimes it was hard to remember that this little troublemaker he'd more or less grown up with was a grand duchess, so high above him in rank it was almost immeasurable. He had to remind himself, more often than he liked, that she was a princess and – companion to Alexei or not – he was only a kitchen boy.

He'd gotten her a present for her birthday, too, though. This was not considered improper. Many of the other servants gave presents to the girls from time to time, which the Tsar and Tsarina had taught them to accept with absolute graciousness.

It felt sort of strange to pull out a folded bolt of blue cloth and rough white lace from a sack while the grand duchess was stroking an expensive pearl necklace around her throat, but Dimitri cleared his throat and did so with as much dignity as he could muster up, choking back laughter at the irony, trying to look proud.

"I bought you a dress." He unfolded and shook out the blue dress, holding it up.

Anastasia burst into laughter. "You bought me a..." She took a step towards him. "...Tent."

Pooka, who'd been sniffing around at the girls' skirts, hoping for crumbs, looked up and barked.

Great, Dimitri thought, even the mutt's laughing at me.

Anastasia lifted the bottom of the dress and stuck her head under it. The coarse lace tickled the hairs on the back of her neck.

Dimitri glanced down at her through the hole the head went through. "What are you looking for?"

"The Russian circus," she said, rolling her eyes all around, searching. "I think it's still in here."

Tatiana laughed so hard her sides ached.

Maria whispered, "She says the Russian circus is in the dress!" to a giggling Olga.

Even Alexandra smiled, hiding it behind a gold-rimmed glass of water Lili brought to her. "Mashka, darling," she said, setting down the glass, composure regained, "why are you scratching yourself?"


There was still no word from Nicholas, which in itself was worrisome enough, and now Maria had fallen ill.

Her streaming eyes and shakes and scratching had all turned out to be symptoms of the measles. Suspected by Alexandra when, the morning after Anastasia's birthday, Maria had not been able to get out of bed, and then confirmed by Botkin, who shook his head and sighed.

It was a bad case, no doubt about it.

Olga and Tatiana had already had the measles when they were very small, but Anastasia hadn't, so naturally the first thing that was done was to separate the little pair, much to their distress.

And it was far worse for Anastasia than for Maria, who had the luxury of delirium to distract her from the absence of her favorite sister and best friend. Anastasia was simply left alone, moved to a strange wing of the palace she'd never bothered to go into before.

Worse still was that no one paid much attention to her after she was moved. They kept a sharp eye on her for a little while, since Botkin said that it might already be too late to prevent her from catching Maria's measles, as she had hugged her while already infected, but as soon as they were fairly certain she was healthy enough, the concern all turned to Maria and Alexei.

Alexei did not have the measles, but he did have a bad cough that everybody feared would get worse. Tatiana and Alexandra rarely left his side, while Olga and Botkin kept their never-ending vigil over Maria.

The tide shifted suddenly as one morning Alexei's cough was much better and Maria developed pneumonia as a complication. Tatiana and the Tsarina joined Olga and Botkin at the side of the second-youngest grand duchess. Prayers were said, tears fell in buckets, and Anastasia, who wanted to be with Maria most of all, especially as it seemed she might...might...die... Well, it was not permitted. They would not have her falling sick, too.

Though, in all honesty, if anything happened to Maria, Anastasia wasn't sure she didn't want to die right along with her. What was a life without her beloved Mashka? Without the sister she'd shared a room with her whole life.

She tried to be brave, to be as good and piteous as her mother. Maybe, if she could manage it, God would hear their prayers and save Maria. But she could never quite mean her prayers as whole-heartedly as she wanted to. Deep down, she was too angry at God for letting her sister get sick in the first place. And, of course, she knew it wouldn't be right to say If you take Maria, I'll never forgive you, in a prayer. Her mama would have been appalled. Perhaps rightly so.

At any rate, it seemed better to apply the old adage that if you had nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all.

So, until Maria showed signs of getting better, Anastasia kept her prayers short and curt, willing herself not to yell at any high-power cruel enough to make someone as sweet as Mashka suffer and someone as good as Papa impossible to reach.

She had just finished muttering one such forced prayer and was lifting her knees off the strange carpet and crawling into the big, empty canopy bed – homesick for her cot and Maria's snoring in the one right beside it – when Pooka came over wagging his tail.

"Here boy." Anastasia leaned over and clapped her hands.

Pooka jumped and was lifted up onto the bed beside the grand duchess.

"What's that?" It was only then that she noticed Pooka had a pearl necklace in his mouth – the one Maria had given her for her birthday.

She had no idea how the dog had gotten ahold of those pearls, but her eyes misted over at the memory they brought back. It was only of a few days ago, but, oh, it felt so much longer!

Pooka dropped the necklace at her feet, lowered his little gray body, barked twice, and wagged his tail again.

Bending over, Anastasia picked up the pearls and set them down on the pillow beside her.

It was only then – looking at the little necklace on the little pillow – that the tears began to stream, rolling down her face freely as she sobbed. It mattered not one bit to her that she was eighteen now and far too old to cry like this.

For, once she started, she couldn't stop. Even if she had wanted to, it would have been impossible.

She pulled her knees to her chest and carried on, heaving snotty, rapid breaths, salty rain falling like a storm on her cheeks until she fell asleep and woke at morning's first light dry-eyed, feeling numb.


Still numb, Anastasia sat by a bay window, overlooking a frozen imperial garden. One of the smaller ones.

Maria would have said the trees and railings and empty flowerbeds blanketed in packed snow looked like cakes and candies covered with hardened sugar icing.

Anastasia's mind regarded this fact almost coldly, her blank face not showing even the smallest signs of sadness or amusement. She played pointlessly with Grandmama's Together in Paris necklace, lifting the gold chain slightly and letting the pendant swing back and forth.

Back and forth... Back and forth... Back and forth... Back and forth...

"Stop fiddling with that thing," said a voice from behind her.

She jumped, startled. Then, recognizing the person, wrinkled her nose and looked petulant. "Oh, it's you."

Dimitri rolled his eyes. He'd come over here because he was worried about her, because she looked so empty... And yet, somehow, he'd managed to get annoyed with her, with the way she'd been playing with that necklace and slumping in the window seat.

Naturally, none of his pity came through in his voice. Just the annoyance.

"Sorry," he said at last. "I was just trying to help."

A fire had been lit under her, melting away some of the numbness. Apparently annoyance was as easy to pass on as the measles.

"Dimitri?" she simpered.

"Yes?"

"Do you have amnesia?"

He looked confused. "Um, no."

"Not even a little bit?"

"No."

"You're sure? Absolutely sure?"

"Yeah..." His brows furrowed, coming close together.

"So you remember who I am?" She raised her own eyebrows.

"Yes..." Where was she going with this?

"You remember that I'm the daughter of the Tsar of Russia?"

How could he ever forget that? "Of course!"

"Then stop bossing me around!" She folded her arms across her chest and turned away from him in a huff, looking back out the window at the swirling snowflakes.

That was when Dimitri noticed the dress she was wearing. It seemed to be in a very familiar shade of blue... "Hey, isn't that...?" He gestured down at the dress with his chin.

She glanced back at him out of the corner of her eye. "Yes, thank you."

His forehead crinkled "What happened to it?"

The dress he'd given her had had ruffles at the bottom and longer sleeves. It had also had a ruffled collar. This dress, though resembling that dress in almost all other ways, had none of these distinctive features.

Anastasia shrugged. "I fixed it up a bit." She looked down at her waist where a belt was fastened. "It was too big."

"I guess I should just be glad you didn't turn it into a hat," Dimitri murmured.

She stuck out her tongue at him.

He laughed. "Okay, sorry. It's...it's really beautiful, actually."

"You think so?" Her voice was softer now, less defensive.

"Yes," he admitted. "I mean, it was nice on the hanger, but it looks even better on you." Oh, dear God, what nonsense was he spewing and why couldn't he make himself stop? "You...you should wear it." Wait, what?

She arched a brow at him. "I am wearing it."

Dimitri scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah...uh...right..."

"Your highness!" Gilliard came running up to them, followed by the Tsarina, both looking pale as ghosts and horror-stricken.

"Oh, thank God," Dimitri muttered under his breath, grateful for any interruption, no matter how dismal-looking the interrupters.

"Anastasia!" cried the Tsarina. "Come here, darling." She held out her hands.

Anastasia got up. "Mama?"

Alexandra fast-walked over and grasped her daughter's hands in her own. "We've just gotten word..."

"From...from..." Anastasia stammered. "From Papa?"

"Yes." The Tsarina blinked back tears.

"Is he okay?"

Alexandra nodded. "He is safe. But something else has happened. Something terrible."

"What is it?" Anastasia felt herself trembling already.

"Your father has given up the Russian throne. Or rather, he has been forced to."

"I don't understand, Mama, what does it mean?"

Alexandra reached up and stroked her daughter's hair, tucking a lock behind one ear. "It means, dear one, that we... That we are not the imperial family any longer. And...and the new government is...is..."

"Yes, Mama?" Anastasia prompted.

"Is putting us and any servants who choose to remain here at the palace under house arrest."

Gilliard blew his nose and crossed himself.

Dimitri blurted, "What?"

But Alexandra was through answering questions; she was now holding her daughter close, embracing her second-youngest child tightly, as if she was afraid the new government would come in and yank them apart any second.


Maria couldn't understand what was happening. Even in her fevers and delirium, though, she sensed change. She heard more guards outside her room. Tatiana's pretty face was blotchy, like she'd been crying. For once she looked less than perfect, which Anastasia would have said was a world-changing event in itself. Not to mention, Mama hadn't come back since she'd gotten that letter about (or was it from?) Papa.

Everything was so muddled. If only somebody could come in and explain what was happening...

Oh, why were the patterns on the crown-molding moving again? It made her so nervous when they did that. She was afraid the whole thing would break off and fall on her head and crush her.

What a horrible, horrible way to go.

Short of a firing squad, which would be terrifying, was there a worse way to die than being crushed or smothered? Trapped under heavy plaster with no hope of escape?

Maria certainly didn't believe so.


It had really been several hours, but it felt like five dizzy minutes to their poor confused Mashka, when Tatiana and Olga came in and attempted to answer Maria's unspoken questions.

But it was all for nothing. She couldn't understand a word. She was stuffed up and her ears were completely plugged. Botkin had warned the girls Maria might have an abscess or two assisting the blocking, making it hard for sound to get through.

Yet, since she'd moaned that she could hear the new guards (which were indeed there and not a figment of feverish imagination like the possessed crown-molding) they'd thought maybe she could hear well enough for them to explain.

Apparently not, it would seem.

"What do we do now?" Olga asked Tatiana.

Tatiana shook her head. "I don't know."

Dimitri walked in, carrying some flowers Alexei had wanted send to cheer Maria up. They'd had to be searched by those stupid guards outside the room, and Dimitri had relished the sneezing fit the scent caused one of them, smirking as they finally allowed him to pass.

"Such nice flowers," Tatiana said, trying to be kind but sounding more patronizing.

"Thank you," he replied. "Alexei would have sent Derevenko, but he hasn't had the measles yet, so he's still in quarantine." Dimitri didn't mention that he strongly suspected Derevenko was lying, just so Alexei couldn't send him in and out of Maria's room with various get well gifts.

"It's no use," sighed Olga, reaching down and stroking Maria's hair. "We just can't make her understand what's happened."

"I could try," Dimitri offered.

"You?" said Tatiana, sounding surprised.

He nodded. "Here." He walked over to Maria's bedside and put his hand in his pocket, strolling the way the Tsar did when he was out for a casual walk in the garden.

Dimitri wasn't Anastasia's equal at mimicry, but it was close enough that both Olga and Tatiana smiled, and Maria – recognizing the subject of the pantomime – croaked, "Papa?"

Next, Dimitri pointed to the top of his head and mouthed, "Crown."

Maria blinked. Crown...Papa...crown... Papa's crown? What happened to Papa's crown? Was it stolen? Was that why there were extra guards? Why was that making Tatiana cry? It wasn't like Papa ever wore the crown except on special occasions. Surely it would be found and returned before it was time for another formal portrait.

"I think she's getting it," Olga whispered to Tatiana.

Next, Dimitri made a slashing motion across his throat, trying to show that Nicholas wasn't Tsar anymore.

But all Maria got from it was...

"Dead?" she shout-croaked. "Papa's dead?" Papa was dead and his crown had been stolen! Somebody killed Papa to take his crown! Maybe it was one of those angry bread-stealing peasants she'd been hearing so much about before she got sick. And to think she'd felt so sorry for them!

"You were saying?" Tatiana whispered back to Olga.

Dimitri shook his head, trying to fix this. "No, he–"

It was too late; Maria was already bawling, tears streaming down her face, coughing and sobbing and wheezing all at once.

Tatiana shot Dimitri a frustrated look. "Thank you for that," she growled sarcastically.

Olga put her arm around Maria's shoulder, sitting on the edge of the bed, trying – and failing – to explain that Papa wasn't dead, he just wasn't in charge of Russia anymore.

Leaving the room in shame, Dimitri couldn't shake the odd, unexplainable feeling that a large part of him wanted to sit next to Maria and cry endlessly right along with her.

AN: Please Review.