.
.
Dimitri wonders what it's like to be… loved by someone. To be understood for who you are.
It must be a feeling unlike any other in the world. As glorious and golden as dancing on tiptoes within the largest ballroom of the Romanov's palace. Dimitri watches on, enthralled, as the nobles spin and extend their arms gracefully. Their dresses as light as air and colorfully bright. The men wear diamonds and pale silks. No worn, gaping holes in their shoes like Dimitri.
Twinkling lights of glass-crystals shine in yellows and pinks. The floors seem endless. Chandeliers made of brass and amethysts and a gilded light so magnificent that Dimitri's eyes strain to glimpse up. Like staring into pure sunlight.
High above the dancers are many grand portraits of the past Tsars and their families. Beautiful, dead faces painted with oil.
Dimitri feels their eyes on her, scrutinizing her, passing their judgement as wordless disapproval. She stares back up into their faces, glowering heatedly. One of the poulterers notices Dimitri, seizing her under the armpits and hauling her off.
She kicks the air wildly and thrashes.
The Master of the Kitchens — a short, plump gentlemen with a dark mustache — recognizes her, thumping the top of Dimitri's head with a fist, ordering her into the washing rooms to scrub pots and pans.
Dimitri sulks, rubbing away her aches.
On her way out, she nabs a red apple from a basket. There's not a soul in the back rooms to keep a vigil, so Dimitri sneaks out through one of the hidden door-walls, crawling in. She heads towards the entrance-hall, secreting herself out and closing the wall. Dimitri whistles lowly in relief.
Nobody else here. Good. Perhaps then the other servants will not discover her whereabouts.
She strolls on, polishing off the red apple on her long, dusty tunic.
Worthless boy!
The Master's voice echoes in Dimitri's mind.
They all think she's a good-for-nothing orphan and Dimitri wouldn't know how to convince them otherwise. Even if she does want to scream out that they're wrong. And she's a girl. Disguised by wearing loose rags and chopping off her dark red hair.
(But being a girl is dangerous when you're alone and misunderstood and unloved.)
A lovely singing voice fills Dimitri's ears. So sweet and high.
But where is it coming from?
She peeks around the corner to see a young girl with auburn curls. Two more girls crowd her. All of the children have gowns encrusted with sparkling jewels and layers of rich cloth. But, the auburn-haired girl, singing pleasantly for all to hear, has more jewels sewn in. She wears a gown of deep teal velvet lined with lazuline-blue and damasks of brilliant and shimmering gold.
Dimitri slowly realizes this is the youngest Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia.
Princess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova cradles her dog Shibivik in her arms, rocking him like an infant as he whines softly. She pets him and tells him a lullaby of a baby-eating witch living in the far forests. A fiendish crone with one eye and one hand.
The two girls complain to her, and then gaze to Dimitri. It's the same wordless disapproval as the portraits.
Princess Anastasia hesitates, curiously staring over her shoulder.
There's no such impression of hatefulness or indifference in her light blue eyes.
"Boy," she calls out, and Dimitri frowns. The princess doesn't wait for an answer. She's not acting lordly or dainty with her gown rustling about, but Princess Anastasia skips merrily to her. Holding out her hand. "Boy, give me a piece of your apple."
One of the noble children visibly pales, gasping into her hands.
"Anastasia, you mustn't!"
"Tsarina Alexandra said you could only have water!"
"Hush! Hush now!" Princess Anastasia whispers to her friends. It's more of a furious, indignant hiss than syllables.
Dimitri relaxes.
"If you want it, you have to ask for permission," she announces, holding the apple to her breast. "It's only fair."
Princess Anastasia tuts childishly.
"No, I don't have to."
"Don't you? It's very rude to not ask for permission to someone you just met." Somehow this widens Princess Anastasia's eyes. This is not Dimitri's palace and it's not her apple, but she was taught to manipulate others to keep what is stolen. To those others who think they are better than her. They would only walk all over Dimitri. "What kind of person would you be?"
One of Princess Anastasia's friends, not holding her mouth in horror, glares at Dimitri.
"How dare you open your mouth, you filthy peasant—"
She's cut off, visibly whitening too, when Princess Anastasia sharply looks at her friend. Dimitri's heart flutters. "Of course. I knew that," Princess Anastasia says haughtily, smoothing out her jeweled gown. "May I have a piece of your apple…?"
"You may, Your Highness," Dimitri replies, smiling smugly, holding out the glistening red apple.
She doesn't bother peeling it. There's no carving knife in Dimitri's pocket. The princess snatches the apple, pressing it to her lips and sinking her teeth in with an audible crunch. The juices slick down Princess Anastasia's chin. She mimics Dimitri's own smile, chewing a mouthful, holding it back out to Dimitri who stares suddenly as if moonstruck. Never breaking eye contact.
One of the scullions yells out Dimitri's name.
Dimitri curses, lunging out of sight and hiding behind a marble statue as the other girls race away out of the entrance-hall. Princess Anastasia grabs one of her friend's hands, dragging her along. She stares back in wonder to Dimitri.
.
.
"Where have you been?"
Tsar Nicholas II Alexandrovich Romanov catches his daughter as she hurries past him, lifting her against his chest. He looks more handsome than any great hero in any children's fairy-tale books. Elegant in a white suit with a thick, royal blue sash.
Anastasia flattens her lips together.
She thinks of the boy, and the red apple, and how naughty she's been.
"Sunshine…" Nicholas II reprimands her gently.
"Papa, I went to freshen up," Anastasia insists, nodding solemnly. "I swear it. I swear it on Margaretta Eagar's grave."
She cries out in pain when her mother — Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova — grips roughly to Anastasia's face. The sticky juices of the apple drip on the white, silk gloves of the Tsarina's fingers. "Do not lie, wretched child," she murmurs angrily.
"Mama…" Olga says fearfully, gripping to the Tsarina's wrist. Attempting to break her hold. "Mama, no. Not here."
It's the middle of a celebration. The ballroom dazzling and full of important, noble occupants.
Tatiana shoos Olga, and everyone else, away as their mother collapses a little against her. Unlike Nicholas II with his brown hair and dark eyes, all of the daughters were born with her auburn hair. Light blue eyes.
It hurts… the migraine hurts… so badly, Nicholas, the Tsarina insists. So badly.
Maria clasps onto Anastasia's hand as she's lowered, guiding her back to the thrones. Out of her sisters, Anastasia thinks Maria is the prettiest. With her round face, and milky white skin, and her auburn hair elegantly twisted and pinned over her shoulders.
"It's best if you stay here, Nastenka," Maria says firmly, using Anastasia's nickname. She squeezes their fingers, departing.
Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov impatiently sits upon one of the thrones. His nursemaid, dressed plainly as a common servant, frets to herself. He totters to his feet without warning, and Anastasia reaches him first to seat him back down.
"Look what Grandma gave me," she says cheerfully, paying no mind to Alexei's wheezing. He must have bled too much.
Anastasia presents out her music box, watching and smiling as her baby brother distracts himself. It's gilded and covered in pearls, and she opens the lid. Twirling figurines waltz hand-in-hand among the painted swan wings and dancing bears.
"It's Papa and Mama…"
He traces a fingertip over the box, but the light blue in Alexei's eyes dims. Anastasia hears him wheeze once more, harder and shuddering, combing her hand through his damp auburn locks. She kisses him, over and over, fiercely gulping down a sob.
May God watch over them.
.
.
Dimitri overhears.
A man named Rasputin — a holy man; a fraud; a most trusted and beloved companion to the Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova — spoke of wickedness against the royal family. Vengeance and bloodlust. And now, she hears gunshots.
The palace servants flee, grabbing the silver and expensive finery. Dimitri crashes around them, looking for an exit.
Up ahead, there's another corridor.
Dimitri skids to a halt, panting and open-mouthed. The crack of rifles go off… and what she sees…
Tsar Nicholas II Alexandrovich Romanov falls to the ground. Blood soaks into his linen nightshirt. Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova shrieks hysterically, crying and clutching onto an equally terrified Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna Romanova.
Grand Duchess Tatiana Nikolaevna Romanova faints behind them.
More men in brownish-green jackets crowd.
Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna Romanova, kneeling at their feet, prays and motions the sign of the cross.
Dark flecks of gore sprays onto the walls.
The air swirls with smoke and burns like gunpowder. One of the men begins to laugh, kicking the gurgling and blood-drenched form of the Tsarina. She weakly stretches a hand to Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov, already slain. His little skull torn open by the lead pellets.
Dimitri gawks, slamming fingers over her quivering lips as an intense wave of nausea engulfs her.
She runs the opposite direction, numbly witnessing as the Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna is whisked off by footmen protecting her. The old woman hollers "Anastasia! Anastasia, my darling!" and Dimitri feels the numbness receding.
The princess…
Alive?
There's less murderous men in the direction they're all headed. Rooms for the servants. Dimitri forces herself to go for the nursery, closer to the men with their rifles, and to where the Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna was pointing and yelling about her granddaughter.
Fortunately, Dimitri closes the oaken double doors behind her in time.
It's so dark.
By the light of the pale moon, she glimpses Princess Anastasia huddled up behind a rocking chair. Her long, auburn hair tangled. Blue ribbon unfurling. There's several scratches on her chin, but Dimitri's unsure if they were done this night.
"Come on," Dimitri orders, trying to sound braver than she is. It seems to work as Princess Anastasia's hands grasp hers.
They rush across the nursery as heavy, thunderous footsteps near.
Dimitri presses around the wall, trying to locate an edge before opening a hatch. "Go through here," she says urgently. "You'll find the servant's quarters. They'll bring you to the Dowager Empress and you can both escape under the Alexander bridge."
"I can't—" Princess Anastasia whispers tearfully. "I can't leave Alexei—my sisters—Papa, where is my Papa?!—"
Every time Dimitri blinks, she sees them. Their corpses.
Nausea rears up.
Dimitri gulps again loudly, willing back the strong instinctual need to cry and to vomit.
"Run. You have to run, Your Highness."
"But—!"
She roughly grabs onto Princess Anastasia's upper arms, shaking her, enraged and scared. So scared. "You can't protect anyone if you can't protect yourself," Dimitri says icily. Her copper-brown eyes moisten as the other girl weeps. "So stay alive."
Footsteps. Footsteps pounding as quick as Dimitri's heart.
She drags Princess Anastasia into the wall's opening by the collar of her oversized, blood-red jacket.
Blood.
Dimitri stifles a gag, her eyes watering and her cheeks damp. Something heavy and golden tumbles to the floor. Dimitri only has a second to glance at it. Princess Anastasia gasps, struggling against Dimitri's hold. "My music box!" she begs, yelping as Dimitri shoves her hard.
"Go!" Dimitri shouts, closing up the wall. "Go!"
"In here!"
The nursery doors splinter open, its locks useless. Men with short, trimmed beards. They're dressed like nameless soldiers, wearing the brown fur caps and those jackets, carry in their rifles. Aiming them at a pinch-faced Dimitri.
"Where are they, boy?!"
Dimitri chucks one of the phonograph players off a desk, grunting. She misses narrowly.
A tall man, with ashy hair and eyebrows, wields his rifle like a blunt weapon. He thrusts it into Dimitri's stomach, knocking the air out of her. He violently hits again, whacking her across the face as Dimitri buckles onto the ground, falling unconscious.
.
.
WHACK—
Dimitri bolts upright from sleep, creaking the cot.
Her own shuddery gasp rings out.
Dimitri's hand flies to her wide, angular jaw, rubbing down. Trying to alleviate a bruising echo from the past.
Ten years. Ten years since the Romanov executions.
She wipes off her cold and perspiring face, grimacing at the stickiness of her naked body.
WHACK—
A powdery snowball bounces off window-glass. Dimitri forgoes the tattered sleeping robe, unlatching and peering out.
Down below, Vladimir Vanya Vonitsky Vasilovich gestures with both hands, reaching up with his silver-coated pocketwatch and tapping it. He's also known as "Vlad" to his close and personal friends. Not that Vlad has many friends left after the executions.
She mouths out a silent okay! okay! okay! in aggravation, rolling her eyes and shutting the window quietly.
It's a very busy day ahead.
St. Petersburg thrives with the gossip of Princess Anastasia surviving. They're all fools.
That's what Dimitri is counting on.
Dimitri finds a bowl of clean but near-freezing water, splashing her face, wiping down her breasts and armpits and stomach with a rag. She grits her teeth, wiping harder, pushing down the memories of the Romanovs. Their beautiful, dead faces.
The woman in Dimitri's bed, naked and long-limbed, shifts awake. Dimitri bites down a groan.
"Whrr are you going…?"
"I'm right here," Dimitri says neutrally, raising her eyebrows as if innocent. It's almost sad to see the other woman's confusion and hurt. She continues to dress, standing and binding herself flat with layers of canvas cloth. "Where are you going?"
"Dimitri…?"
"Sorry about not cuddling," she admits, not sounding very sorry at all. Dimitri slips on a white shirt underneath a grey waistcoat and a darkly colored traveler's trenchcoat. "I'm afraid I'm not the cuddling type. You were great, Klara. Look me up in Paris."
An offended, sniffly noise.
"My name is Nonna."
"That's what I said, Nonna," Dimitri responds, smiling prettily and hoisting a leg out of the window. She hops onto the roof. From there, it's a short, snowy slide down onto a tent. Dimitri hops again onto the cobblestone road and beams at Vladimir.
Vladimir squints his eyes through his glasses.
"You didn't—say you didn't." He gazes up at the empty window. "Not again."
"Fine. I won't."
The woman screams out Dimitri's name, half-hanging out. Dimitri ignores her, dusting off her brown trousers and shoes. No worn holes in them. So far. Vladimir gapes shamelessly, waving between Dimitri's latest "personal audition" and Dimitri herself.
"DIMITRI!"
"Vlad, take a deep breath with me." Dimitri steadies him, touching his shoulders with friendly intent and listening to Vladimir poorly sucking in air. She mimics him in exaggeration, chuckling. "Listen, it was gonna get out sooner or later. You knew that. I knew that. So—that's why you and me gotta find the Princess Anastasia we need tonight—and get the ever-loving hell out of this dump—"
"This is not the first time you've slept with an actress," Vladimir reminds her, scoffing.
"And yet, no one seems to be the wiser about me." Dimitri gives him an overly pleasant look. "I'm a woman who enjoys women, Vlad. Not a leper. A woman pretending to be a man, who happens to be a conman to men and women, for our mutual benefit."
She yanks a green tie around her neck, pausing from tying it on. Digging out an item.
"Once the Dowager Empress sees this, the search will be over. We will have her in the palm of our hand," Dimitri insists, slapping Valdimir's back and fondly observing the music box. "The hundreds and hundreds of rubles? They're as good as ours."
"Are they?"
"We just need the right girl." Dimitri says thoughtfully, walking closer. "She's out there, Vlad. Right under our noses—"
His shoulder knocks into a person.
Excuse me!
Dimitri ignores this woman as well, busy with her schemes and dreams of a cozy life.
.
.
There's no luck at the stage house. Once they're back inside the ruins of the Alexander palace, Vladimir lights a fire. Dimitri sips from a wine bottle, hunching over the papers in her lap and clucking her tongue. She flings the names of their actresses aside.
"Maybe we've been going about this all wrong…"
"How?" Vladimir asks, scraping his fork against a plate. Dinner tonight consists of porridge and red wine. Lots of wine.
Dimitri scratches her nails into her cropped, dark red hair.
"Give me a minute," she monotones, looking up at the ceiling. "I will figure that out."
Vladimir narrows his eyes.
"No."
"No?" Dimitri repeats, bemused.
"We call Yelena."
She springs out of the chair, dropping the wine bottle. Red wine gushes onto Dimitri's shoes. "Yelena!?"
Vladimir nods.
"Yelena Lagunov fits the physical description and she knows the lines—"
"—with the personality of a cabbage—"
"—and she's cheap—"
"—until Yelena learns the amount of reward money we are getting and threatens to expose the con if we don't give her ninety percent," Dimitri argues, blinking rapidly as if trying to process this conversation. "I know women like this, Vlad. She's a shark."
"Then what do you suggest we do, Dimitri?" Vladimir asks, grinning mockingly-wide. "Hmm?"
Dimitri sighs, grinding a hand over her nose.
She's broken her nose more times than counting fingers on a hand. Punches, kicks, metal pipes, accidents… at least when Dimitri was pretending to be a kitchen boy, she was safer and warmer… living on the cold, snowy streets when the Romanovs were gone… Dimitri had to have tougher skin, to fight and to disappear and to steal more effectively, but… she still felt alone…
A lovely singing voice fills Dimitri's ears. So sweet and high.
(But where is it coming from?)
It's like a distant memory…
"Dimitri?"
Vladimir watches, puzzled, as his hazy-eyed companion steps out of the parlor.
The voice is clearer and louder as Dimitri wanders out towards the grand ballroom. She half-expects to see it illuminated with the brass chandeliers now rotted, and the nobles dancing upon the endless, gilded floor. It's only an auburn-haired woman.
She sings to herself, waltzing and bowing to invisible dancers.
Dimitri's heart flutters.
That's when everything aligns perfectly in place.
.
.
Perfect.
That's exactly what Anya is.
The blue Romanov eyes. Nicholas II's smile. The Tsarina's chin. She even has a faint resemblance to the Dowager Empress. Vladimir says it is Anya's long, pale hands but Dimitri thinks it's in her cheekbones. She's the same age, same physical type.
Dimitri heads back for the train-compartment, ducking out of the path of a military man with a rifle. Dimitri doesn't like rifles or the scent of gunpowder. Loud cracking noises give her anxiety. The sight of any blood makes Dimitri queasy. She knows why, and she doesn't want to think about it. Vladimir leaves the compartment with Anya's mutt, cooing to him, bouncing him.
She pokes her head in. Anya slumps by the window-seat, her eyes following the mountains as they roll by.
They're getting off on the wrong foot.
And… maybe… Dimitri is a little pushy. She can admit that.
But it's all so perfect. Anya has no idea who she is and that is ideal for the con. Hell, maybe the Dowager Empress will like her so much that Anya will have a new family AND get crowned as a member of the royal family. Even if it's not true.
It's a win for everyone.
"Comfortable, Your Highness?"
Dimitri plops down next to Anya, crossing her arms. She looks over her smugly. A skinny brat, but Anya really is very beautiful.
"You know…" Anya murmurs. "Here's what I don't understand… you just met me…"
"Yes."
"And you're convinced somehow that I'm the Grand Duchess Anastasia…"
"Yes, I am," Dimitri answers blandly. She watches in faint amusement as Anya straightens up, facing Dimitri and cradling a red and bruised apple to herself. Vladimir must have bought it for her. "Is this observation leading somewhere?"
"Why…?"
The tip of Dimitri's tongue clicks on her bottom teeth.
"Because I've seen a thousand girls all over this country," she announces, "and not one of them has come closer than you."
Anya's expression tightens. "That doesn't answer my question."
Dimitri reaches over, snatching up Anya's polished apple, biting into it. Within seconds, Anya stomps on Dimitri's foot and Dimitri yelps, handing it back to her. "Jeez!" she mutters, chewing irritably. "You're going to Paris like you wanted! Be grateful!"
A nasally snort.
"To you?"
"Would that be so horrible?" Dimitri replies, pulling her socked foot out of her shoe and rubbing the big toe. She keeps her head low. Anya huffs, folding her arms again and brooding out the window. It takes a long moment, but Anya speaks up again.
"I don't let any man tell me how to feel or think…"
Dimitri can't help but smirk.
"I can understand that," she whispers, glimpsing the corner of Anya's mouth uplifting.
Oh boy.
.
.
After the incident with the train, Dimitri and Vladimir use more caution. They lead Anya to a unregistered cargo ship in Germany.
Vladimir has been sensing Dimitri's growing fondness for the other woman. A kind of emotion that Dimitri wouldn't be used to experiencing. She's a hard, clever woman from an upbringing where Dimitri raised herself among fugitives and thieves.
It's the softness in how Dimitri addresses Anya. How she observes her and touches Anya's back and seems encouraging.
"Do you like her?"
Their chessboard sways, and Dimitri quickly clutches her end, balancing the pieces. "Are you talking about the personal auditions?" she says musingly, taking up one of Vladimir's white rooks, playing with it absently. "No, I think that's over."
Vladimir tilts his head a little, suppressing a smile.
"That doesn't answer my question, Dimitri."
Someone clears their throat for their attention. Anya spins herself, preening and grinning like sunshine. It's a plain blue dress, but on her — Vladimir can already see Dimitri's completely stunned look. "Oh boy," Dimitri whispers, rising to her feet unsteadily.
"Oh boy," Vladimir mutters, finally smiling and shaking his head. He pats Dimitri's shoulder sympathetically.
.
.
Something about Dimitri feels… unusual? Familiar?
Anya knew it as soon as Dimitri's hands settled to her waist. He let Anya lead the ship's waltz. He protects her. Dimitri looks at Anya like she's the bright and elusive moon swallowed up by the sea, and he wants to drown with her. Drown in her.
Her cheeks flush. Anya groans out in frustration, tossing herself down on a thin, dirty blanket.
Nothing makes sense. Nothing in her life. She was found as a child, alone, wandering the street. No memories.
Well, Anya has a few memories.
She remembers a man with brown hair and dark eyes smiling down on her. His elegant white suit with a pale blue sash gleams. She remembers kissing someone's hair. Auburn hair like hers. She remembers running after a greying woman shouting for her.
It doesn't help her.
Anya ended up in an orphanage until she was too old to be there.
She befriended the girls and leading them into mischievous pranks and make-believe adventures down the unscrubbed hallways. She daydreamed in lessons. Anya would tell wild, fantastical stories to help the younger girls who cried about parents who abandoned them or cried out in fright during the height of the winter storms. She defended them against Comrade Phlegmenkoff who slapped or whipped or lashed Anya by the belt.
But traveling with these two men… it gives Anya some hope in finding any family left to her. Anya's hands fiddle with her gilded necklace. It fit into Dimitri's old jewelry box like a key. That's the strange part. Anya could make the box play a lullaby.
Is that a coincidence?
Anya doesn't know. She rests her head down, snuggling with Pooka who yaps and whines happily against her face.
Her head feels light.
Dizzy.
Anastasia lifts herself from a patch of green grass. She brushes the film of transparent dandelion fluff out of eyelashes. A boy, small and overly pale, appears over a hill. His striped sailor shirt flaps in the wind. He beckons to her, her lips curling up.
ANYA—
She joins him, comfortably holding his hand.
"Be careful near the rocks, Alexei," Anastasia scolds him lightheartedly, feeling him tug harder.
Over by the swimming hole, Papa waves to them, laughing uproariously and joyful. Alexei breaks from Anastasia's grip, running to Papa who hugs him like a bear. Kisses both of Alexei's rosy cheeks with great, heartfelt affection. His only son. His heir.
Mama, wearing a silk, white dress, lingers under an orange tree. She shades herself out of view with a silk, white umbrella.
"Too slow," Olga teases, playfully elbowing a squacking, surprised Anastasia.
Tatiana cackles and elbows Olga as they race each other to the edge of the swimming hole. Their auburn hair glimmers under the light. Their swimsuits freshly laundered by the maids up in the summer house. Anastasia can see it towering over the hill.
ANYA—
"Come on, Nastenka!" Maria yells in her ear, pinching Anastasia and racing into the clearing.
Anastasia chases her, giggling along with Maria and basking in the sudden show of familial competitive spirit. She doesn't jump. Instead, Anastasia gazes down fearfully into the miles-long hole. It's so far. Anastasia's toes curl.
ANYA—
"Sunshine!" Papa calls out, clapping his hands and beckoning her as Alexei did. "Jump in!"
ANYA, STOP—
"Jump!"
The water around him darkens into blood.
ANYA—
NO—
Rainwater batters against Anya's face. She gasps awake, panting and trembling in Dimitri's hands clutching her. They're high up. So high. Dimitri lifts a hysterical, rambling Anya into his arms, shushing her, carrying her away from the ledge.
May God watch over them.
.
.
"Have you ever done any sleepwalking before?"
Below deck, Anya bends over and wraps herself in layers of blankets. Dimitri hands her another, squatting down onto Vladimir's suitcase. "Not since I was eight," Anya mumbles. "I tried to jump off a potter's roof in Kirovsk. An older girl stopped me."
That makes sense. Dimitri isn't familiar with how this works.
She reaches for Anya's hands, sitting across her. Dimitri grasps loosely, rubbing them together and puffing hotly on Anya's skin.
"It's the stress, Anya."
"I almost killed myself," she says outraged. Her light blue eyes drip with tears. "I could have killed you."
"But you didn't."
Dimitri lets go patiently, rummaging through her jacket for a matchbox. Anything for more heat to warm them. Their nightshirts soaking wet. "You can't protect anyone if you can't protect yourself," Anya whispers, hugging her knees to her chest.
Those peculiar words ring within Dimitri's skull.
"What did you say…?"
"Dimitri," Anya insists, shivering and wide-eyed in defeat. "Maybe I'm not the right person for this."
"No, Anya. You are. I swear we will get to Paris." She reaches for Anya's hands again, giving a hearty, reassuring squeeze. Dimitri uses one of her infamously charming grins. "Nothing's gonna happen to you while I'm here. You're safe with me. Always."
Anya snorts nasally. Dimitri's grins softens into a natural benevolence.
"Thank you."
The urge to kiss Anya on the mouth whispers in the back of Dimitri's mind.
Dimitri hangs her head, slightly embarrassed.
.
.
Hearing about Sophie — Sophie Slovslayevna Smovorkof Smirnov, the Dowager Empress' cousin — puts Anya in a bad mood. She complains about lying to Sophie, and Dimitri and Vladimir let her cool her nerves before heading up to Sophie's home.
It's a quaint little cottage bursting with lilacs and daisies in the gardens. Sophie loves her porcelain teacups.
"Very good," she praises Anya for another well-received question. Vladimir pats off his forehead with a handkerchief. "Yes. Very good indeed. Now, let's see. Can you tell me about your Mother's ladies-in-waiting? What were their names?"
Anya pauses.
"They were Anna Alexandrovna Vyrubova and Yulia Alexandrovna von Dehn," she recites. "But we called her Lili."
"Did she have any family?"
"Her parents were Ismail Selim Bek Smolsky and Catherine Horvat. Lili's husband was a Russian naval officer named Karl von Dehn and she had a son with him named Alexander Leonide not long after marrying." Dimitri breathes out in relief, practically collapsing onto the mantle. Thank god. She wondered if Anya had been paying attention to those lessons while they were in Poland.
Anya's gaze goes unfocused.
"Titi loved cinnamon and honey on his bread," she murmurs. "He would make such a fuss if there wasn't any for him."
"I see," Sophie answers pleasantly. "You are the first girl to remember his nickname."
Dimitri narrows her eyes.
What?
There was no such records of Alexander Leonide being called "Titi" by the Princess Anastasia. Or any of the nickname itself.
"I am going to ask you a question I have not asked the other girls. But I am confident in your ability to speak truthfully." Anya nods, and Dimitri flinches, running her fingers into her dark red, cropped hair. No, no. "How did you escape that night?"
Vladimir groans.
Anya's expression goes solemn.
"It's odd. I almost wanna say it's like a dream," she confesses. "But there was a boy. A boy who worked in the palace." Anya's hand raises into the air, and Dimitri feels the whole room shrinking. Shrinking down into nothingness. "He opened a wall…"
Heart pounding, Dimitri retreats out into the gardens. She lights a cigarette.
Anastasia, you mustn't!
Tsarina Alexandra said you could only have water!
The voices of the past shriek and writhe around her like ghosts.
Dimitri closes her eyes. She can see it — the yellows and pinks — circular headdresses of precious jewels — teal gowns —
"WWWWEEEEEE DID IT!" Vladimir crows, huffing towards her. He hugs Dimitri around the middle, hiking her up, as Dimitri protests loudly, lowering her. "Our brilliant little Anya! She did incredible! More than incredible! I had tears in my eyes! She knew it all!"
"She's the real deal, Vlad," Dimitri says quietly.
"Isn't she?" Vladimir wheezes in excitement. "I almost believed her! Can you imagine?!"
"Vlad…"
"Sophie said that the Dowager Empress doesn't want to see any girls, but we can visit after the ballet. Anya can perform in front of the Dowager Empress, like she did to Sophie, and we—we will be rolling in the hundreds and hundreds of rubles—!"
"VLAD!" Dimitri yells, reddening. Vladimir hesitates. "She knew!"
"Knew what?"
Dimitri pants. "I never tell you…" Smoke curls out between Dimitri's opening lips. She takes another drag of her cigarette. "I never told anyone about the wall," Dimitri admits, her voice low. "The wall that opened up and led to the servant's quarters."
"… You were the boy?"
"Yeah, Vlad. That was me."
Vladimir gawks, stroking his dark beard.
"Anya IS the lost princess," he declares. "We had her the whole time."
Dimitri nods, frowning.
(And now they had to let her go.)
.
.
Paris glitters like newly fallen snow.
Dimitri tightens up her binding cloths, moaning and placing a hand over her sternum.
"Be careful to not faint," Vladimir advises, eyeing her.
"I know what I'm doing. I've been at this since I got these damn things." Dimitri glares at her full, high breasts. A persistent knock sounds from the other side of the chamber-door. Vladimir goes to answer, waiting for Dimitri to cover up with a tuxedo-shirt.
Anya greets them with a nervous smile. She's wearing a midnight blue dress. Diamond jewelery. Rouge on her lips and cheeks.
"Can I come in?"
Vladimir sends Dimitri a coy look, stepping outside.
"I, uhm. You don't need to ask for permission," Dimitri stammers, her mouth falling open in awe. She tries to button up the shirt hastily. Near tripping over one of their suitcases. Anya chuckles. "You're, uhh, you're the Grand Duchess."
"Don't I?" Anya says gleefully. "What kind of person would I be?"
The room shrinks again. Dimitri inhales the perfume of Anya's furs and her handsoap. She's close. She's so close to Dimitri. Anya steps in, gazing over Dimitri's handsome features with admiration. Love and understanding.
One of Anya's white opera-length gloves brushes over Dimitri's mouth.
"Anya…" she whispers, involuntarily shutting her eyes when Anya leans in, their noses bumping. Noises seem muffled. Dimitri's heart pounds too fast. "No… no, I can't…" Dimitri says, turning away and missing when Anya pouts at Dimitri's back.
"Why…?"
"It's not…" Dimitri proclaims breathlessly, scratching the back of her neck. "It's not that I don't want you…"
"Then what is it?"
Everything's shrinking and darkening. Dimitri's lungs ache. "We should go… …"
"Dimitri!" Anya gasps, leaping forward as the other woman's legs give out. She helps her sit up on the carpet. "Dimitri, wake up!" That's when Anya notices the tuxedo-shirt opened. And the chest-bindings. Dimitri regains her senses, suddenly terrified.
"Anya, no…"
"I don't understand," Anya murmurs, staring at the bindings and realizing what they're for. "I thought…"
"Wait, I need to explain…"
"You've been a woman and never bothered to tell me?" When there's no answer, Anya opens her mouth to laugh humorlessly. Her long, gloved forefinger jabs Dimitri's arm. Repeatedly. "How. many. more. secrets. are you keeping from me, Dimitri?"
"I need to tell you them, please," Dimitri says, dreading how resentment lines every inch of Anya's face. "I'll tell you everything. The Dowager Empress doesn't know we're coming. We never planned to tell her. She doesn't want to see us or anyone claiming to her lost granddaughter because they're all liars. They want money. There's a reward for finding the Princess Anastasia—"
Anya slaps Dimitri harshly, her nostrils flaring. Those light blue eyes so dark with anger.
Dimitri sits there, unable to offer an apology.
There's nothing that can fix this.
"I knew you were keeping something from me," Anya says coolly. "I knew it… and I kept denying it…" From outside the window, Dimitri can hear the slightest note of apartment music and hum of engines. "What's your real name then?"
"Dimitri. My name is Dimitri."
Anya opens her mouth, eyebrows furrowing, and Dimitri stops her by holding up her hand. Her cheek stinging-hot. "I chose my name," she explains to Anya. "I chose to be everything I am right now instead of a mother who left me to die in the snow."
"… You're an orphan too?"
"Yes."
"Then you should have known better," Anya hisses, her eyes visibly moistening.
"Let me make this right." Dimitri nods firmly, slipping off her tuxedo-shirt. Unbinding herself. "You ARE the Dowager Empresses' granddaughter. You ARE the Princess Anastasia," she insists. "You know it. You FEEL it in your bones."
Anya sniffles.
"What if this is your lies clouding my memories?"
"You knew about the wall." The glower from Anya fades. Shock replaces it. "Nobody but me and Princess Anastasia knew about the wall that opened. How she escaped the Romanov execution that night. That's how I knew it was you all along," Dimitri tells her earnestly. "I found Princess Anastasia in the nursery. I told her to run and she dropped her music box and I kept it."
Dimitri points to her black dinner coat hanging off the top of a wooden chair.
Anya grabs it desperately, crying openly, and rustles through a coat-pocket. The gilded-and-pearl object shines under the lamplight.
"You have to talk to her, Anya."
.
.
Vladimir provides the distraction, embracing a flirtatious Sophie in the doorway and nibbling her ear. Dimitri and Anya hide by the grand staircase, blending in with their dark outfits, waiting for the lovebirds to enter into the saloon before heading upstairs.
In one of the bedrooms, pacing and muttering to herself, is the Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna.
Anya stays out of sight for now, peeking through a crack in the door.
Dimitri knocks politely, entering.
"I mean you no harm. Don't be frightened, Your Grace," she announces calmly. "My name is Dimitri."
"How DARE you come into my home unannounced!"
"Just listen to me for a moment, Your Grace," Dimitri insists. "Anastasia has come. She's here."
Anya's throat clenches.
But is it true? Or is she just hoping that Dimitri is right?
"I've heard of you, Dimitri," Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna scolds her. Wagging a long, pale finger. "You're a conman from St. Petersburg. You audition these girls to pretend to be my granddaughter in hopes of tricking me for the reward money."
"Not her," Dimitri interrupts. She says it with such conviction in her deep voice that Anya's pulse skips. "Not this time."
"I've also heard you are not even a man—so which are you? Are you a conman or a spineless woman with no pity or heart?"
Dimitri's mouth scrunches.
"Get out of my sight!"
"Please!" Anya shouts, barging in. She grasps onto the loose, sparkling gossamer of her dress. "Please don't fight… please…"
Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna appears startled. Her color drains.
"I know who you think Dimitri is. Maybe you're right. But I am still trying to figure out who I am," Anya begs. "I was hoping you would tell me."
"My child, I cannot be certain of anything. Truth or lies. But I am tired of not knowing which is spoken in my presence."
The greying woman sweeps past Dimitri. Anya blinks, confused.
"Peppermint…?"
"It's an oil from my hands, child."
"Wasn't there a bottle?" Anya blurts out, her light blue eyes unfocusing. She feels a tingling warmth spread through her. "Yes. Yes, it… it spilled on the rug when I was chasing Baby… he got mad and pushed me, and I fell. I knocked the bottle on the rug. Mama was so furious that she had me on my hands and knees with a pail. But the smell never went away…"
Dimitri hesitates, glancing between the other women.
"I would lay on that rug, and oh, how I missed you when you went away…" Anya mumbles, smiling to herself and playing with the end of her little necklace-key. "You would come here… to Paris… and… and the music box was our way of being together…"
"Here," Dimitri says, presenting out the object to a grateful Anya. She nods, mouthing out Anya's name.
Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna, looking more stern and afraid than before, falls onto a cushion with her walking cane. "I lost that music box," she croaks. "Many years ago. I lost it along with my son and his beautiful children."
"I think it's time you've been reunited with it," Dimitri tells her, grinning and touching Anya's back. "And with someone else."
Anya sits beside the Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna — her grandma — and uses her gilded, flowery-shaped necklace to twist open the music box. It springs open, the lullaby twinkling as golden as the day Princess Anastasia first received it.
"Anastasia!" Grandma Marie cries out, hugging a sobbing, smiling Anya and dissolving into tears. "My Anastasia!"
.
.
Dimitri vanishes.
It's difficult to know what Anya is feeling right now. She wants to see Dimitri, but there's so much going on.
Vladimir becomes part of the imperial court once again. The nobles welcome Anya with open and diamond-glittering arms. Her and Grandma Marie head from the villa, and to one of the royal palaces in Paris wishing to hold a ball to celebrate the return of Princess Anastasia.
The amnesia lasted for so long. Ten years. Ten years of loneliness.
Anya starts to remember.
Little by little.
"Do you remember the lemon tree?" Anya murmurs, folding her arms and laying her head down on the royal blue chaise. "Tatiana yelled at me for skipping German lessons. I threw a lemon and hit her forehead—oh goodness—"
"You were a lively child," Grandma Marie assures her, petting Anya's auburn curls.
Anya smiles bashfully. "I was a monster," she declares. "Nina was right."
"Princess Nina Georgievna?"
"My cousin called me nasty. She said I had a mean disposition."
Grandma Marie tuts in disdain. "No, my darling. You—"
"I was a spoiled little brat, Grandma. I can admit that." Anya lifts her head, suddenly humiliated. Her light blue eyes rounding out. "Oh," she whispers as if horrified. "Oh no, I remember the gloves. I ate my chocolats with the white opera gloves on—"
Their laughter fills up the chamber-room.
Pooka yawns from a velvety pillow.
Anastasia's childhood paintings scatter to the floor. Chests of diamonds and gems owned by the Romanovs. Anya feels the satin of her rosy pajamas on her bare, lotioned skin, and wonders if this is right. If this is what she wants.
She always wanted to come to Paris… and to find out who Anya was and if she belonged to a family…
If there's things her heart still needs to know…
"I wonder where Dimitri is now," Anya says ruefully. Her heart feels like a painful knot. She's still processing that Dimitri's a liar and a woman, but it doesn't change how she feels about him — her. "Probably spending all of her money as fast as possible."
Grandma Marie, wearing long, cream robes of satin, touches Anya's face.
"My darling Anastasie… you must understand…" she murmurs. "Dimitri came when I sent for her. She didn't take the money."
Anya's mouth hangs open.
"Why not?"
"A change of mind. A change of heart." Grandma Marie shrugs, grinning kindly. "Who is to say? Maybe you should ask her."
Heat, swelling and trickling, pushes behind Anya's eyes.
"Grandma…"
"All I've ever wanted, my darling Anastasia… what I hope and dreamed of…" Wrinkled fingers swipe away the tears rolling down Anya's pale, perfumed cheeks. "What I wanted to see with my eyes… was you alive. Now your future is up to you."
Anya gulps, staring pleadingly. She thinks of Alexei, her darling, dead little brother. Her older sisters. Papa's smile.
"I don't know what I want…"
"Let us find out."
.
.
She should have left by now.
Vladimir blesses her, kissing the cross on his neck. He then warmly kisses Dimitri's cheek.
There's a row of silvery palace steps below her. Dimitri strolls them, up and down, muttering to herself. She runs her fingers through dark red strands. "No—yes—no, absolutely not—I can't—" Dimitri says hopelessly, grinding a palm to her eyelids.
"Dimitri?"
Below, Anya gazes up the palace-steps. She's beautiful in the layers of soft, gilded cloth and Nicolas II's pale blue sash.
"Anya, you," Dimitri mumbles, flustered. "You, uhm… wow…"
"I thought you left."
"The boat is docking," she explains, going moonstruck as Anya takes a step up further. "I wanted to tell Vlad goodbye."
Disappointment floods Anya's expression.
"Oh…"
"I guess…" Dimitri trails off, strolling down to face her. She lifts her chin bravely. "This is goodbye, Your Highness." Dimitri clears her throat, bowing and touching Anya's hand to her mouth. Dimitri's lips pucker against a knuckle, deliberately missing the ring.
She wants this memory forever.
How Anya feels. How she tastes like peppermint oil and rosewater.
Dimitri turns sharply, inhaling.
She's about to descend more steps before a very heavy item whacks her shoulder-blade. Heavy like many jewels. Anya's diamond tiara rolls uselessly. "Jeez!" Dimitri yelps, rubbing herself as Anya fumes. Her auburn hair a mess.
Anya rips off the royal sash, joining Dimitri and grabbing her hand, stomping down the palace-stairs.
Dimitri stares at her, confounded and flushed.
"What the hell—Anya!—"
The doubts fade with a hot press of flesh to flesh. Anya kisses her fiercely, their teeth clinking, holding Dimitri's face to her.
"Were you really going to make me follow you—?"
"I'm so sorry—" Dimitri breathes, using both hands to cradle Anya's powdered face. She kisses Anya deeply.
There will be a headline in the morning:
THE PRINCESS ANASTASIA — RETURNED AND VANISHED
But it's only half of the story.
She gives up the crown, and Dimitri gives up the money. They wander off of Paris' soil into a cozy life, twirling under the ship-lights. Hand-in-hand. They are women who love and understand each other. No more loneliness.
No more nightmares.
No more.
.
.