Hi, guys! Please enjoy this early holiday gift with love from me to you :)
By the by, I joined the 21st century and am finally updating my Instagram on a pretty regular basis if anyone wants to come by and say hi! Details in my bio. Would love to meet ya!
crème fraîche = European sour cream
chocolat chaud = hot chocolate
kotik = pussycat
Reviews = love and pecan pie (my fave)
XOXO
J.F
It was here.
Dimitri and Vladimir had been preparing for this day for the entirety of Dimitri's adulthood, rehearsing their roles like top-billed actors at the famed Mikhailovsky Theatre - or for Dimitri, at least, like soldiers readying for war.
He should have been busy quelling his own trembling anxiety to ensure Anya was in fighting form for the Dowager's cousin, an interaction likely to be the most important of both his and Anya's lives.
All he seemed capable of at the moment, however, was leering whenever the tip of Anya's tongue found traces of chocolat chaud hiding in the corners of her mouth, or at the distinct roundness of her bosom when she absently brushed flakes of croissant from the front of her dress. Pulse thumping erratically, his thoughts swarmed around a singular focus:
She wanted him.
She tasted like springtime.
He wanted her, forever, in every possible way.
He was capable of forfeiting all the riches in the world just to keep her to himself.
Which was insanity if he had ever heard it.
In his defense, Anya's matter-of-fact breakfast confession had turned him inside out. He had only pushed her the night before as far as she'd wanted to go herself by her own admission. Which meant she had hungered for it just as much as he had.
The blunt statement served up with her piercing sapphire stare had stolen the oxygen right out of Dimitri's body, and as he sat across from her sipping inky black coffee he couldn't taste, he had yet to get it back. Each blink brought a new and creative vision of he and Anya in various states of undress, lips and limbs entangled atop their very table amidst the bread crumbs and rumpled white linen. He worried he may never breathe easy again.
As he continued to watch her smile and laugh with Vladimir, ten million rubles began to take on the appeal of a pile of wet ashes.
The sickening guilt planted in his gut by the belief that he'd treated Anya little better than Ivan had dissapated so suddenly, Dimitri still felt dazed. He didn't dare hope she lived on the same emotional plane that he did, but confirmation that his intense physical need wasn't rooted in delusion had opened a vista to a tantalizing new universe. And god, was he tempted to cross the threshold.
On the other side, she could be his and his alone.
Anya, her mood vivacious now as she chatted animatedly with Vladimir over the remnants of their morning meal, made Dimitri's heart trampoline off his liver and into his throat with every heated glance she threw his way - and there were many. She spoke to him directly a time or two, but he couldn't muster the brain power to do much beyond smile and nod and rub his palms compulsively against his trousers under the table to absorb the sweat.
Dimitri surfaced from his brooding to find both his companions standing up to leave.
"We're done?" He frowned briefly, disliking the vague uneasiness of missing something critical. "I thought Anya was still working on baguette number three." Vladimir snorted and Dimitri felt unreasonably proud that at least his wit had yet to fail him.
"Shows how much you pay attention; that was two croissants ago." Anya was multi-tasking, pulling a face while turning her head to avoid Pooka's swiping tongue. She cuddled him closer against her chest and said, "Are you coming or what? We still need to pack."
"Already?" Dimitri glanced at his scratched wristwatch. "I thought there was no rush."
Anya looked heavenward, shaking her head. "Could you wake up, please? Vlad just said we disembark in forty-five minutes, Dimitri, so move it. I'm beyond ready to see dry land again." She gave him another pointed look and flounced out of the dining room.
Dimitri watched her go in wonder, marveling at her capacity for nonchalance when he could hardly think for all the blood still pooled between his legs.
Vladimir cleared his throat with purpose behind him. When Dimitri swiveled to find his mentor's good humor had dissolved into a pensive squint, he stood and slid his chair under the table, Vladimir's gaze as uncomfortable as a wool cloak in June.
Dimitri wished he could throw it off. Instead, he tossed up a hand like a shield against the rebuke he sensed was coming as he headed for the door. His partner said nothing as the two of them wound through the crowded tables, not until Dimitri tried to brush past him through the exit to continue down the hall.
"Are you certain you will be able to handle this?" Vladimir asked quietly.
Dimitri's practiced evasion was as smooth as crème fraîche. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You do," Vladimir said without hesitation, his huge hand landing on Dimitri's shoulder and halting his forward momentum.
Dimitri obliged him and stopped. He looked at the faded carpet, the paneled wood walls - anywhere but at his dearest friend - but he already knew his goose was cooked. He couldn't hide it anymore. His love for Anya had outgrown the confines of his heart and possessed him fully, inhabiting the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he looked at her. It seeped out of his pores like a self-replenishing toxin for which he had no antidote. He reeked of it, and he knew now he'd be lying to himself if he believed Vladimir was ever unaware of his treachery.
It made him feel exposed and vulnerable, the last things you could afford to be while running a con of such dangerous complexity. The only defense left in his arsenal was to deflect and deny, deny, deny.
Before Dimitri could toss out a snide retort, Vladimir walked around to stand tall before him, measuring Dimitri over his glasses through a paternal glare. "You are much worse than I thought."
"What?"
The older man closed his eyes with a weary sigh, his broad shoulders sagging. In an instant he seemed ten years older. His voice was gruff when he finally spoke, with a hint of tenderness that triggered a new tide of guilt in Dimitri.
"Dimitri, I need for you to hear me." Vladimir's words were measured, each one heavy with their shared unspoken history. His hand found Dimitri's shoulder again and squeezed. "Since the first day, anything you have needed, I have provided. Anything you have needed me to do, I have done it." He let his last words smoke in the air, long enough to rouse the familiar ache of loyalty in Dimitri's chest. "If you cannot do what is required, you need only tell me. I will abandon all of our plans, if that is what you need from me, but you must tell me before we exit this ship and the things we do cannot be undone."
Dimitri physically winced at the blow to his pride. His own acceptance that Anya had laid waste to his judgment was a difficult enough cross to bear, but to hear that even Vladimir doubted his abilities at this point was shockingly painful.
He recoiled like a cornered animal. "I can do any and everything I need to do, Vlad," he said with a snarl. "Don't you worry about that."
Regret rushed in when hurt flashed across Vladimir's expression, quickly vanishing behind a mask of impassivity. Dimitri hurriedly offered a smile that was taught with remorse. "But don't think I don't appreciate your worrying like a mother hen, old man." Vladimir shook his head sadly but Dimitri quickly retreated down the hall to avoid the emotional lecture.
He entered their stateroom to find Anya flitting around like a hummingbird in a lily garden. Her nervous energy was palpable, bristling the hair on his arms as he crossed the room to gather his own things. Pooka trotted over to nip at the hem of his trousers, freshly mended courtesy of the tailor in the ship's laundry room. Anya was humming something vaguely familiar, but when Dimitri looked up to ask what it was, she stopped and grinned at him instead, rendering him too dumb to remember his question.
The energy shifted again when Vladimir arrived a short time later. He didn't speak, only gave Dimitri a troubled glance before turning away to tend to his bunk. Dimitri responded in kind with undue concentration on their luggage. Thankfully, Anya's incessant chatter to no one in particular buffered the tension.
Dimitri fought to subdue his displeasure and hauled the heaviest suitcase to the door. Vladimir hadn't looked at him like that since he was a child, when he was still naive enough to make the stupid mistakes that nearly got them both killed. His friend was clearly worried for him, which was understandable, but Dimitri saw pity in his eyes as well. He'd hated it all those years ago; he loathed it now even more so.
He didn't have time to stew in it. Anya, who could not seem to sit still to save her life, squealed at the first sight of shoreline through the porthole and had their entire party and all their belongings shoved into the crowded hallway in a matter of minutes.
It took another hour for the ship to dock, during which the line to the exit had backed up all the way down the corridor and past their room. They rubbed shoulders with the other passengers laughing and speaking en Francais in an excited buzz around them while Vladimir kept Anya occupied by quizzing her on the royal family tree. She made a game of it, giving Pooka a nibble from a napkin-wrapped treat from breakfast for every correct answer. Watching them over his shoulder, Dimitri had to smile at Pooka shivering with excitement in the crook of Vladimir's elbow. The pup was already so plump from weeks of table scraps he could no longer fit inside Vladimir's coat.
The line inched forward and Dimitri's mind drifted back to Anya, as it always did. He wondered how she'd react if he put off meeting with Sophie for a while...perhaps even indefinitely. Would Anya be patient? Upset at the questionable delay? Or was it possible she would be so enamored with her new French reality, she wouldn't notice if they never met the Dowager at all?
Surely Anya fulfilling her lifelong dream of living in the City of Light would soften the blow. It was a stretch, but that was the best case scenario, wasn't it? They could always find another way to get their hands on some cash. Of course not nearly as much, but they could survive. Vladimir could take care of himself. Dimitri could finally start over, and he and Anya could build something in Paris - like a real life. Together.
A wistful smile grew as Dimitri shuffled forward and almost stumbled into the gentleman in front of him.
Maybe he should tell Vladimir to call the whole thing off. He'd just have to come up with a plausible reason for why a meeting with the Dowager was no longer an option. Vladimir just wanted to see him happy, so he was an easy sell, but there was a good chance it would take a bent knee and some diamonds to get Anya on board. Not that Dimitri minded in the least.
One more egregious lie would be a small price to pay for that kind of happiness.
Anya let out an audible gasp when it was their turn to step out onto the ship's gangplank, just as France burst in to greet them on a chilled, feisty breeze laced with juniper and freesia flowers. Even cynical Dimitri had to close his eyes for a moment just to breathe it in. If Russia had stunk of hard times, this place had to be perfumed by the collective optimism of its inhabitants.
It was no wonder - there were signs of prosperity everywhere. The Tasha was one of a multitude of ships that clogged the busy harbor of Le Havre. Dimitri saw at least a dozen others, picking up or dropping off wooden crates the size of trucks or depositing a fresh flood of humanity onto the docks to mix with those already milling around under a sea of hats in every style and color. Fishermen in sailboats and dinghys dodged the larger vessels to drag in the morning's first catches. Street vendors lined every inch of the boardwalk, their loud voices competing with each other and the cacophony of the harbor for sales of everything from spices to shoe polish.
Getting to the ground was a slow process, as groups of people from the boardwalk kept rushing the gangplank with shouts of welcome to meet friends and family exiting the ship. Dimitri descended a few steps at a time with Vladimir and Anya close behind, musing on how the of salty ocean air combined with the ordinarily incongruent scents of coal smoke, fried dough, cooking meat and raw fish strangely made his stomach growl.
Back on terra firma at last, the party of three pushed their way on wobbly legs through the crush of well-dressed French bodies to the taxi stand along the boardwalk a block or so from the docks. Dimitri could hardly pretend that paying the boorish driver his steep fare for a ride into Paris didn't hurt. The local currency they'd exchanged aboard the ship for their fistful of German bills felt paper thin in comparison.
He and Vladimir exchanged a look as they piled into the car and began bumping down the winding dirt road through the rural outskirts of the city. God only knew what they'd do for money if things didn't go as planned today, but Dimitri couldn't deal with that now. He had his hands full with Anya, who was bouncing off the walls of their hired car.
"Anya, you have got to relax," he said, trying to keep his voice soothing yet loud enough to be heard over the noisy road beneath the car's tires. Anya didn't seem to hear him. She pressed her nose to her window, looked under the seat, pivoted on her knees to look out of the rear window, then finally turned again to regard Dimitri, her grin manic and showing every last one of her teeth. As soon as the goofy smile had appeared, her face crumpled and she covered it with hands that visibly shook.
"Dimitri," she said into her palms, muffling her words. "Oh god, I can't breathe. I think I'm gonna pass out."
Dimitri chuckled. The contrast between the audacious, confident Anya he was accustomed to and the frazzled ball of nerves she'd suddenly become was comical. If the stakes weren't so high, he'd have teased her for looking so adorably out of her element.
"No, you won't," he said instead, grabbing one of her hands and squeezing lightly. Personally, he was terrified beyond belief, but years of lying for a living made it much easier to set his fears aside.
She calmed at his touch and stared at her hand nestled inside his. Dimitri's mouth went dry.
"Come on - tell me again where Uncle Boris is from," he prompted, a tool of distraction as much for himself as for Anya.
She didn't answer. With the very tip of a fingernail, she began to trace the lines of his palm - a harmless gesture, but the erotic shivers it caused made Dimitri grit his teeth so hard he thought a tooth would crack. It took the willpower of a god to keep a handle on his manhood.
He managed to gently withdraw his hand with reassuring smile intact. Even then Anya remained only half aware, her body present but her mind elsewhere. She stared at the back of Vladimir's seat in front, chewing her lip.
She was silent for so long, Dimitri jumped a little when she spoke again.
"What if Sophie doesn't recognize me?" Her voice was tiny, strained. She lifted eyes that gleamed with unspent tears, seeking an affirmation, anything to tether her to the present.
Dimitri easily flipped on the charm. "She will, I promise you. You're Anastasia. You're only sitting down with the woman to tell her who you are."
Knotting her hands into the folds of her dress, Anya sucked in a giant breath and released it with a shaking sigh as she looked away. "It's just that - "
"Just what?" Dimitri's brows knit. She fell quiet again as she chose her words, and waiting for her to speak was like watching storm clouds gather.
Anya spoke to her lap in the same quiet voice and Dimitri unconsciously leaned in to hear her better. "A few weeks ago, I had no past at all." She gave a dark chuckle. "Or future, for that matter," she added. "Now, I'm trying to remember and recite an entire lifetime and I just feel...overwhelmed."
"I wouldn't expect anything different," Dimitri said, reaching over to pat her folded hands. "But that's why you got me." He grinned and held it there until she finally looked up at him.
Coaxing a smile out of her little by little, Dimitri realized he didn't have the heart to actively sabotage her efforts. He could see he and Vladimir had succeeded in making her believe their grandiose falsehood with all of her being. Anya's face was lit with such pure hope it almost painful to witness.
He had no training-based reason to believe she would, but Anya would have to slip up, to miss some tiny important detail that would reveal her to be the beautiful, manufactured fraud that two extraordinarily talented con men had molded her to be. She would be humiliated and devastated when it was over. And Dimitri decided he would open his arms and be the soft place for her to fall.
Anya laughed at herself under her breath. "God," she said, wiping at her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "I'm gonna be a mess before we even get there." She chuckled again when Vladimir wordlessly offered a clean handkerchief over his headrest. "Thanks, Vlad."
"So do you wanna try it again?"
The fire had rekindled in those eyes when they returned to Dimitri, the blue flames that had scorched his soul. "Yeah, let's do it." After handing back the handkerchief, Anya sat up straight and squared her shoulders. "I've got this." Uncertainty sneaked back in for a second, making her falter and her eyes widen for guidance. "Right?"
Dimitri nodded with a lopsided smile. "I never had any doubt, Your Grace. Now, where was Uncle Boris from?"
"Moscow?"
Of course she knew the correct answer. She had a sense of people and place that had always intrigued Dimitri. They eased back into the familiar cadence of their practice sessions, with Vladimir joining in here and there to try and throw Anya off balance. She parried successfully every time, boosting her morale and making the three-hour commute to the Parisian suburbs in the uncomfortable cab fly by for Dimitri.
He was about to ask Anya again about the Czar's favorite desert when the cab ground to a halt. Beyond the fingerprint-smudged window was the most opulent private home Dimitri had ever seen, reminiscent of what the Winter Palace had been in its prime but with a distinctly French classical flair - all elegant archways and heavy blush stone.
Jaw slack, he turned to Vladimir who was waiting with a knowing grin. "Sophie's house," he said. "I visited her here often."
Dimitri shook his head with an answering smile, knowing from the sparkle in Vladimir's eye what kind of visit he was alluding to. He was glad his partner seemed to be over their earlier tiff. Hopping out of the cab to help Anya from her seat, he assisted Vladimir and the driver with the luggage strapped to the top and rear of the car. They shuffled everything to a hidden alcove in the side of the house that Vladimir pointed out and the cab driver was off.
Go time.
Dimitri turned to Anya. "Ready?"
She nodded. "As I'm ever gonna be."
They passed through the wrought iron gate, the two of them following Vladimir down the flagstone walkway to an ornately carved front door. Dimitri could hear his heartbeat. The droning of bees in the manicured rose bushes beneath the huge picture windows sounded impossibly loud.
"Oh, Anya - one more thing."
Anya turned back to Dimitri with wide eyes.
"If you never do anything else I ask you to, please leave the dog outside today. He won't go anywhere."
She rolled her eyes. "Fine, Dimitri." She looked down at Pooka waiting at her feet and smiled. "Pooka, stay. Be a good boy."
Pooka just wagged his tail and barked.
Vladimir knocked and Dimitri held his breath.
The door swung open and a slim, dimpled maid appeared with an expectant expression, complete with upswept hair, white cap, short black dress and tiny white apron. "Oui, Monsieur?"
Just as Vladimir cleared his throat to speak, the maid squeaked as her tiny body went flying out of view, courtesy of a large woman with a blonde bob wearing a mass of violet ruffles.
"Sophie Stanislovskievna Somorkov-Smirnoff!" Vladimir exclaimed with outstretched arms as she struck a seductive pose in the doorway, the maid looking chagrined in the shadows behind her.
Anya lifted her eyebrows in surprise at Dimitri behind her and he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. The demure aristocrat Vladimir had described in the past was not at all who had answered the door.
Sophie giggled like a schoolgirl, quite the sight for someone who was clearly all woman with a curvaceous bustline that nearly eclipsed the view of the foyer.
"Vladimir Vanya Voinitsky Vasilovich," she said breathlessly, offering her hand to Vladimir and tittering some more as he planted kisses up the length of her bare, fleshy arm to her shoulder. "Well, this is so unexpected!" Her Russian was crisp and comforting, unsoftened by her years in France. "Oh! But look at me, where are my manners? Come in - come in, everyone!"
She held on to Vladimir and towed him inside. Dimitri followed Anya, his hand finding the small of her back to guide her along. He spied Pooka trying to sneak in as well. With a smirk, he quickly closed the heavy door to keep him outside where he belonged for once.
As they filed into the luxurious drawing room with its rich velvet drapes and gilded furniture, Sophie appeared quite outdone. "I'm simply palpitating with amazement and shock and surprise - all three!"
Dimitri and Vladimir beamed, using their bodies to subtly block Sophie's view of Anya behind them until the last possible moment, just as they'd practiced.
Sophie looked happy but puzzled, the blue of her eyes made more noticeable by the eyeshadow that matched the hue of her couture off-the-shoulder gown. She batted them artfully at both men before turning to the eldest. "Vladimir, darling, I haven't seen you in years...what are you doing here?"
That was their cue.
"I have someone I would like you to meet, kotik. May I present her Imperial Highness, the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolayevna," Vladimir announced, and Anya glided forward between them with grace and poise and head held high, without a hint of jitters, looking every inch a royal princess.
Sophie's demeanor changed instantly, her mouth dropping open and eyes growing large. "Oh, my heavens," she said quietly as she circled Anya, skirts rustling. "She certainly does look like Anastasia...but so did many others."
She stopped in front of Anya, her expression cold. "Where were you born?"
"At the Peterhoff Palace." Anya didn't blink.
"Correct." Sophie pursed her painted pout. "And how does Anastasia like...her tea?"
Anya smiled. "I don't like tea; just hot water and lemon."
"Good." Sophie narrowed her eyes. "Come, have a seat - all of you."
Much too nervous to sit, Dimitri took up a post by the enormous fireplace near a bookshelf full of old family photos. Anya perched on the edge of the nearest chair while Vladimir settled onto the plush couch at the center of the room next to Sophie, whose sharp features were now tight with suspicion. She cast an irritated glance at Vladimir, as if annoyed this visit was years in the making only for him to bring her a lost Romanov. Vladimir merely gave her a shrug and a big smile.
All business, Sophie got right to it with detailed, rapid-fire questions about everything from Romanov birthmarks to toilet habits that went on nearly half an hour. Anya answered every last one correctly with a benevolent smile, serene and unbothered.
She was performing so much better than Dimitri had ever hoped. Vladimir looked beside himself with barely contained glee, but Dimitri knew they weren't out of the woods yet. This was going much too smoothly. Sophie would have to ask something impossible for Anya to know. She had to.
His stomach knotted. But what if she didn't?
"Finally," Sophie was saying, "you'll most likely find this an impertinent question, but indulge me. How did you escape during the siege of the palace?"
Dimitri's heart froze. That was it. That was the inevitable question. Three people on the planet knew the answer and only one of them was in the room. The Empress would not have leaked the one piece of information that would guarantee her riches to any fool who tried to create an Anastasia from scratch. And Dimitri had tried for so many years to forget that he had never spoken of it to anyone, let alone made it part of Anya's royal curriculum.
Anya had paused for a long time. Dimitri knew she was frowning at her lap as she mentally scrambled for an answer despite his inability to see her face with her back to him.
Leaning against the mantle and running a clawed hand through his hair, he didn't know if he felt relief or panic. He didn't want Anya to have a future that didn't include him. He also couldn't bear to see her fail. Jesus, she still hadn't answered. Maybe he should distract them, knock over the vase on the pedestal nearby or pretend to faint on the Oriental rug -
"There was a boy, a boy who worked in the palace. He...opened a wall..."
Dimitri raised his head.
No, he hadn't heard her right. Anya's voice had grown so soft he'd misunderstood.
Anya giggled in embarrassment, trying to recover. "I'm sorry, that's crazy - walls opening...The memory is a little faint, I suppose."
She'd said it again. The wall. The hidden door in the princess' room that was stormed by the soldiers, but not before hiding away the last two members of the royal family. No one knew but Dimitri, the Dowager, and...
The universe tilted on its axis.
Up was down.
Black was white.
And Dimitri's Anya was the Grand Duchess Anastasia of house Romanov.
He quit the room and lurched for the nearest exit with what felt like a blade in his heart, paying no heed to the celebration that had erupted in the room behind him. There was no Anya and never had been. Not for him.
He was going to be sick.