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In this chapter, we go back and forth between the war (briefly) and back home in Paris. For the war part, you'll need to recall what Mikhail said in his first chapter: "You're not truly one of us till your blood's on the field and your liquor's on the table." In the home part, remember that his letters would have to be sent through Vlad, and not through Anya, because obviously she can't have her name and address paraded around in a war. Read it!

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Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Anya had been at that desk for an hour. The hands on the clock reached for entirely new numbers, and yet still the sheet of paper lay blank; still her pencil rapped against the wood.

Tap.

Tap.

It wasn't that she had nothing to say. She had plenty. It was that she didn't know how or where to start.

Tap.

Come on, she thought to herself. You have to do this. They're collecting tomorrow, and then the mail barge ships out and you won't have another chance. So just do it. You know, like NOW. Nnn...ow. Now. Write. Go.

She took a deep breath, and set the tip of the pencil on the paper. More importantly, she stopped thinking.

Dimitri;

I don't even know how to begin this letter. I feel like I should be talking to you in person, instead of writing this down, and I want to, more than you probably know. I miss you. Every five seconds I keep wondering if you're all right, or if you're hurt, or worse.... I don't know how much longer I can take this. And that little girl...I see you in her. You can argue with me all you want on that, but I do. She misses her daddy. I know she loves us both, but come on---we both know she's always been yours. More of a daddy's girl than even me. She's learned a couple new words---it's so cute---and she's been riding her bike, asking for you after she falls, of course. She's got a bunch of these finger paintings she's determined to give you the second you get back, so just nod and smile as if you know what they are. (Your guess is as good as mine.) We're both doing the best we can. I love you so, so much, Dimitri. It's like another life, not having you here every day. All I want is to have you home with us. Our daughter needs you, and I need you. I talk to Vlad every day, and he's worried about you, too. He meant what he said, you know---all though enjoy it, 'cause it's not likely he'll admit it again. I'm not saying---writing---any of this to worry you about us, I just wanted you to know how important you are to all of us back here. You remember the night in the garden, right, at the beginning of everything? When you handed me that crown? (Of course you do.) I chose you for a reason. I love you, Dimitri. I can't say that enough right now---I just want to say it to your face. And as much as I worry, I'm so proud of you. I know, I know, "don't worry," you're saying. I can't help it. But I know you're out there keeping your promise. So come back safe to us. That, mister, is a royal command.

Anya

Without giving herself a chance to second-guess those words, or to admit their truth, Anya stuffed the letter into an envelope, the envelope into her coat, and her arms into the sleeves. "Come on, Tasha!" she called. "Time to go for a visit!"

Within ten minutes, Vlad heard a rapid knock on his front door. He wasn't surprised at all by the young woman on the other side, nor the child she carried.

"Gappa Vlad!" the child exclaimed.

"Tasha! Anastasia, come in, come in." Vlad ushered the girls into the house and shut the door behind them. "I trust you've been well since....well, yesterday?"

"We're all right." Vlad sat in his favorite overstuffed chair, and Tasha climbed up on his lap. Anya paused for a long, long moment. "Have you heard anything, Vlad?" she finally asked, quietly.

Vlad, too, was somber. "No, my child. I wish I could tell you that I had."

In the silence that followed in that room, they both knew exactly who the other was thinking of.

"Well," Vlad said suddenly. He took in a deep breath, exhaled sharply, and looked little Tasha straight in the eye. "How would you like to hear another story, hm?"

"Yeah yeah yeah!" Tasha squealed, clapping her little hands together. Anya sat cross-legged on the carpet, and settled in. Never, especially now, could she be too old for Vlad's stories.

"A long time ago," he began, "back when your papa was just a little older than you---and he was a rascal, mind you---we were in the heart of St. Petersburg. It was the dead of winter, and there was....

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Mikhail returned from dinner the following night before any of the others had even finished. It was his pencheant to do everything ahead of the curve.

Strangely enough, he noticed the silhouette of an unfamiliar object on the table. Mikhail flipped on the light, and stepped closer.

It was a bottle---a bottle of genuine Russian vodka to be exact. As he picked it up to examine it, he saw the note that had been fastened to the side.

Hope the cheap kind's okay. Dimitri.

Mikhail smiled. His troop hadn't lost a man at all.

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"All right, all right already! I'll get it!"

Anya went to her front door and pulled it back, giving way to Lydia and Rosaline, who tangled her up in a mass group hug.

"How are you? We haven't talked in ages," Lydia gushed.

Anya laughed. "You came over last week."

"To me, that's ages."

"So," Rosaline said, "how have you been? You know. Considering everything."

Anya sighed, heading into the sitting room with Rosaline and Lydia following. "I've been...worse. And better."

"Uh-oh." Lydia turned to Rosaline with a concerned, mishevious look. "Time to play distract-a-duchess."

Rosaline laughed her delicate laugh, and played along. "Anastasia, I'm engaged."

"I'm pregnant," Lydia added.

"Me too."

"With triplets."

"I'm queen of a foreign country."

"I'm joining the Cub Scouts."

"I---Cub Scouts? That's the best you could think of?"

All three girls fell into a fit of hysterical laughter. At that moment, Sophie bustled in from the kitchen. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, Soph," Lydia breezed, plucking a tart from the tray of desserts Sophie held. Each of them occupied a seat, or, for Anya and Lydia, a spot on the floor.

"Is Tasha asleep?" Rosaline asked.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I brought her something," Rosaline said, pulling a small knit teddy bear from her bag. "I've been taking lessons from Marie. Just give it to her when she wakes up."

"It's so cute! Thank you. She'll love it." Rosaline loved kids, and was always doting on Tasha.

"Oh! That reminds me." Sophie reached behind her and yanked a pile of newsprint from the end table. "I brought in your paper when I came in."

Anya grabbed it, and leafed through the numbers and headlines.

"Anastasia. Don't worry yourself like this," Rosaline laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, knowing exactly which section she was headed to.

"I have to. It's the only way I'd know." Finally, she opened up the right page. Casualties of war.

Her eyes flitted over the fresh column of names. She grew more and more relieved as she finished a quarter, half, then three quarters of the column, all without seeing his name.

"See?" Lydia said. "What did we tell you? Everything's fine."

And everything was fine. Until Anya came to the second-to-last name on the page.

She froze. It was nothing but a first name and an age, but unfortunately, they were the exact ones she didn't want to see.

Sophie sat forward. "Anastasia?"

"Anastasia?" Rosaline echoed.

Lydia took the paper from Anya's motionless hands. She found the spot. "Oh, oh no."

Anya couldn't think. She didn't know if she was breathing or not. The sound of someone in tears seemed to be coming from somebody else. Not even the three pairs of arms around her seemed real.

When it hit her, only one thought appeared in her mind.

He promised.

She stood up and left the room, not stopping until she was sitting in a heap at the foot of the hall window. He promised, he promised, he promised.

After what may have only been a few minutes, Sophie appeared at the end of the hall. "Anastasia?" she beagn timidly.

Anya didn't answer. She couldn't.

"Anastasia...there were details on the next page. Apparently the man on the list was Dimitri Ivanovich Rodogev, from Odessa. It wasn't him."

Anya still didn't speak, but her eyes widened and the darkness lifted. She sprang up and hugged Sophie with everything she had.

"Oh, my."

"Thank you, Sophie."

"All I did was turn the page..." she mused, somewhat baffled.

Anya headed back to the sitting room with a smile on her face. Don't scare me like that, she thought. I still trust you.

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So there's that one. Reviews are much appreciated!!! (Also, I should fill you in on Lydia and Rosaline. They're recurring characters I made up; you'll see them throughout my Anastasia work. Lydia is one year younger than Anya, and is one of her cousins. She is bold, and always has something to say. Lydia is never shy. Rosaline, on the other hand, is the polite, quiet, refined one. She is one year older than Anya. She is level-headed, and is also French---I kind of modeled her after Marion Cotillard. They are good friends, and a typical crowd is usually Anya, Marie, Sophie, and them. So, that's basically thier background info.) So, in this chapter, we saw some of the family life and some of the difficulties back in Paris. Next chapter, back to war! R & R & dasvidaniya: I'm getting back to work. :-)