Author's Notes: ONE MORE CHAPTER! I swear here and now that it will be at least 3,000 words. ALSO: I will be publishing a slightly updated version of this story on Amazon as an ebook. A bonus chapter told from Alexei's POV will be included. Please consider supporting this. I will also have the Alexei chapter up on for a fee on one dollar. Will let you guys know when both are available.
The Grand Duchesses are throwing a fancy ball. Of course it will not be the grandest affair that the WInter Palace has ever seen, what with the grounds uncared for, and the snow that had begun to fall sitting unshoveled in piles all over the paths, and some of it inside having blow in through open windows. There will be no food, but none of the guests will need any. The attendance will be very light, only four girls, but what guests they will be, daughters of a murdered Tsar, Grand Duchesses back from the dead. There will be no musicians to play for them, but the four guests will not mind. It is November, their family is gone, their dynasty is gone, and they will take any entertainment that they can get.
This was Anastasia's idea. The sisters have done things like this past, performances for their parents, even in the Ipatiev house. Anastasia loved to put on fancy dress, the ability to be someone else that only a scarf, or top hat gave her. Especially in the Ipatiev house.
Maria is in on her plan, but it is to be a surprise for the big pair. Many of their clothes that were left in the palace were breaking down, being eaten by moths or mold, not having been properly packed, but they have found enough to wear, and it is just for one night. Because Olga and Tatiana will need proper partners, Anastasia and Maria have decided to dress as officers. They improvise, using ink for mustaches, and donning men's shirts, knotting them again and again until they fit, or at least stay on. There is none of the old officers' finery left here, no swords, or epaulets, sashes or spurs, but Anastasia finds a fire poker with some gilt on the handle. This can serve as her sword. For their faces, they use ink, darkening their eyebrows and drawing facial hair. Anastasia's mustache goes a bit crooked, but the ink proves difficult to wipe off, and she rather likes it, since it gives her a devilish air, like a villain in a puppet show.
They find two old dresses for Olga and Tatiana, and drape these over their arms as they go to work on the next task: a ball room. The palace has a myriad of locations in which to hold a formal ball, but Maria picks a smaller room that the girls have not been in at all in the past five months. Anastasia agrees with her decision. This is a good choice; the room has an air of new ness. While Anastasia had lived here for so much of her life, apparently it is possible to forget bits of a home. There is not much the girls can do about the dust on the chandelier, or on the floor, but they do make rounds to the neighboring rooms, looking for as many candles as possible. The chapel proves useful. Anastasia followed by a less enthusiastic Maria darts behind the screen onto the altar- the forbidden altar- and they reemerge, their arms full of candles in various states of melting. It is not a holy place, not any more. Churches that are sold or given to other purposes cease to be holy ground, everyone knows that, Anastasia tells herself. All she feels as they leave the chapel, which still smells faintly of incense, of lost prayers ascending to the high ceiling, is a small thrill at her daring. She has always wanted to stand on an altar.
The last living time she attended a service was not pleasant. They were given one in Ipatiev house, before they were killed. This should have been an obvious tip off, why grant the family what they had been asking for unless their happiness no longer mattered? But Anastasia had not thought of that. She had been so eenured to the possibility of death. But there, with the comforting prayers mixing with the guards and the prison of the House of Special Purpose, something had broken with in her. She had known then, something, she had felt overwhelming sorrow pressing down on her like a boulder, such as she had never felt previously. Anastasia had lain awake for a very long time that night. But the next morning, the family got up, and everything was as normal. Her mind refused to let her give in to drowning grief Of course then they were all shot, so perhaps despair would have been a correct response on her last day.
Even now Anastasia dead does not feel that brokenness in her spirit, but she still does not want to tarry long in their old church.
They plant the candles around the edge of what will serve as their dance floor, on the fireplace mantle, in candelabras. The host of flames twist, flaring then falling, bending around their wicks. This room is buried inside the palace, and there are no windows for the light to shine out of. So many candles, but they do not do much to heat the room. Their heat rises in small waves and then dissipates into the cold air. It is November now, and snows often. The cold is interesting for Anastasia. Her body seems aware of it; she can feel that the temperature is lower, but it does not chill her, creeping into her bones and freezing them as it did in previous winters. She has thrown snowballs at statues on the grounds and when she shapes and packs the ice in her palms it does not burn with the icy pain that was her bane during previous snowball fights. The statutes did not return her volley. Next, Anastasia will try throwing snow at the living on the streets outside.
Maria has gone off to convince Olga and Tatiana to come, and give them their costumes. The big pair will resist at first, as always, but Maria will win them over and they will have a grand game, as always.
Bored with standing, Anastasia sits on the floor, in the center of the circle of candles. In the shifting light she can pretend that the ballroom is filled with richly dressed people, aiming to win favor with those in higher positions, to find themselves or their children a good match, to put their finery on display, to dance, to forget those that march in the streets outside, their mouths filled with violence and their banners filled with revolution. This world is gone forever, no matter how many letters Tatiana sends, but for one night she can pretend- to be a man, to be alive, to be older.
The door is thrown open and flung shut again just as quickly. Maria rushes in and stands next to Anastasia who scrambles up. Outside she hears the other two.
"Come in!" Shouts Anastasia in an affectedly deep voice while straightening her baggy shirt. She grabs her fire poker- sword and holds it at her side, not bothered by the weight.
Olga and Tatiana enter, dressed in lilac and mint green. These are summer day dresses, never meant to be worn to a ball in November, and they are old and faded, ill fitting and moth eaten, but in the candlelight they are as fine as any court dress Anastasia ever wore.
Maria has found silk flowers somewhere too and pinned them in each girl's hair. The colors do not match the dresses. This is alright. As soon as the door closes behind them, Anastasia brandishes her poker and announces, "I am Dmitri Chakh-Bakov."
She and Maria did not plan out who they were going to be exactly, only male dance partners in general, but being Olga's old love is better, nevermind that Dmitri would never have been invited to one of these balls.
"And I am Vladimir Kiknadze!" Says Maria, catching on. This was the name of Tatiana's soldier. The big pair, taking in the candles and the costumes and names, shriek at them both, but they see that this is to be a game and play along. Even Olga must be bored with reading after five months, and though the four girls are really four women, old enough to marry, old enough to die from the revolution, they are also four lonely girls undead for reasons they cannot understand, and tonight they will dance.
"Volodia! How wonderful to see you again!" Tatiana exclaims, drawing herself up to her full height, every inch the Grand Duchess that she was.
"Dance with me?" asks Maria in a deepened voice, and she and Tatiana pair off, their hands clasped together and Maria holding Tatiana's waist and she holding Maria's shoulder. Olga needs more prompting, so Anastasia places her poker down on the side of the room. She begins humming a simple waltz and steps forward to meet her eldest sister. They dance. The steps are remembered by their muscles, honed by practice, with instructors and with proper partners. Anastasia has not danced in so long, but her body easily executes the steps, back, forward, her feet pointed, her back straight. She dances the man's part, leading not following, twirling Olga, not herself.
Anastasia dances with Tatiana, with Maria, then with all of her sisters together, as they hold hands move together and apart, their circle shrinking and growing faster and faster.
They sing too, not just the instrumental pieces that accompany formal dancing, but any song in any language they can remember. Maria sings a song called The International about workers, but its lyrics are changed to be quite rude, and Anastasia finds it hilarious.
When they are tired of dancing and almost all of the flowers have fallen out of the older two's hair, the four girls find themselves sprawled on the floor, their heads close together, their feet stretched away, like the four points on a compass. The sisters are talking of everything and nothing, and the conversation stretches on ebbing and flowing. The candles are dripping wax on the floor but it does not matter. They will never use this room again. Unlike in their other games, no one will make them clean up the detritus of their make believe.
"I saw Yurovsky yesterday," says Maria.
"Yakov?" asks someone else, Anastasia's eyes are on the high ceiling and she cannot see who.
"The same." As if it would be anyone else.
"I've seen him too." This from Tatiana, she thinks.
"Where?"
"He comes into that government building where I go. Everyday for the past week." Definitely Tataiana.
"Any you did not tell us?" Maria.
"Shhh, you saw him yesterday and did not mentioned it til now."
"He is doing some work here, with the Petersburg branch. I do not know."
"Maria was thinking," Anastasia begins, wondering how the others will take this.
"That we should kill him," Maria finishes calmly. There is silence after this, but not a shocked one. The conversation continues on in the same lazy fashion it had before.
"I thought the same- when I first saw him."
"And Anastasia, do you agree?" Says Olga. Her older sister does not need convincing. None of them do. To kill Yakov Yurovsky has occurred to all of them at some time or another.
"Yes." Anastasia has never even injured anything, not even an animal, badly, let alone killed. She would like to try with him.
"All in favor?" Olga is their leader. Businesslike and organized as usual.
"Aye." Maria answers first.
"Aye." Anastasia hears her voice.
"Aye." Tatiana.
"And I." Olga.
They are in perfect agreement, but they can wait until tomorrow to begin. The four girls stay like that, on the floor, their hair mingling, talking of murder and their past, until the sun rises.
Chapter Eleven
The family was given a service before their execution the next day.
Vladimir Kiknadeze was a real soldier Tatiana was in love with.