I know the last few chapters have been downers and you guys have been such great sports about it, so I figured you deserved something a more optimistic. It was significantly easier to write than the past few chapters, which honestly is a little surprising because when I was younger I was so much better at writing depressing stuff that I killed of characters like I was a serial killer or something. Hope you guys like it!


Dmitry would never admit to it, not in a million years, but there was a tiny part of him that was glad for the house arrest.

He absolutely knew it was illogical, and he suspected it made him a bad person on some level. He definitely didn't enjoy the relentless boredom, now that there were only so many things they were allowed to do. He couldn't pretend to be happy that the former imperial family was so miserable. Olga had fallen ill again, with Alexandra insisting she had swelling around her heart. More often than not, the four other siblings would wander listlessly through the rooms of their home. Nicholas was distant, betrayed no emotion, and mostly kept to himself. And yet that tiny part of Dmitry felt glad.

Maybe glad wasn't the right word. He couldn't put a name to it, no matter hard he tried. But he liked the fact that he could spend time with Anastasia. He found himself going out of his way to try and get her to smile. Alexei was slowly becoming more independent and didn't need him around all the time anymore, and he found himself gravitating instead toward his best friend. He knew it was despicable of him.

He wasn't sure when exactly it started happening, but he did remember the moment he first noticed it. They had been sitting in the grand ballroom together, mostly in silence. It was a rare occasion; there were no guards hovering in the doorways watching their every move. Neither of them had been quite sure where they were, but they weren't about to protest either.

"It looks so much smaller now," Anastasia said, gazing at the far end of the room. "As a kid, it always seemed like this room stretched on for miles." Dmitry hummed his agreement.

Anastasia stood from her seat on the steps and wandered over to the banister leading down to the main floor of the ballroom. Dmitry watched her as she rested both hands on it and stared down at the gleaming wood.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. Anastasia turned to face him again with a small distant smile on her face.

"I used to slide down this banister all the time. Sometimes it was so dusty, but I didn't care. Mama had a fit every time, do you remember?"

Dmitry shook his head. "I've never seen you slide down that," he informed her. He stood up as well, hands in his pockets.

"No, you must have," Anastasia said, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. "It always caused a big fuss. Papa had to ban me from coming in here when I was six, unless there was a ball or some other affair." Dmitry rolled his eyes.

"Nastya, I didn't even meet you until you were seven," he reminded her, leaning against the opposite banister. "And I didn't come to live here until you were eight."

"Oh, that's right," she said. "Sorry, it feels like you've always been here." She shook her head. Dmitry found himself staring as her curls bounced and caught the sunlight streaming in through the high windows.

As a child her hair had always been a reddish-golden color that he found fascinating, but in recent years her hair had been turning darker. He wasn't necessarily surprised by it, as his own hair had been almost blond as a young child. But he idly wondered what color her hair might end up being when she was an adult.

Dmitry blinked hard and tore his eyes away. Thankfully she hadn't noticed. He felt himself blush imagining what she might have said if she had caught him.

"You know," Dmitry said, trying hard to sound casual, "I think you were the most reckless child I ever met." Anastasia grinned.

"I know."

"That's not always a good thing," he continued. "Do you know how stupid you were, sneaking out of the palace on your own?" He'd thought about it more and more in recent years, and he sometimes he still couldn't believe she'd done it.

"But nothing ever happened," she insisted, crossing her arms.

"But what if something had?" Dmitry challenged. He pushed off of the banister he had been leaning against and crossed his own arms. "You were only a little kid, and it wasn't like you knew anyone. You could have been kidnapped or something."

"I knew you," she tried to argue, and Dmitry rolled his eyes again.

"Yeah, and you only met me because I tried to steal from you, remember?"

Anastasia grinned even wider. "I'd almost forgotten about that."

"You seem to have a very selective memory." She stuck her tongue out and kicked her shoe at him, which he easily dodged.

"That may be so, but do you know what I do remember?" Dmitry shook his head. "I remember something about a young servant boy getting into trouble at the old Yusopov palace." Dmitry stood up a little bit straighter, his smirk dissolving.

"Hey, that's-"

"We went to see a play," she continued, ignoring Dmitry. "I still remember all the fancy gowns, and asking Mama when I might be allowed to wear a gown like those. We were all having so much fun, and then this little servant boy went and drank the Tsar's glass of champagne!" Anastasia laughed gleefully, remembering the incident. Dmitry had drunk practically the whole glass in one gulp, not realizing it was alcohol. She could still remember the face he made with perfect clarity.

"And who handed it to me?" Dmitry shot back with a small scowl. "Because I seem to remember a certain young princess handing me the glass saying that it was for me. And then she laughed when I was drunk and had to be escorted from the theatre to the sitting room outside." Anastasia shrugged, still grinning at him.

"That's inconsequential," she quipped. "I wrote to Nana about that incident and she thought it was hilarious too." Suddenly her smile faded.

"What's wrong?" Dmitry asked, stepping a little closer to her.

"I miss her," Anastasia said, hugging herself. "We haven't heard from her in months, since we were arrested. I hope she's okay."

"She's safe in Paris," Dmitry said, reaching out to touch her arm. "I heard lots of the noblemen and their relatives fled to France and England. I'm sure she's fine."

"I hope so," she said, pulling away. Dmitry had to suppress the urge to reach out again. He wasn't sure where this urge was coming from, but he wanted to so badly to hold her tight until she stopped worrying. He wished he could take all of her fears away.

"Would you do it again, if you knew what was coming?" she asked him suddenly.

"What are you talking about?"

"Would you have agreed to be a companion to my brother if you knew the revolution would happen?" Dmitry found he wasn't sure how to answer.

"Sometimes I wish I could have been born as someone else," she continued after the silence stretched on a second too long. "Someone other than a grand duchess. I wonder what I might have done."

"I can't imagine you being anyone other than yourself," Dmitry said.

"Well that's your problem. You don't use your imagination enough." she said. She cocked her head to the side. "I think I could have been born a Natalya. Or maybe a Vera. I would have made a wonderful ballerina." She raised herself onto her tip toes quite clumsily, gripping the banister for balance.

"Oh yes. Definitely," Dmitry said sarcastically, and Anastasia swatted at him.

"I would have gotten formal training," she said impatiently. "I would have been the star of every show, people would line up around the block to see me."

"Do you think I would line up to see you?" He knew the answer. Of course he would line up to see her. He had a feeling he would never be able to stay away from her, no matter who they had been born as, but he was curious to see what she thought.

"Well, that all depends," she said after thinking for a moment. "Who would you have been?"

"Who would I be other than me?"

Anastasia shook her head vigorously, her curls bouncing again. "That's boring," she said. "Maybe you'd be Pietr, a brave and handsome soldier fighting in the war."

"If I was fighting in the war, how would I see you dance?"

"You had come home for a while to visit family," Anastasia said resolutely. "You heard of the lovely and talented ballerina dancing in town, and decided you wanted to see the ballet. But then there was a line wrapping all the way around the city, and you decided to go home." Dmitry laughed and shook his head.

"I thought the line was down the block, not all the way around the city," he said. "Anyway, I don't think I'd want to be anyone but me, Dmitry Turov. I like who I am and what I've done in my life."

"I don't think you understand just how famous I would be, if I were a ballerina." Anastasia smiled and ran a hand absentmindedly through her hair. When she pulled her hand away, strands of her hair were woven between her fingers, and more of it fell to the ground. She stared at them for a few seconds, her smile fading, before kicking them away from her dress.

"It's a common side effect," Dmitry offered. "Mine fell out too, after I had the measles."

"I know," she exhaled. "Maria and Tatiana are also losing their hair. Maybe Olga is too, but I haven't been allowed to go see her."

"You might have to shave it, or it'll grow in clumpy," Dmitry said. Anastasia ran her hands through her hair again, pulling out more strands of hair. Dmitry reached out and caught her hands, bringing them back down to her sides while she stared up at him in mild shock. "Don't."

"Why not?" she challenged. She didn't pull her hands out of his. Dmitry didn't have an answer for her. He stammered, searching for words as she arched an eyebrow at him.

"It'll make a mess," he finally managed to say. "Someone will have to clean it up. Probably me."

"Oh," she said, pulling her hands away. Dmitry felt like kicking himself as she turned away from him and began heading back up the stairs. Of course there were other, better reasons why she shouldn't pull out her hair, but how could he tell her that he liked her hair without sounding creepy? He turned back toward the ballroom, resigned to let her go.

"Aren't you coming?" he heard her ask behind him. She was standing at the top of the steps, looking at him expectantly with her hands on her hips.

"Coming where?" he asked, only turning halfway.

"Well if I'm going to have to shave my head, now's as good a time as any," she said. "I think I know where Papa keeps his razor, but I'll need help."

Dmitry thought maybe he should be a little embarrassed at how quick he was to follow her, but he pushed that thought aside and took the steps two at a time. The pair was able to find the razor with ease, and set to work in the bathroom. Naturally Anastasia wanted to do most of it herself, but she handed the razor to Dmitry so he could do the back of her head and any other spots she'd missed.

"What is this?" a voice said. In the mirror they saw Maria poke her head into the bathroom, a highly amused look on her face.

"I'm shaving my head so I can run away and become a monk," Anastasia said casually. "Dmitry's helping me."

"Girls can't become monks," Maria said, coming all the way into the room. "Will you help me next, Mitya?" Dmitry chuckled a bit as he nodded. Soon both Tatiana and Alexei came looking for them as well and joined the line to have their heads shaved. Perhaps, he thought, if he had been born as someone else he could have been a barber.

When it was done, the siblings were grinning at each other. Tatiana had informed them that Olga's hair had already been shaved off the previous day, and that she was starting to feel better. They began plotting how they could reveal their new bald heads to their mother, who was sure to throw another fit.

Dmitry glanced at the siblings as they deliberated, then raised the razor to his own head and cut a strip of hair right down the middle. The girls' jaws nearly hit the floor and Alexei hooted in delight, clapping. Tatiana took the razor from him with a huge smile and began shaving his head as well. As the last of his hair fell to the ground, they all looked at themselves in the mirror.

"Look at that, Mitya," Maria said. "We all look the same."

Dmitry had to agree. If he had been a stranger staring at the five of them in the mirror, he would never have known he was just a servant to the family. Anastasia squeezed his hand tight as they smiled at each other in the mirror.


Oh Dmitry, my poor little muffin.