Smoke from the locomotives permeated the air as Gleb entered the Finland train station. He pulled his hat low over his face to hide it as people pushed past him in a mad dash. The bowler hat felt uncomfortable on his head, as though he was wearing a mask.
His uniform had long since been stuffed into the very bottom of his bag – the moment he had left the headquarters, he had ducked into a secluded corner and quickly changed into a suit. Prudence suggested that he ought to dispose of the uniform, but he was unable to let it go.
A leather book of passports rested safely near his breast. He had swayed his contact with the sweet story of wishing to surprise his wife with a trip to Paris sometime soon, to celebrate their first month of marriage. His comrades did not know Anya very well, but they seemed appreciative of her effect on him. So the clerk had wasted little time drawing up the papers, even wishing Gleb safe travel and promising to keep the whole affair a secret.
Gleb didn't trust that it would be one for long, but he hoped the word would take a while to spread. Once they were out of Russia's jurisdiction, there would be nothing the government could do about his flight.
He scanned the area for any sight of Anya – they had agreed to meet at the ticket counters, but he was beginning to regret it. There were too many people – how was he supposed to find her in this great rush and in all the fog? It did not help that with every woman he saw who wasn't Anya, he found himself imagining the worst. That she had been discovered at the hospital. On the streets while hurrying to meet him. Or that she had already arrived and been caught –
Something brushed the small of his back, and he nearly leapt out of his boots.
"Calm down," Anya sighed in a low voice from behind him. He turned to look at her, and his jaw dropped.
She was in a disguise of her own – a slim gray coat, red-gold hair pinned up under a simple but sophisticated hat. She looked… She looked like she belonged in Paris – nothing like the Anya he knew.
"Train to Budapest on Track 4. Paris via Budapest on Track 4. All aboard," droned the announcement over the speakers. Gleb quickly shut his mouth, remembering himself.
"Surprised?" she teased, even though he could detect an undercurrent of tension in her voice as she glanced around at the guards patrolling the platforms.
"You look beautiful," he said sincerely, relieved when she relaxed, blushed a little, and smiled. He reached out to take her bag.
"No," she admonished him firmly. She threaded her free arm through his. "Let's go."
As they headed to their platform, Gleb caught sight of an older gentleman in a fine suit and a top hat. Behind his glasses, he seemed to be staring at Anya.
Gleb narrowed his eyes, suspicious. The man didn't seem to be a spy – Gleb knew who all of them were, after all. But then again, who knew what secrets the commissioner had been keeping…
The man caught Gleb glaring and quickly turned away, but not before Gleb noticed the shimmer of tears in his eyes. Baffled, Gleb quickened his steps to put as much distance between them as possible.
It did not take long for him to realize that the train he was boarding was full of departing aristocrats. The flashes of extravagance gave them away. Had Gleb been in uniform, he could have almost all the passengers detained. But at the moment, he was a normal civilian who needed to hide as badly as they did.
He watched the former royals enter the carriage, sorrow and longing etched on their faces. Despite himself, he found himself commiserating. His government had forced them out of the country they too loved under threat of death – while these, the very people who had run Russia into the ground, deserved their fate, he spared them a moment of compassion because he understood now how it felt.
Beside him, Anya had extracted the notebook from her bag. She flipped to a page and began reading, only glancing up when she noticed him staring.
"I've been going through this at the hospital all day," she explained. "When it was quiet."
"Do you remember anything?"
"Flashes," she confessed. "Odd little details about people. But it probably doesn't mean anything."
He couldn't decide if that made him relieved or worried, and he lapsed into silence, letting Anya go back to her studying. As the train began to move, he stared out the window.
It was difficult to make anything out in the inky darkness that was broken only by the lamps inside the carriages. As his reflection in the glass caught the light, he found himself gazing at a face he barely recognized.
It wasn't just the suit and the new hat – Gleb had been out and about often enough in civilian clothing as a spy to be bothered by his appearance. It was the uncertainty, the fear, the…purposelessness in his features.
The aristocrats with him were headed to Paris to continue their lives of waste and debauchery. It was a terrible purpose that made his teeth clench, but it was undeniably something to go on. What was he there to do? Anya was right – even if the Dowager Empress accepted her as Anastasia, he wouldn't stay. He didn't even know if he could face the old woman – the last remaining symbol of Romanov tyranny – without incident, let alone speak to her.
He knew that some of the poorer citizens had run off to find work in France during the most difficult years of the revolution, serving the deposed royalty at a Paris club they frequented. The idea of that was repugnant to him – it was precisely the thing Russia had fought to be free of. Taking scraps from the fallen nobility would never be an option.
The sound of papers rustling roused him, and through the reflection, he watched Anya close the notebook and lean her head on his shoulder. She looked frustrated.
"I wish I could remember something," she murmured, worried. "I wish I had time to remember. What if she doesn't recognize me?"
"She will," he tried to assure her. The old woman shouldn't be able to deny the proof… It was her own grandchild.
"I don't know anything Anastasia's supposed to know, and she'll think it's too awfully convenient that I just happened to lose my memories," Anya pointed out. "What if she turns me away?"
"Then we'll start over," he decided boldly, seeing nothing but a blur in his future. "We'll go somewhere where there are no royals or generals. I don't know what I'm doing myself – we might as well find out together."
"That sounds like a plan." She chuckled and then yawned. "But just so you know, I haven't completely forgiven you yet."
He tried to hide a grin. "I don't blame you."
Anya was just beginning to doze off when the train screeched to a stop. A clanging noise broke the tranquility of the night.
Gleb sat up, ramrod straight, all of his senses tingling. Before long, uniformed guards were swarming the carriages, scrutinizing the passengers.
"Papers!" one of them called.
Gleb put a hand into his breast pocket, making sure their passports were still there. He wouldn't reveal them until he needed to…
Anya had woken and had quickly opened the notebook, ducking behind it and pretending to read.
"Is there a problem?" one of the passengers piped up.
"We're looking for someone who is illegally leaving the country," came the reply. Under the cover of the book, Anya grabbed for Gleb's hand. Her fingers were like ice.
We're legal. We're legal, he tried to communicate mentally.
More guards appeared in their carriage, flanking a man in a top hat. The man who had been staring at Anya.
"Count Ipolitov," a guard announced. "Had the wrong name on your papers, did you?"
Ipolitov… The name was familiar. Gleb searched his memory. Yes. He was on the government's hit list as both an aristocrat and a dangerous intellectual. Gleb himself had sent men out to find him before.
The guards dragged the count away as Gleb watched, knowing what was about to happen. Soon enough, a loud gunshot went off.
Anya cried out. As people turned to look, he quickly pressed her face into his shoulder.
"Apologies – my wife is afraid of loud noises," he explained. He hoped his voice was not distinct enough to be recognizable.
A guard approached. "Papers," he said stonily.
Cold with dread, Gleb withdrew the passports from his pocket with his free hand, willing a passive expression onto his face as Anya whimpered with sobs. He prayed the guard would not look too closely, although he himself would have been furious at any lack of careful examination.
The guard glanced at the papers briefly before handing them back without further comment. He nodded curtly to his comrades.
"Take your wife somewhere quiet until she stops her hysterics," he ordered. Relieved, Gleb practically snatched the passports back.
As the guard turned and marched down the row of seats, Gleb quickly grabbed the fallen notebook, making sure nothing had fallen out, and stuffed it into Anya's bag. He helped her stand, taking care to maneuver so that her face was flush against his chest, and picked up their bags with one hand. He kept his other arm around her heaving shoulders as they made their way to a smaller compartment. The guards stepped back to let them pass, and Gleb kept his face downcast.
As soon as they were safely ensconced in a private space, he sat her down gently, lifting her chin with a finger to see her face. Her expression struck him – it was the same look that had been there the first time they met.
"I'm here – there's nothing to be afraid of," he told her. "We'll be safe soon – they've let us go –"
She stared at him, but her eyes were unfocused. "That's what the soldiers said when they were pointing their guns at us," she gasped out amidst the sobs. "They said they were taking us somewhere safe… Toby's little heart was beating against mine… 'They're decent men,' I told him. 'They won't harm us –' "
Gleb's hands dropped to his sides, his ears ringing. Again, the image of the girl she had been flashed before his eyes.
He knew…
His father had been one of those soldiers. Anastasia had believed – trusted – to her family's bitter end that his father wouldn't hurt them… had been a decent man.
His father had betrayed that trust. Gleb himself almost had.
He reached a tentative hand out to touch her cheek, afraid to move closer. She leaned in, hyperventilating against him. He froze, and tried to whisper words of reassurance even though they felt heavy on his tongue.
Finally, her sobs began to subside. She straightened up, brushing at her face with the back of her hand. "I guess now I've remembered something." She was trying for a wry tone, but the atmosphere was far too bleak for that.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "On my father's behalf." Not that it would be enough, and he knew it.
She glanced down at the floor of the train, which had begun to rumble under their feet again. Her face was unreadable.
"He regretted it, in the end," he continued solemnly. "My mother said he died of shame, although I didn't understand why at the time."
"Do you, now?" she challenged him softly.
He nodded. "I think I do."
She was silent for a few minutes. Whatever she was mulling over seemed to be filling her with trepidation as she shivered.
Finally, she looked up. "I need you to help me."
Concerned, he reached for her hand. "What is it?"
She took a deep, shaky breath, and her hand quivered. "I need you to tell me what you remember from that night."
He let go of her hand, shocked.
"I have to know I haven't just been imagining things because you told me I'm her," she went on. "I need to know if it's all real."
"You're not imagining them," he pleaded desperately as guilt and fear surged in his veins. Telling her bits and pieces about that night in the cellar of Yekaterinburg had been bearable when all she was was Anya. But to have to describe to living, breathing Anastasia what happened to her family…
"Gleb."
"Please don't make me," he begged even as the memories, never far from his thoughts, rushed to the surface.
"Do you think I want to hear this?" she snapped tearfully. "I've never wanted to, even when it wasn't supposed to matter so much."
He dropped his head in surrender. "What do you want to know?"
She hesitated. "Everything. Talk until I tell you to stop."
Uncertainly, he began. Anya was merciless, prodding him for details and forcing him to venture deeper into those memories than he ever had.
He had told the story many times in the army and in the government headquarters, almost as a badge of honor of his father's legacy. He had never told it as a witness to a grisly crime, sitting before the one who was both prosecutor and judge.
It did not take long before she was weeping – broken, keening cries of grief and horror as she curled up into herself. As he spoke, he felt every bit of the weight of his father's shame bearing down his shoulders. His spine bowed in response, and his lungs constricted, making it difficult to breathe.
"Stop," she finally gasped out. He immediately did, not without relief. He didn't know if he could have managed to say more.
She huddled in her seat, turning her face away as her entire frame shook violently. He kept his distance, letting her mourn.
Guilt as he had never known before crushed him as he watched her rock back and forth. He had spent so much time thinking about atoning for his disloyalty to Russia, not realizing that there had been a greater sin that he – his family – had been needing absolution for.
As the sun rose over the landscape, Anya eventually dozed off, exhausted. Gleb leaned against the glass window and stared out. He knew he should be tired himself, but he was unable to rest.
It was now more important than ever that she make it home – that she be reunited with perhaps the only other person who would be able to understand her loss. If that was all he would be good for, then so be it. The cycle would end with him – he would not be his father's son any longer.
He would be someone she could trust.
"I wonder what they would think of me now." Gleb was shaken out of his thoughts by Anya's scratchy voice, still rough with the remnants of crying.
"Your family?" he ventured carefully.
"I lived. And I somehow managed to forget them for a decade." She gazed into the lightening sky, and the rays of the sun threw into sharp relief how pale and drawn she was. Even though she had already wept for what seemed like hours, her eyes were still damp and rimmed with red.
"It's not your fault," he said quietly.
"Not only that, I bear the name of one of the men who –" She broke off, biting her lip as more tears rolled down her cheeks.
He wished so badly that he could say something of comfort. But what else could be said? It was irrefutable – the most wicked of fate's tricks had sent a Romanov into the arms of a Vaganov and made her one too.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, helpless. It would never be enough.
She did not look at him again.
Author's Note: Thank you once again for all the reviews, especially to KatriaFaeyero and la-femme-cavalier for your constant encouragement! Thank you also to those who follow and favorited this story - you guys keep me going on this! :)
This chapter is inspired in large part by the fact that just over 99 years ago, the real-life Romanovs were killed. My greatest muse, Muse, made significant contributions to this chapter - their songs Soldier's Poem and Sing for Absolution served as the ultimate mood music once things took an unexpected turn.