Aaaand I'm back! Novel is complete, query letter is written, so we'll see what happens. This fic if the only writing on my agenda now, so let's get'r done! A warning on this particular chapter, though - things are about to get, er...dark. Hope you're cool with that. Once again, thanks for your patience. You guys are absolutely amazing. Enjoy!
Reviews = LOVE
J.F
It was one thing to entertain the remote likelihood of being a Grand Duchess, and another to hope she was royalty. Trusting in the certainty that she was Anastasia, not only in her head but in her heart, instantly transformed Anya's murky future into a glorious vista of possibility.
She'd stared into Dimitri's eyes and had seen the princess she could become again: respected, adored, loved by a real family. The only things beyond food and shelter Anya could ever remember wanting. Things now so close she could taste them.
Anya had never understood nor had confidence in her companions' blind faith. But they'd kept their promise to break her out of Russia, bringing her infinitely closer to Paris than she would have gotten flying solo.
After all they'd been through together thus far, the pair had more than earned her trust.
She let Dimitri take the reins of her Romanov re-education. Her first lesson began before they'd even left the brook, with Dimitri and Vladimir demonstrating the proper form and pace of a royal stride.
It seemed easy enough, so Anya sashayed in their footsteps only to have Dimitri shake his head and pull her by her coat back to where she started.
"Keep your shoulders back," he said while standing behind her, hesitant hands pressing her shoulders together. "And don't sway your hips so much. Don't walk so much as float. Pretend you're walking on a cloud and you'll fall through if you let your foot come down too hard." The quick smirk Dimitri always had at the ready seemed stowed away for good. All business, he guided Anya's arms and legs with clinical precision, and a session she thought would take a few minutes at the most stretched on for hours.
Anya didn't complain. She no longer let herself question Dimitri's motives or his inexplicable intimate knowledge of royal behavior. It didn't matter. He was the teacher, Anya was the student, and she'd say and do what she was told. After all, obedience came more easily than ignoring the feel of Dimitri's fingers at the small of her back, or the brush of his lips on the back of her hand as he walked her through yet another curtsy.
She could only recall tidbits of their drunken night in Ludza, all of which were tangled in a web of sensation she could make little sense of.
Cool, smooth glass against her fingertips...Dimitri's throaty laughter...the leaden weight of her limbs...the hot dampness of skin against her own.
Anya studied the gravel between her feet as Dimitri corrected her posture again, hoping he couldn't see the fire burning in her cheeks. Nothing had happened between them. She knew that. The one clear recollection she had was of feeling wonderful and safe - and clothed - before falling asleep. It wasn't as if she'd wanted anything to happen, either. Still, waking up alone in that tiny bed affected her more than she cared to admit.
Anya made a face as Vladimir approached her with a bundle of sticks in his fist. "What's that for?"
"Balance, Your Grace." He bowed low, settling the small weight atop Anya's head.
Dimitri grunted in approval. "If you're not sore by the time we make it to the next town, you're not doing it right."
Anya turned to him in surprise, her movements slow so as not to disturb her burden. "You want me to do this the whole time? You do remember how far we still have to go, right?"
"What about it?" Dimitri's face remained impassive. "Your only concern right now is 'floating' down this road until I tell you to stop." He made a motion with his finger for her to turn around. Rolling her eyes, Anya swiveled on her heel to face forward again and whistled for Pooka to follow her.
As she eased down the rutted road for miles without dropping so much as a twig, Vladimir kept her entertained with anecdotes about distant branches of the Romanov family tree. His humor was the only thing keeping her going by the time they arrived at their destination hours later.
They made for the first building they came across on the outskirts of town, a ubiquitous pub. Anya and Dimitri collapsed into chairs at the closest table to the door, Pooka curling up at Anya's feet with a wide yawn. Vladimir conversed briefly with the grizzled gentleman behind the bar before joining them.
"The bus will be here overnight," he said, settling his girth into the chair next to Dimitri. "It will leave at first light. We should find a place to sleep for the evening."
Dimitri nodded, then raised an eyebrow at Anya. "You sore yet?"
Anya lifted her head from the back of her chair to throw him a dirty look. "What do you think?"
"That's good," Dimitri said, on a chuckle that sounded foreign to Anya's ears after a full day of his new, sober demeanor. "By tomorrow, it'll already be second nature."
"If you say so." She watched with alarm when Dimitri pulled a stained piece of paper from the pocket of his coat. "What are you doing?"
"About to ask the bartender for something to write with. You need to start memorizing the names of all these royalty. The sooner you - "
"No," Anya said, her objection underscored by an exaggerated head shake. She grimaced and rubbed at the stiff muscles in her neck. "I was done with today's lesson the second we hit that door." She jerked her thumb at the pub's entrance.
"You think the Dowager will care that you were too tired to remember who her mother was?"
"Right now, I don't care. I need food, then a bed. You can teach me some more about my long lost past first thing in the morning."
Dimitri sighed, putting away the paper. He frowned his disapproval. "Don't think I'm going easy on you tomorrow. There's lots to teach you and not enough time to do it. We'll be in France soon and you need to know this stuff like the back of your hand."
"And I will, I promise." Anya leaned forward and pouted. "But your show pony is exhausted, Dimitri. Can't you feed and water and rest me first before you put me back out on the track?"
Dimitri laughed, a deep belly chuckle that made Anya insanely happy.
"Speaking of which," Vladimir said with a smile of his own, "here comes the food."
A middle-aged woman arrived carrying a tray with a meaty stew for each of them. Eyes cast down, she placed a serving with a spoon before Anya and Vladimir.
When she reached Dimitri she lost her grip, almost sending his bowl skidding off the table to the floor.
"Alexsei?"
Anya froze mid-chew. Three pairs of eyes widened at the waitress staring at Dimitri with tears streaming down her sagging cheeks.
Dimitri flashed Anya a worried look and she covered her smile with her spoon. Dimitri turned back to the dark-haired woman. "Um...who?"
She visibly trembled and pressed her fingers to her lips, her hands covered with the same flour and bits of dough that embellished her dirty apron. She brushed away a tear with her knuckle.
Dimitri cleared his throat. "I think you might have the wrong - "
The stranger launched herself at him, flinging her fleshy arms around his neck amidst an ecstatic string of the local language none of them could understand. Vladimir hid an amused snort behind a cough.
"Dimitri, aren't you going to introduce us to your friend?" Anya had a difficult time suppressing her giggles with her napkin.
He shot daggers at Anya over the woman's shoulder just before she drew back to kiss him on both cheeks. It became impossible for Anya to contain her laughter at that point. She'd never seen Dimitri blush before.
Exasperated, Dimitri gently held the woman off with both hands. "Do you speak Russian?"
Features twisted in confusion, she nodded.
"Good. I'm very sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not Alexsei."
She moved away, hand over her mouth. "Not...Alexsei? My nephew?"
"I'm sorry," Dimitri said. Anya had never seen a person look mortified and remorseful at the same time.
The waitress flushed crimson, wiping her hands on her apron with a shaky laugh. "I sorry...not see him since little boy." She smiled wistfully at Dimitri. "You have...such same face."
Even Dimitri's ears turned red.
"We are from St. Petersburg, madam." Vladimir leaned into the woman's view, breaking her eye contact with Dimitri. "Would you happen to know of any inns nearby where we could stay for the night? We would be most grateful."
Her face brightened. "No pay for that - inns no good here. My home. Work over soon. You come tonight?"
Dimitri looked panicked. "Oh, we couldn't impose - "
Anya interrupted Dimitri's protest with a kick to the shin. A free bed meant more money for food. Ignoring his glare, she gave the woman her most dazzling smile. "That's so generous of you."
"Good people; I know this." She beamed at Anya. "I am Inga." She turned to leave, but not before reaching over to pat Dimitri's cheek one last time. "Such handsome boy. I bring beer, yes? No charge."
Once she'd left, Anya looked from Vladimir to Dimitri and they all burst out laughing.
Grinning, Anya shook her head in amazement. "What the hell was that?"
Dimitri folded his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair, the characteristic smirk in full effect. "Don't know. But who says you can't get by on good looks?"
After dinner, they nursed their complimentary mugs of beer until their waitress-turned-hostess rounded them up at closing time. With Pooka tucked under Anya's arm, the three of them trailed behind Inga a few blocks to a two-story clapboard house, one with a steep, sloping roof that butted against the forest line and had no close neighbors. Anya felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of sleeping in a bed softer than a pine board.
Inga yelped in surprise when the door swung open as her hand touched the handle. A stocky man stood framed by the doorway, scowling at them from the house's dimly lit interior.
Anya disliked him on sight. Strands of greasy black hair stuck to his forehead and his huge hooked nose reminded her of a hawk's beak. She wrinkled her nose at his overpowering odor of cooked onions and sweat. He leered at her in silence, like Scar Face during the dubinka game. But this didn't feel like competitive intimidation, as it was charged with something dark and unsettling that made Anya's skin crawl.
Inga clucked her tongue and pressed forward, shooing him from her path. "My son, Ivan," she said with a vague hand gesture, almost as an afterthought. She ushered them inside the toasty living room and closed the door behind them.
Vladimir and Dimitri stood stiff as posts at Anya's side, their eyes wandering around a living space packed with knick-knacks - ethnic dolls, dusty books, colorful figurines of tiny dancers made of glazed clay, half-melted candles. There was no surface or corner unadorned. Even Ivan became part of the decoration, withdrawing into the shadows and continuing to watch them, not speaking.
Anya started to think this may have been a bad idea.
Inga caught her attention. "You sleep here," she said, pointing at the long couch before the wood-burning fireplace in the center of the room. Anya nodded her understanding with an internal sigh. So much for the nice fluffy bed.
"Come," the older woman said to the rest of Anya's group, gesturing them to follow her up a set of wooden stairs that looked less than safe. Especially for Vladimir.
As Dimitri brought up the rear, Anya saw his eyes track Ivan as he slumped off and disappeared around a corner on the far side of the house. A moment later, an unseen door squealed opened and slammed shut. Anya hoped it was Ivan leaving for the night.
Dimitri stood halfway up the steps, looking torn between staying in the living room and continuing into the dark unknown beyond. His jaw clenched. "Are you...okay down here?"
Anya didn't exactly feel comfortable, but she grinned to reassure Dimitri she didn't need him hovering like a mother hen. She could handle herself. "I'm fine. Go get some rest."
Dimitri didn't appear convinced.
Anya sighed. "We can't leave now; it'll be rude. I'm okay. Stop worrying." She bent over Pooka sleeping on the couch and picked up one of his paws. She waved it at Dimitri. "Besides, I have a watchdog."
When Dimitri huffed a laugh, Anya wondered if she'd ever stop feeling like she'd won a prize every time she coaxed a genuine smile out of him.
"We're out of here before the sun comes up, so be ready." He cast one more thoughtful glance at Anya over his shoulder and continued upstairs.
That look kept Anya tossing and turning on the hard couch for hours, long after the flames in the fireplace had become embers. She sat up, throat parched beyond belief. Maybe Inga had a pump for water somewhere in the kitchen.
She felt her way from the couch to the small table where she'd spotted an oil lamp and matches earlier in the night. The halo of amber light guided Anya to an adjacent room, where she found a stove and a deep enamel sink. Locating the metal hand pump, she held up the lamp to look for a glass in the cupboard.
The shadowy outline of a man sitting at the table nearby almost made her drop the lamp in her fright.
Hand over her thundering heart, Anya set the lamp on the counter. Ivan's sharp features flickered in and out of the shadows. What in the world was he doing sitting in the dark? How long had he been there?
Gooseflesh erupted all over Anya's skin. She giggled nervously. "God, you scared me. I'm so thirsty...do you know where the glasses are?"
Ivan stayed silent in a way that felt pregnant with purpose.
Anya noticed the uptick in her pulse and tried to stay calm. Inga's son may have been repulsive, but that didn't necessarily make him a threat.
She heard the chair creak as Ivan rose, very slowly. He moved toward her, then stopped short. Anya thought he was going to open the cabinet. Instead, he stood and gaped at her, dark eyes rivaling the nighttime pressing in around them.
Anya suddenly felt like her lungs were too small. But she could handle this. No need to make a fuss over a glass of water. Waiting out the rest of the night with Vladimir and Dimitri upstairs seemed like a better option, anyway. She just needed to get out of the kitchen first.
"You know...on second thought, I think I'll just go back to bed." Anya cringed at the the quiver in her voice. Her eyes darted back and forth between Ivan and the doorway.
He shuffled to his left just enough to block her exit.
The first trickle of real fear sent Anya's heartbeat into overdrive. She took a steadying breath and backed away, hoping the door she'd heard slam earlier was here in the kitchen. When her heels hit the wall, she felt behind her for a handle. Relief surged through her body when her fingers found smooth metal and she turned the knob.
It was locked.
Trembling, she looked all around her for some kind of weapon if it came to that, but it was too dim on this side of the kitchen to see anything.
Ivan advanced and Anya had nowhere to go.
Chest heaving, she tried to reason with him. "Wh-what do you want? I don't...I don't have anything..."
The two words he spoke in halting Russian infused icy needles of terror into Anya's blood.
"Pretty girl."
And that's when she tried to run.
Ivan somehow caught her by the front collar before she could dart past him, slinging her to the floor and knocking the wind out of her. He fell on top of her, Anya gasping for air beneath his crushing weight. Grunting in her ear as his rough hands jammed her dress up around her waist, he fumbled with the closure of her underwear, that awful musty smell invading her nostrils, her body pinned in place as his knees forced her legs wide apart. Anya flailed blindly with elbows and knees, knowing what was about to happen if she did nothing, if she didn't fight.
Upon hearing a satisfying howl as she landed a blow, Anya shrieked the name of the person uppermost in her mind with every ounce of breath she had.
Then a bright flash of light accompanied an explosion of pain in her temple and everything went black.