Irina stoked up the fire, forcing more heat into the pipes leading upstairs. She wanted to check on the boy but decided there was too much to do first. Besides, her husband was the one who had found the lad, let him be his responsibility. Furthermore she was afraid that if she did check on the boy, she would discover he had passed away from exposure. Having lost a son that way, she could not bear to endure it again, even if she did not know this youth from Adam.

Feliks brought in another load of wood, stacking it beside the stove to melt the snow from it but not so close that the wood would catch fire prematurely.

The pair sat down to breakfast and ate in silence. The knowledge of the boy lying just above their heads weighed heavily on both their minds.

"Did you see his splinted arm and bruised face? I wonder what happened," Irina commented, trying to sound indifferent.

"I should go and check on him," Feliks said, worry seeping into his voice.

"Yes, you should." Irina stood up and began clearing plates.

Reluctantly, Feliks made his way upstairs, casting several glances back at his wife, hoping she would take pity on him and join him on his foray. She pointedly ignored his looks.

Feliks entered the room where he had left the boy with baited breath. Was the child still alive? He desperately hoped so. He approached the bundle of blankets near the pipes and kneeled beside it. The boy was still breathing, somewhat easier now though his inhales still were raspy. His skin had lost the bluish pallor it had when Feliks found the boy and now had the slightest blush to it. A large bruise mottled one side of the boy's face but even that was pale as compared to someone in good health. What had this boy been through?

The pile of blankets shivered violently as the boy's body tried to warm itself. His teeth chattered despite the heat radiating off the pipes. Concerned though he still was, Feliks felt that the boy would survive.

And what if he did? What were they to do with him? They barely had the means to support themselves; adding another mouth to feed would ruin them. No, he could not stay with them. He would have to go on his way once he had recovered.

Dimitri awoke to his body shivering violently. He was vaguely aware that someone had put blankets on him. When did that happen? Last he remembered, he had fallen asleep in a cellar that was barely warmer than the elements outside.

Still shivering, he forced himself to sit up, bracing on his good hand. He shrugged the blankets further up his neck and let the shivers wrack his frame. Shivering was good. It meant you were alive.

Barely trusting his balance, he lifted his good hand from the floorboards and checked on the gilded box he had recovered from the palace. He had tucked it into the bindings on his injured arm for safekeeping when his fingers had gotten too numb to hold it any longer. It was still in its place. Good.

He fought to still the chattering of his teeth, as that aggravated the bruise on his face. He managed it through sheer force of will, though his body still shook. He was exhausted despite having slept the night through. He supposed nearly freezing to death was not conducive to getting quality rest.

Looking around the room, he was startled to find that it was not the cellar. Certainly it was warmer, though sparsely furnished. Pipes ran along one wall, the wall nearest him. He put his hands up by the pipe and felt the heat radiating off it. The warmth felt good, so good. It also made him drowsy.

Deciding he was in no imminent danger, he curled up beneath the blankets once more, shivered, and went back to sleep.

That evening Feliks checked on the boy again. This time he gently shook the boy's shoulder, the action becoming more insistent when the lad did not wake. Eventually the boy groaned and turned his face to look at the offender. His cinnamon-colored eyes opened to mere slits, but he was awake. Seeing the older man, someone he did not recognize, the boy's eyes turned wary and he sat up abruptly. He tried to scooch away but his injured arm hindered his movements.

"Who are you?" Dimitri asked uneasily. "And where am I?"

"My name is Feliks. You are in my home, in Saint Petersburg. Well, on the verge of the town anyway." He squatted down to put himself on the boy's level so he was not talking down to the lad. "What's your name?"

The boy hesitated at answering.

"You can trust me," Feliks encouraged. "After all, I am just an old man."

"Dimitri."

Feliks nodded. "You look so much like my son," he remarked before he could stop himself. It was dangerous to form an attachment with this child he would soon have to turn out into the street.

Dimitri was not sure what to say to that so he did not respond. Brow furrowed, he said, "I was in a cellar last night. It was so cold." He shuddered at the memory.

"That was our cellar. I saw your tracks in the snow and discovered you had broken in. You were half-frozen to death. I'm glad you are recovering."

"I apologize for breaking in, I didn't know where else to go."

Feliks shook his head. "None of that. What matters is that you are alive. Hungry, are you?"

Dimitri nodded his head eagerly.

"Irina has been working on a vegetable stew all day. I'll fetch you some and then you can tell me about your adventures that led you to my cellar." Feliks stood and left the room.

Dimitri listened to the receding footsteps contemplatively. The old man seemed harmless enough; indeed, he had saved him from freezing to death. But how much of his story should he tell? He still feared it being found out that he had helped the Grand Duchess and Dowager Empress escape from the rebels. There was no telling which side of the revolution this man was on. If Dimitri misjudged his loyalties, he could end up in a heap of trouble. He decided to glaze over his role in assisting the royal family's escape.

Footsteps on the stairs announced Feliks' return. Dimitri straightened up, holding his injured arm in his lap. He pulled the blankets up over his shoulders, in part because he was still cold but also to hide the gold box from prying eyes.

Feliks entered the room with a wooden bowl and spoon in hand. He settled himself on the floor beside Dimitri and offered the spoon. Dimitri took it in his good hand, keeping his bad arm tucked under the blankets. Feliks held the bowl while Dimitri clumsily ladeled the broth into his mouth.

When the soup was halfway gone, Feliks broached the subject that had been itching at his mind since he found the boy in the cellar. "I couldn't help but notice you are injured. What happened, lad?" he asked gently.

Dimitri froze, tensing. He had to formulate his story quickly. "I worked at the palace," he began, swallowing nervously. "When the revolutionaries came in they did not care who they hurt, so intent were they on their task. I got in the way and one struck me with his gun," he glanced at his splinted arm, "and later I was run down by a horse in an alley." He gestured to the bruise on his face with the spoon. So far he was giving enough of the truth to hopefully be believable while leaving out the part about the royal family. He watched Feliks' face closely for any sign the elder did not believe him, but saw only acceptance of his story. "Then I walked for what seemed forever until I found my way into your cellar. And now here I am."

"Here you are," Feliks repeated. He nodded to himself. "I am sorry for your misfortunes. What of your parents?"

"I don't have parents; I'm an orphan."

Feliks did not like that answer. It meant the boy had nothing to return to, no family to welcome him back into the fold. He felt even guiltier about turning the boy out, which he would have to do soon.

"I'm sorry."

Dimitri shrugged one shoulder. "I'm over it." What he said was mostly bravado; true, he had no parents, but he had always been cared for at the palace. He had wanted for neither food nor shelter. Compared to some, it had been a charmed life. Certainly not as posh as what the royalty and nobility had, but it had served him well. Now all that was gone and he found himself afloat with nowhere to go.

"Where will you go now?" Feliks inquired.

Dimitri thought about it for a long moment. It was a valid question. He had no money, no means to speak of other than his wits...and the gilded box, he reminded himself. Unconsciously he reached for it beneath the blanket, wanting to assure himself it was still there. He could always sell it…

No! He berated himself mentally, closing his eyes tightly. It belonged to the Grand Duchess-to Anastasia. He would return it to her no matter what. If only he could find her. But that conundrum would have to wait; what mattered most was what he would do in the immediate future.

"I don't know," he admitted, stifling the urge to cry. "I'll figure something out." He sounded more confident than he was.

"If we were better off we would offer you shelter here with us," Feliks said slowly, watching the boy's reaction. "But unfortunately we can barely sustain ourselves with what we have."

"I understand." It was what he had expected. If they were eating vegetable soup, no meat, they were likely poor. Even the servants had been fed meat at the palace, though it had been the poorer cuts they were given. Still, he was disappointed. A part of him had hoped he would be allowed to stay with Feliks and his wife. The man, for his part, seemed a decent sort.

They fell to silence as Dimitri finished the soup. His mind was spinning, trying desperately to formulate a plan for himself. Despite the upheaval, he felt that he should stay in Saint Petersburg, for it was the only city he knew.

He was scrappy, he would think of something. His life literally depended upon it.