Home, love, family

by Gabros

… there was once a time the Romanovs had it all. This is just the story of Anastasia and her siblings before the revolution. Prequel to Light at the end of the tunnel.

18. St Seraphim s miracle

St. Petersburg, summer 1904.

The winters of St. Petersburg are long and cold, with a sun that raises late in the morning and is already down by the early afternoon. The cold wind blows like a whip and the Neva River remains frozen from November to March. When the ice finally breaks, it sounds as if the water roared like a bear coming out of its cave.

Then comes spring. The Neva flows, it smells like lilacs, and the darkness slowly gives way to the midnight sun, a period from late May to early July in which the city glows almost all day long and the sky is never truly dark.

St. Petersburg is a city of contrast and massive inequality. It was founded on the tears and corpses of the common people and still stands on them. It is also the center of the hereditary nobility, although less than a tenth of the population could be classified as such.

In this great industrial center live plenty of priests, merchants, business owners, and educated professionals. Most numerous are the common folk of peasant origin, the majority of whom are artisans or industrial workers. Cobblers, carpenters, painters, laundresses, bathhouse attendants, groundskeepers, and cab drivers are among other inhabitants of the city.

Many of the peasants in St. Petersburg are seasonal workers who travel to the city every winter to find a job, only to return to their lands when spring comes. Ivan Ruslanovich Sudayev used to be one of them. An increase in the exactions of landlords made him and his younger brother Ilya move to the city permanently along with their families.

Ivan misses the countryside, and he can tell his children do as well, pathetically. All those who leave for good do, it seems to be a common occurrence, but he simply has nothing left there.

Ivan and Ilya traded a hard life working in the fields for an outright hellish one at the foundry, which consists of excessive hours, dangerous working conditions, low wages, and living together with more than twenty other people in a small, miserable apartment.

Ivan can't count with the fingers of his hands and feet combined the number of children he has known to have died from the many illnesses that plague the crowded and miserable hole he and his family call home. Four of his children and all of his brother's are among them.

The 30-year-old Ivan looks decades older, his long, dirty beard accentuating the effect his most recent occupation has had on him. Nothing further from the young red-haired man with bright ocean blue eyes and handsome face he was when he first arrived at the city winters ago.

Metal casting is hard and dangerous work. Noise, nasty chemicals, poor lighting, high temperatures, and molten metal are the only words needed to explain why.

One of Ivan's friends stumbled and almost dropped the container while pouring the molten metal into the cast. The bright liquid substance splashed out into his arms and half of his face, burning him. He can't use his upper limbs anymore, that is for sure, and his face is almost unrecognizable.

The manager fired and replaced the unfortunate man almost immediately, and Kostya became yet another mouth for Ivan and Ilya to feed. Ivan hasn't seen his once happy-go-lucky friend smile ever since.

"I heard some neighboring factories have gone on strike recently, I am sure that is what you and your friends really want, don't you, Sudayev?" The ugly manager pompously remarks. "Well, why don't you go ahead already?"

It is no wonder why the workers at the Polunin Metal Works Factory look up to Ivan as their leader. He is always mothering them around, making sure that they don't exert themselves to the limit, encouraging them to drink water, urging them to be careful with the machinery and avoid doing anything stupid.

The workers agree that if anyone can get the managers to listen, that is Ivan, the one who, along with his brother, managed to convince the owner of the foundry not to lower their salaries a month before.

A new challenge arises every season though, a new threat or attempt to diminish the workersʼ rights. Ivan and Ilya are standing before their direct supervisor in the main office, which is located across the street from the much-dreaded workplace.

"We don't want any of that", Ivan replies, "we just want our grievances heard."

The manager sitting on the chair behind the desk bursts into laughter. The laughter is excessive, exaggerated even, so much so that he almost falls from throwing his head back far too suddenly. "What are you talking about?" He asks. "I am forced to listen to you every week."

Although fat, Mr. Balabanov is actually not that ugly, but Ivan thinks his attitude often makes him so. Ilya gives his brother an angry look, a look that is not actually directed at him. Ivan gets the message.

"These meetings accomplish nothing", the worker argues. "We are still overworked, underpaid, and I have identified certain safety hazards that haven't been addressed."

"I don't understand you people", Balabanov objects. "We have had thousands of workers performing their tasks in the same conditions for years and only now has it become popular to bite the hand that feeds you."

"Fourteen hours a day is too much", Ilya asserts, "we have lives, we should be able to see our families without being on the brink of exhaustion each night… my nephew is dying..."

His voice betrays immense emotion, something that easily produces a similar effect on Ivan, whose sight starts to become just slightly blurry.

"If I cut your hours I would also have to do the same with your salary", Balabanov repeats the same argument he uses whenever anyone mentions the subject. He has lightened a cigarette and is now casually resting his feet on the desk.

"That would not be acceptable", Ilya complains. "We barely make enough to survive as it is, and the cost of living has only increased since the war started."

Balabanov doesn't seem to be paying much attention to the conversation. In fact, he smokes calmly for almost a minute as the brothers wait for an answer in silence. "Fewer hours would mean more men needed to cover your shift", he finally explains absentmindedly after a while. "It is either fewer hours along with less pay or nothing, we can't afford more workers without suffering considerable losses."

"The law limits the workday to eleven and a half hours", Ivan dares articulate, something that takes much courage to do.

Mr. Balabanovʼs careless demeanor disappears. He slowly removes his feet from the table, straightens up, and leaves his cigarette in the glass ashtray without putting it out.

"You illiterate swine!" He almost growls. "You have no idea what you are talking about!"

"Clearly someone more knowledgeable has made me aware", Ivan insists, wishing he could also say that his attempts to teach himself how to read have been successful, but he barely has time to spend with his three children. Ivan met two people recently though, two people who have filled his head with hopes and dreams, people who have helped him deal with the pain of reality, with the most recent horror his family has had to endure, maybe the worst and most torturous. One of those two people has explained in depth the workersʼ rights to Ivan. There is only one problem. Those two individuals are complete opposites.

"You are lucky I am not firing you right at this instant", the manager continues, making Ivanʼs heart skip a beat. "That law does not apply to small workshops, you don't know anything, you and your little assembly have got nothing on us."

Is that so? The Polunin Metal Works Factory is hardly a small workshop, Ivan thinks. The place where his son used to work is, but even if the foundry were a small workshop indeed, that wouldn't make it in any way acceptable for the workers to be exploited and treated as less than human. Something is not right, it sounds like nonsense, the owners must have pulled some strings with the bureaucrats…

The sad truth is that Ivan wouldn't know how to debunk the humiliating rebuttal. He is using what is left of his mental energy to keep himself from pouring all of his rage out on his so-called superior.

The two workers remain standing awkwardly with little to say.

"What else?!" The impatient office worker glares at them. Ivan doesn't feel capable of speaking at the moment, but his brother fortunately saves him from any further embarrassment.

"The conditions are unsanitary", Ilya says. "We would like to ask for a day reserved for mopping the floors, among other things.

"It is also summer, two people have already passed out from the heat, it is like a furnace inside, we need better ventilation, so perhaps another window can be opened."

Having recovered from the unease, Ivan starts to talk about the factory's old and deficient equipment, but the meeting time is up before he can do so in depth.

"I will ask my superiors about it, now get the hell out of my sight", Balabanov puts the cigarette back in his mouth.

Ivan and Ilya have already walked out of the office when Balabanov yells at them to get back to work as if they even needed a reminder.

Oo

"How did it go?" The old Nikita asks the two brothers when they return. Many of the workers stop what they are doing and approach them.

"Like always", Ivan shrugs.

"Damn it!" Another worker, Michael, curses. "You should have threatened a strike!"

"Do you want to be beaten?" Ilya hoots. "Cause that is how you end up black and blue, remember what happened to idiot Pasha from the textile factory just five blocks away?"

"I am tired of you acting like it was his fault and not that of the police, Ilya", Ivan points out with a stern look directed at his brother. "Same thing happened last time with Kostya, when he both know very well it was the administration that made us work without fixing the defective equipment and uneven flooring."

Ilya shakes his head and looks back at Ivan with an irritated expression, but the other workers nod in agreement.

"You are so right, Vanya!" Michael punches Ivan on the arm playfully. "Those bastards want us to pretend they are not walking all over us!"

"I have organized strikes before though", Ivan recalls. "It doesn't end up well, it never ends well, and we are not supposed to do that anymore."

You and your family were homeless for a month, Ivan reminds himself. And your brother was punished for something that was your idea.

"I think everything we talked about earlier should be brought up in the next assembly meeting", Nikita proposes, and turning towards their informal leader, adds: "You and your brother could intercede on our behalf."

"I don't think that will help", Ivan looks down. He has always been overprotective of everyone around him, quick to defend people and talk back whenever he finds something unfair. Little did he know as a small child that hundreds of seemingly unfair things weren't considered so at all by the only people who mattered. Ivan doesn't want his children growing up in this cruel and unfair world where fate arbitrarily decides whether one is to be treated with dignity, but he is running out of time. He is running out of time and something in the back of his mind is favoring the more extreme path life has given him as an opportunity.

"What do you mean it won't help?" Ilya complains. "Father Gapon is a good and honest man of God, I do trust him. We could also ask him for advice."

Pheveʼs death did not destroy his Assembly of Russian Factory and Mill Workers, a legal workersʼ organization created and secretly controlled by the police. The associationʼs main objective is to channel the workersʼ economic grievances away from the government and in the direction of the employers.

Despite feeling threatened, most factory and mill owners prefer to have an organization watched and controlled by the police making demands rather than lose their workers to the dangerous clandestine socialist and anarchist propagandists.

The leader of the movement is Father George Gapon, a 34-year-old priest from a Ukrainian Cossack family who has spent much of his adult life studying ways to help the poor and sick. Despite working for the police, Gaponʼs interest in the people is genuine, and he has worked and preached in the working-class districts of St. Petersburg for a few years. With his efforts, Gapon hopes not only to improve the status of the Russian workmen in accordance with what he believes is Christian, but to strengthen the workers' monarchist feelings.

Some of the people Father George Gapon preaches to suspect his connections to the police, but the vast majority of the workers are happy enough with the idea of being able to meet and protest.

"All right", Ivan rolls his eyes. "I will see what I can do." His heart is already somewhere else though.

"Get back to work!" One of the overseers shouts, quickly breaking up the rather informal meeting.

Oo

The Nevsky Prospect and Sadovaia Street are major boundaries symbolizing the division between the poor and the privileged in St. Petersburg. The former is a big boulevard that runs through the city center, its flanks adorned with palaces and big houses meant for royalty and nobility as well as expensive shops, restaurants, and banks. Almost every early afternoon, ladies dressed up in the latest fashions can be seen walking down the Nevsky accompanied by their servants. Bureaucrats, military men in fancy uniforms, businessmen, bankers, and lawyers also parade through the prestigious street.

Likewise running through the city center is Sadovaina Street, which cuts across the Nevsky Prospect. Sadovaina is to the common folk what the Nevsky is to the privileged. The unpretentious avenue is filled with markets where hundreds of middle and lower-class merchants sell goods made by artisans. Small places to eat such as soup diners and teahouses can also be found down Sadovaina Street, beggars and prostitutes occasionally frequenting some of those places.

Beyond the city center and almost hidden from the Nevsky's view, there are northern, southern, and eastern districts riddled with factories and sad little workersʼ apartments and shacks where every night the streets fill with oil and dirt-covered men, women, and children on their way home, or their next shift if they are unlucky.

One such nightfall, a long-haired man with a dark beard walked through one of the poorest slums in the city. With his big cross hanging on his chest like a weapon, Father George Gapon was on his way to visit the Sudayev brothers and their families.

Oo

When he enters the small apartment, Gapon is met by a horrible smell and the dreadful but familiar sound of babies crying. Gapon understands these poor people have limited running water, but not even after all of these years can he get used to the odor. How can anyone live like this? He wonders.

There is little to no furniture. He finds at least five women crowded to the left, mostly sleeping with their many children. Some of them are still awake, soothing their restless infants. They smile at Gapon when he enters.

There are very few men, and the priest presumes the war may have something to do with the reason why. Everyone is wearing the simplest of peasant clothes. Loose dark pants or dresses, black caps and boots, and formerly white shirts soiled by grime that can be buttoned up to the neck. The clock is the most luxurious object in the apartment.

Right in front of him is Ivan, waiting for him expectantly. Father Gapon knows he has been courted by a member of a dangerous organization who has been filling the good, hardworking, and honest manʼs head with treacherous ideas. The priest hopes he can stop and encourage him to stand up for his rights and those of his coworkers in a different way.

To the right is Ilya, carrying on his lap a skinny little boy with black hair and eyes that match the dirt on his face. He can't be older than four, and yet he is holding a small crying baby in his arms, whispering comforting words.

"It is all right Sonya", he says with a tiny voice before kissing her face, "everything is fine, he is a friend, yes he is." Two more kisses and the baby has calmed down significantly. This warms the priestʼs heart.

Even further to the right and next to a lamp on top of the only table Gapon has seen, a man sits on the furthermost corner of the apartment near the altar where all the religious icons are placed. The priest doesn't initially notice the horrible burns that cover half his face, but he does when the man turns to look at him. The pitiful soul immediately regrets doing so when he sees the priestʼs pained reaction, so he hides his face back in the shadows.

Behind the Sudayev brothers is an older boy sleeping on a bed. He is covered by thin gray blankets and looks rather ill. The woman tending to him must be either Maria, Ilyaʼs wife, or Ivanʼs wife Natalia.

"Father Gapon?" Ivan asks.

"Yes?" The priest acknowledges him.

"It has been a while since we last met, I am glad you came."

It has been quite a few months indeed. They met briefly after Gapon preached around their district. Ivan and Ilya were convinced to join the assembly.

"These are Maria and Andrei," Ilya informs Father Gapon from his seat, pointing at the woman with the dark brown headscarf who is placing a wet cloth on the ill childʼs forehead, "and this one over here is Dmitri, with little Sophia."

The little boy on Ilyaʼs lap smiles widely. "He is our uncle!" He exclaims loudly and enthusiastically, looking briefly at a grinning Ilya.

"Hush, Dima", Ivan gently reprimands his son. "The adults are talking, and your brother doesn't feel too well."

The priest gives both father and son an understanding smile. The child in bed has the same red hair his father and uncle have. The adult Sudayev brothers also share the same blue eyes, but Ivan is a bit leaner and shorter despite being the oldest.

"You sent for me", Father Gapon notes.

"Yes", Ivan affirms. "We work at the Polunin Metal Works Factory."

"I know, I remember you and your brother very well. You organized a strike in your previous workshop, correct?"

"Yes, but now we are part of the Assembly of Russian Factory and Mill Workers, and we bring our grievances to you."

"But why did we have to meet here?" Gapon inquires, gesturing with his hands to emphasize the inadequate surroundings. "We have offices to meet and I am a very busy man, busy for you all and for God."

"If you are too busy…" Ivan scoffs with annoyance, giving his back to Gapon and turning his attention towards his bedridden son.

Just like I had suspected, Ivan thinks, Gapon is just like the rest, thinking of me and those I love most as inferior, an afterthought, not worth their time.

"I am here!" The priest loudly reminds Ivan. Gaponʼs work is hard, and encountering people with difficult tempers only makes it harder.

Ivan sighs, faces Gapon again, and starts explaining what he tried to communicate to his manager a few days before. Ilya stands up, leaving Dmitri and baby Sophia on the chair in order to join the conversation.

Once they are done describing their grievances with the Polunin Metal Works Factory, Ivan prepares to talk about his eldest sonʼs situation.

Oo

Natalia, Ivanʼs beloved wife, died from influenza five months ago, not long after giving birth to the baby girl his most tender child is holding. Maria, who lost yet another child recently, is the one who has been breastfeeding Sophia.

Natalia worked as a washerwoman in a laundry, and even though women are not paid nearly as much as men for working the same hours, when she died the family began struggling to make ends meet, so they were forced to find their Andrushka a job. The young boy traded the childhood freedom of running, playing, and roughhousing outside with his little brother Dmitri whenever he wanted for an eight-hour shift at another factory near Ivan and Ilyaʼs workplace. Ivan may never forgive himself for it.

"I was worried about him as you can imagine", Ivan explains, "so I would secretly sneak out of work and visit him whenever I could."

"I have children of my own as well, Ivan", Father Gapon sympathizes, "I understand."

"The main trouble there started when those new machines with the moving parts were installed."

"Oh, yes, I remember a similar complaint at the assembly."

"They were being worked too fast", Ivan continues, "and they weren't properly guarded", he finishes using a harsh tone that betrays weeks of pent-up anger.

"We are discussing it with the directors of the works", Gapon says calmly, trying to soothe Ivan with his voice.

"What is there to discuss?!" Ivan snaps.

"Vanya…" Ilya attempts to interfere, but he is ignored.

"There have been two accidents already and one man has been killed", Ivan rants, "that is just in my sonʼs factory, look at Kostya over there!" Ivan points a finger at his friend in the corner, and Ilya becomes so embarrassed on Kostyaʼs behalf that he leaves the conversation to check up on him.

"I know, I know", Gapon concedes, looking down. "The directors allege carelessness on the workersʼ part…"

"The machines are being worked too fast!"

They stay silent for a moment during which Father Gapon can only nod as he avoids Ivanʼs gaze. The sound of children crying distracts Gapon from the argument.

"Give me a minute", the priest says. He slowly walks around the cellar, wondering whether he truly believes what he claims to stand up for or if the illegal ideals that have attracted so many workers have merit after all.

"We have such a long way to climb", he observes as he helps mothers console crying children and blesses the families that remain awake. "Our struggle is against manʼs greed and avarice."

"Our struggle is against the employers", Ivan counters. He has never been one to put blame on such abstract concepts. His wife was though. Natalia used to blame everything, including their misery, on demons and other evil spirits corrupting people, and she would tell the children rather creative stories about them. Domovoi, Kikimora, Baba Yaga, Leshy. Ivan misses his wife a lot, but not as much as Dmitri misses her every time Ivan tries to tell him a story at night. The child will often complain about Ivan being unable to "do it as mama did."

"You dare remind me of that?" The priest reproaches Ivan as he consoles a visibly ill and exhausted woman. "What are the workers of St. Petersburg but my flock? What have I devoted my life to but the relief of their misery? I have taken up their agony as our Lord took up the cross."

Ivan doesn't want to offend the man, so he chooses his next words carefully: "We need action father, not sermons."

"You must have patience", the priest tells him softly.

"Our lives aren't long enough."

Father Gapon is clearly startled by those words, but he does not stop staring at Ivan as he searches for a good answer. Only when the woman he is kneeling by coughs is the priest distracted. He gently places his hand behind her back.

"Many men in my workplace want to go on strike", Ivan states as Gapon soothes her, "and I am becoming tired of telling them it is a bad idea. How could it be if we have so little to lose?"

"Someday, we will all come out and be listened to", Gapon declares, "but only when the time is right."

"The time is right when the men are ready!" Ivan insists. "Look, I might not know how to read, but those who do talk. There have been strikes in Moscow, in Kharkov, in the oil fields of Baku…"

"In Baku the men struck and came back like beaten dogs," Father George Gapon interrupts him, "their conditions were worse than what they started with."

"Listen father, feelings are running high."

"I know, all the more reason to be prudent", the priest cautions, almost in a whisper. "You say your lives aren't long enough, but what of the men who have died in the war? Boys whose lives have been cut even shorter."

"Better off than some of us."

"Oh, such deaths are violence and a shame for God."

"God?" Ivan scoffs. "God has forgotten us."

"Shame on you", Gapon rebukes him without once raising his voice. "Shame on you for believing such a thing, have you sold your soul to those atheists already? Go down on your knees", he orders.

Ivan stands still.

"Go down on your knees to ask for forgiveness", the priest insists. Ivan frowns, realizing the man in front of him means what he is saying. He is not going to do it though, not only would it be humiliating, but he has also come to find most religious gestures stupid.

"Go down on your knees Vanya!" Maria yells from behind, and Ivan directs a stern look at his sister-in-law. If he is the mother hen of the foundry, Maria is at home. The people they live with need someone to take care of the youngest children when everyone else is working, so Maria has the shortest shifts for a reason. Still, she cooks, cleans, prays for everyoneʼs health and safety before the icons, and commands the apartment as if she owned it. All of the adults respect her, and the children adore her as if she were their second mother.

"Go on papa," Ivan hears his boy Dima add, "the father is right."

Well, he can't argue with both. Dmitri has his father wrapped around his little finger. Reluctantly, Ivan does as he is told and kneels.

"Hear me father", Gapon places both hands on Ivanʼs head, "forgive him this blasphemy, amen."

After raising Ivan from his feet, Gapon tells him things will improve.

"Trust me", he says.

"Say a prayer for the boy, father", Maria requests.

"Is he sick?" He asks, turning his attention towards Andrei and Maria. The aunt is kneeling beside her nephew along with Dmitri and Ilya, who is now the one carrying a sound asleep Sophia.

Father George Gapon approaches, kneels, and touches the boyʼs forehead with the back of his palm. He clearly has a fever.

"Is that going to make him better, auntie?" Dmitri asks. Ivan kneels next to his younger son, strokes his hair, and whispers in his ear that he hopes so before kissing his head.

"What is the matter with him?" The priest asks Maria softly as he removes his hand, but the womanʼs attention is so focused on Andrei that she doesn't hear the question and keeps stroking her nephewʼs hair.

"What is wrong with him?" Gapon repeats, this time looking back at Ivan for answers.

The father of the child stands up, sits on the bed, and moves the blankets just enough to reveal Andreiʼs amputated arm. It is at the level of the elbow, and the once white dressings are covered in blood.

"He slipped", Ivan begins, "falling straight on one of those, those moving… and there are still no safety guards on them!" The indignant father almost roars with anger. "We don't even have money to get a specialist," he says. "After he was discharged from the hospital, they sent him back and gave us nothing".

Once he is done talking, Ivan looks down on his son and his features soften.

"How old is he?" Gapon inquires.

"He is twelve", Maria answers, "twelve already, my baby, not even a man yet… no, not yet. Say a prayer for him, father."

Oo

Father Gapon said he would attempt to convince the directors of the factory to provide Andrei with a pension, but not even two days had passed since the priest visited the Sudayevs when the boy died. Ivan doesn't want anything from them anymore… not that he thinks they would give them anything now or ever would have.

Dmitri loves his younger sister Sophia. He is always playing with her, trying to make her laugh or catch her attention. It is even hard for the boy to spend a minute away from her, so it truly warms Ivanʼs heart to know his small son decided to stay and keep him company after the funeral.

Ivan is sitting on the grass with Dmitri on his lap, hugging the child tightly. The manʼs sight is so blurred by tears that he can barely see the small tombstone in front of him or the letters and numbers engraved in it.

Andrei Ivanovich Sudayev 1892-1904.

Ivan cannot read every phrase presented to him, but he can definitely read that. He has each of the letters and numbers memorized.

1892-1904.

1904.

Russian tradition states that people can die in two ways, good or bad. A good death is a death that comes naturally at the end of one's life, a death that is planned by God. An elderly person passing peacefully in their sleep.

My boy didn't have a good death, Ivan thinks. Illnesses and accidents are bad deaths.

When someone dies, the deceased personʼs soul will linger for up to 40 days on Earth. It is even said that the souls of those who have suffered from a bad death stay on Earth longer. Dmitri is aware of this. "Don't worry papa", he soothes his father, "Andrushka will be around for a while, right?" His small hand caresses Ivanʼs cheek, which is wet with tears.

"Yes, he will Dima", Ivan smiles down at his son and kisses him on the forehead.

Soon after Andrei passed away, Ivan and Maria bathed his body, clothed it in white, and wrapped it in a belt meant to bind the soul to the body. The casket was open for three days during which everyone living in their quarters paid their respects. They adored Andrei, having all proved so by helping the bereaved father pay for the service, something he is not finished doing. He doesn't actually know how long it will take.

"Can we make the clock work again, papa?" Dmitri asks Ivan.

"Why would you say that?" Ivan worries.

"That way, Andrei will stay here on the ground more time for us to visit him", he innocently replies.

Right. When someone dies, a houseʼs mirrors are covered and all of its clocks are stopped. Mirrors are said to be gateways to the realm of the dead, and the first person to see their reflection in a mirror after someone has died is surely the next to depart from the land of the living. Stopping the clocks helps the deceased person move on quicker to the afterlife.

Ivan pulls Dmitri closer. "Remember that Andrei will probably want to go to heaven with mama, Dima", he reminds his son.

The father would give anything to come home to the loud sound of his boys laughing, screaming, fighting, and playing with the small wooden horses he once carved with his knife for one of his nephews, a boy who did not reach the age of seven. The day before, he swears he heard the familiar sound of Andrei complaining to Maria about yet another one of Dmitriʼs displays of mischievousness. Perhaps hiding his favorite toy or staining his shirt with soup.

Sadness engulfs Ivan, sadness for his son and for his wife who loved him so. She would have been heartbroken.

Twelve years. 1892-1904.

His son should have lived much longer. Andrei was always so healthy, so lively, caring, and helpful with the younger children, letting Dmitri win in all games. He barely got sick, but whenever he did, he recovered faster than any of Natalia and Ivanʼs younger children. If any of them were going to reach adulthood, that was Andrei, Ivan is certain.

It would have been him if those bastards…

"Papa?" Dmitri interrupts the manʼs bitter thoughts.

"Yes, Dima?"

"Can we go back now? Andrei told me it is fine if I want to go, and I want to tell Sophia everything he and I talked about."

Ivan smiles and squeezes his precious Dima. Intending to walk back home, both father and son stand up and hold hands.

"What did Andrei tell you?" Ivan encourages the childʼs imagination.

Dmitri turned five recently. He is not as young as he looks, but he is still too young to mourn the dead the way adults do. There are very few tears, if any, but Ivan has noticed his son's grief manifests in other ways. Dreadful nightmares that wake him up screaming, excessive clinginess, and immense confusion. So many questions Ivan can't give the child a proper answer to…

Why do I remember other children living with us? Why are they no longer here? I miss them.

Dmitri has asked more times than Ivan can count what exactly happened to his mother, infant cousin, and brother, the family's most recent losses. The five-year-old simply can't understand why some people leave while others don't.

At least his son is not afraid of death, Ivan thinks, and he has both his late wife and sister-in-law Maria to thank for it. The child is still too innocent and gullible to question their religious beliefs, and his young mind is filled with nothing but popular stories and superstitions. Silly fairytales that, since his wife died, Ivan no longer takes seriously. It is like Natalia took away almost every bit of Ivanʼs being with her parting, leaving only his cynicism intact.

As they walk away from the open field of the cemetery and into the streets, Dmitri tells his father everything his deceased brother Andrushka has allegedly communicated to him from the grave:

"Andrei has already met with mama, my siblings, and cousins because they visited him from the other side and said that in heaven, Father Christmas gives everyone amazing toys and candies, even to poor children like us papa, can you imagine?"

Ivan looks down at his son and smiles, slightly sorrowful at the fact he won't be able to buy Dima anything this year either, which is not even his main concern relating to the upcoming winter. They are cold in St. Petersburg and especially cold in their room, but Ivan will have to think of that later. Right now, he needs to put on a brave and happy face for his child.

Dmitri has a nose similar to that of his father, but he inherited most of Nataliaʼs looks. Pale skin, jet black hair, and dark brown almond eyes. None of Ivanʼs children have looked as much like Natalia as Dmitri does, and that imagination and aptitude his Dima has for finding something fun or at least redeemable in each and every situation life decides to throw his way is definitely Nataliaʼs, the father thinks with huge pride.

Sometimes, Ivan feels guilty about how much he loves Dmitri, because the love he has for his other children, alive and deceased, can pale in comparison at times, but the fact Natalia had a special fondness for Dima as well soothes his worries, because no one would have ever dared imply a loving mother like his wife played favorites.

Ivan remembers the exact day Natalia got sick. Not wanting anyone, much less her children, to catch the disease, she decided to stay away from everyone after the very first symptom and would sleep behind in the furthermost corner of the cellar, close to the bathroom. Only Ivan was allowed near in order to take care of her.

Dmitri was four. Neither he nor Andrei was allowed to see either of their parents for weeks, so they were each other's primary sources of comfort.

It was all very confusing for Dmitri, who didn't understand at first why his parents were rejecting him, or why one day, his father cried as he carried his mother away in his arms. The boy thought she was asleep, and so, he yelled at her to wake up. He didn't cry when his father explained to him what had happened to her or when he saw his brother weep, but he did wake up crying three months later. He called for his father, telling him he missed his mommy.

Dmitri doesn't fear death, but he dreams of that dreadful injury the brother he looked up to suffered, and he remembers the pain it caused him.

One particularly bad night after being soothed by Maria, Dmitri begged with tears in his eyes for his father to accompany him to work when the time came, saying he was awfully scared of the machines. After learning of this, Ivan promised himself that neither his son nor Sophia would ever have to go through that. Not now, not when they are ten years older. Both his children will go to school and stay there longer than Andrei did. How he is going to achieve that is the real question.

Ivan has been examining his options, and none, as radical as they may seem, has been discarded yet. He would die for them, kill for them.

Ivan's bitter thoughts are once again interrupted by his favorite child's hopeful question:

"Papa, can we go to the highest place in the world before going back home?"

"It is Sunday after all, Dima, isn't it?" Ivan replies with a smile.

The only day he has free to spend with his children.

Ivan picks Dmitri up and carries him over his shoulders, much to the laughing boy's delight.

"To the highest place in the world!" Ivan exclaims before he starts running.

Oo

Peterhof, summer 1904.

Olga Nikolaevna Romanova.

"Aaahhhh!" Maria shouts with joy as Auntie Olga grabs her by the forearms and swings her around. My sisterʼs feet are off the ground as she spins in circles. By the time she is back on the grass, Aunt Olga is having trouble breathing.

It is very nice to have a picnic by the shore. My sisters, cousins, and babushka are also here. All of us children are dressed in white and wearing straw hats.

Babushka is watching as Tatiana and Irina braid some dolls' hair. Close to them, my three-year-old sister Nastaska is playing catch with Andrushka, Feodor, Nikita, and Dmitri. Baby Rostislav is inside with mama and Auntie Xenia because he is still little.

Rostislav is cute, and I have enjoyed holding him so far, so I guess it won't be so bad when my baby brother or sister is born. The only problem is I haven't been able to feel it kick, which is not fair because all of my sisters say they have.

One time, mama told us to come running because the baby was allegedly kicking. I was the last to arrive, and when I did, it was no longer moving. My sisters then started talking about how much the baby was kicking right in my face. I hated that day.

I know it is silly, because it was a while ago and mama is no longer mad at me, but sometimes I wonder if mama can control when the baby moves and makes it stop on purpose whenever I am near as punishment for being rude to her the day she told us she was pregnant.

I try so hard to be nice, but only Aunt Olga and Miss Eagar seem to appreciate me even when I am naughty. One day, we were playing rather noisily when mama came into the room with one of her friends, who began to rebuke Miss Eagar for letting us romp and declared that mama had never made a noise in all of her life. Miss Eagar defended us.

"We have all heard so often that the Tsarina was a perfect angel when she was a child", she said, "but she has only given me human children to look after."

I rushed across the room, threw my arms around my nanny, and exclaimed earnestly: "I won't be a human child. I'll be an angel child, too." But Miss Eagar told me she preferred me as I was. I will never forget that day.

"Now me, Aunt Olga!" My baby sister Anastasia comes running with Xeniaʼs boys sprinting behind.

"Wait Nastaska," I say. "It was my turn."

"Oh, dear!" Aunt Olga exclaims. "Let's see if I can still do it with you."

"Pretty please!" I pout at my dear aunt, who folds her sleeves, grins at me, and leans forward slightly, as if daring herself to do it. She grabs me by the arms and soon my feet are off the grass. I am spinning in circles, laughing, but in less than a minute I hit the ground, hard. Maybe I am getting a bit too big for this.

"Oh my God, darling, I am so sorry!" Aunt Olga puts her hands on her head, concerned.

"I am fine, don't worry", I reassure my aunt with a slight giggle, but the truth is that I fell on my hands, and it hurt. She helps me get back up. "Thanks for trying", I hug her.

"Oh, my dear," hugs me back, "was it fun at least?" I nod.

"You are too heavy!" Irina points out with a grin. I look around to see my grandmother, my sisters, and my cousins surrounding me and Aunt Olga. We all laugh when Nastasia mimics the way I fell and the expressions I made, but Babushka laughs the most. She even picks Anastasia up and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

All of the cousins take turns spinning off the ground with Aunt Olgaʼs help, even Irina, who is older than me.

"Who is too big now?" I tease Irina when her turn ends. Poor auntie ends up exhausted, so my sisters, cousins, and I decide to pick up shells for her in order to thank her for being so fun. It is Tanechkaʼs idea.

It is so delightful to walk on the sand without shoes! Masha is drawing something in the sand with her finger among some of the boys. Three-year-old Nastasia loves seeing how close she can get to the water without wetting her feet. What she does is approach when the water recedes from the shore and then quickly run backwards when the waves inevitably make it return.

My sister Tatiana and I are walking slightly ahead of them with Irina, who is carrying almost-three-year-old Dmitri and showing him all of the interesting things we are encountering on the beach.

"Look at that one!" I point at what seems to be a small shell buried in the sand, but Tanechka is already bending over to pick something else.

"Look, this one is bigger", she says almost haughty as she shows me a big pink and white seashell. "You will never find one bigger than this one."

I push her, almost throwing her into the seawater. Tanechka feigns outrage, but then she grins… and pushes me back. I push her again.

"Come, Irina!" I yell at my cousin, who is a few feet away. She immediately laughs upon realizing that Tatiana and I have been pushing each other mercilessly.

My sister and I show little Dmitri and Irina the pink seashell we just found. Cousin Irina is gushing about how pretty it is when we hear a scream.

Tatiana frantically rushes back to the spot where we left Masha. I follow her closely behind, and we find our fat little bow-wow ankles deep into the water, eyes widened in worry as she tries to drag Anastasia out of the sea. Our youngest sisterʼs face is the only part of her body that can be seen, the rest being underwater. She seems to have been pushed backwards by a wave.

Feodor and Andrushka approach Maria, intending to help her, but in no time she has picked Anastasia up all by herself.

"Mashka! You scared me with that scream!" Tatiana protests. "You are not hurt, are you? And Anastasia?"

"Sorry!" Maria lays Nastya back on the sand. "I got a bit scared."

"It was more of a laughing scream", Feodor smiles."I was there."

"Did you enjoy the bath, Nastya?" Andrushka kneels close to my little sister. Anastasia makes a really funny face in response, smiling, closing her eyes, and nodding playfully. With that same expression, she tries to get back into the water. Cousin Andrei stops her just in time and all of us burst into laughter.

Andrushka carries Anastasia and hands her over to Tatiana. Suddenly and out of nowhere, Feodor comes from behind Irina and throws some water he had been holding in his hands at her. Irina screams in surprise, but she is soon trying to avenge her previously dry hair. Maria immediately follows suit. Then everyone else does the same.

At first, my cousins, my sisters, and I throw water at each other randomly, but we end up playing a game that is a bit like tag, except you also have to throw the other person water, not just catch them.

It is so incredibly fun! Everyone takes part in the frolicking, although Anastasia and Dmitri, being the youngest, start having a bit of trouble keeping up with the rules, so my oldest cousins and I decide to carry them on our backs, something the little ones are instantly thrilled by.

Tatiana carries Anastasia most of the time, and Irina continues carrying Dimitri, but sometimes we switch. Even Mashka has fun being carried around by Cousin Andrei for a few seconds despite the fact she is not so little anymore. I did warn Cousin Andrei she was getting heavy.

"Children!" We hear our Babushka call, and we simultaneously go still.

About to throw some water at Irina, Tatiana stops in her tracks and stares straight at me with wide-open eyes. She is wearing a complicit grin, our complicit grin. The one that says: "Oh, no, we got caught!"

When Babushka calls us again, all of us cousins rush towards her, leaving footprints in the sand. That is when I hear her gasp. She looks so worried, and yet Aunt Olga is right next to her, laughing.

"Oh dear, what have you done!" Babushka fusses over her coming grandchildren, one by one. "Your clothes!" Maria and Anastasia kiss her on one cheek each.

"How could you do that without letting me join first?" Aunt Olga adds, her arms opened wide. Irina and I make good use of them and give her a hug while Maria starts telling her, with almost excessive excitement, every detail of how our games went. Aunt Olga doesn't seem to care her own white shirt with blue dots will get wet.

"Oh no!" Irina cries.

"What?" Maria asks.

"The seashell!"

"You had it last?" I raise my voice. "And you lost it?!" How could she be so stupid?

"I am sorry Aunt Olga", Irina says, looking up at her, "I don't remember if I had it in my hands last, but we were having so much fun, I must have dropped it…"

"Oh, don't worry", our aunt replies. "Wipe that frown off your face Olga, I love you all more than any seashell." She pinches my cheek playfully. Coming from my mother, that would have made me feel ashamed… or maybe even madder, but Aunt Olga knows just how to say things, so I chuckle.

"You are right", I soothe my cousin, "it was a lot of fun, we were all silly to forget about it." That seems to make Irina laugh.

"Yes, we were so dumb!" She crosses her eyes in a very funny way.

"Yep, stupid", I imitate her.

I am glad I didn't say anything mean to poor Irina like I was about to.

"Alright", our grandmother says with a semi stern voice. "Let's move the picnic somewhere sunny so you can dry those clothes."

She picks Anastasia up and we all follow her.

I find out later, along with Bubushka and the others, that my five-year-old sister Maria and four-year-old cousin Nikita have successfully written their names in the sand, albeit with a few spelling mistakes.

Oo

The sun shines very brightly, although not as much as it does the days that precede the white nights and their midnight suns, during which none of my sisters can sleep. Mama advises against it, but my sisters and I will sometimes spend the white nights together in the same room. We play with our dolls or tell each other stories for as long as we can and make it so the first to fall asleep loses, although the next morning we can barely ever tell who did.

All of us cousins are sitting on a red and white blanket with Babushka, who is carrying Dmitri on her lap, stroking his hair. Anastasia sits close by, our grandmother's arm around her. Tatiana, Irina, and I are sitting together in front of them next to our aunt, the boys lying on their bellies near her.

"Tell us the story of Ivan and the Chesnut Horse, Babushka!" Maria requests, and our grandmother smiles.

We are almost done with our grapes and sandwiches. I love eating with a perfect view of the ocean, but not as much as I love listening to Babushkaʼs stories.

I have heard of Ivan and the Chesnut Horse before, and so have my sisters. It is a story Papa and mama have read to us. Many Russian fairytales tell the tale of a hero named Ivan, but none of them is the same, so it is almost as if they were all about different people.

Nonetheless, Masha loves the story of Ivan and the Chesnut Horse, so Babushka starts telling the tale as Aunt Olga acts several parts out, making all of us laugh.

There once lived an old peasant man who had three sons. When he came to die, he gathered them around his deathbed.

"Do not forget," he cautioned them, "to come and read prayers over my grave."

They promised not to forget.

The two oldest brothers were big and strong. The youngest one, Ivan, was smaller, but his eyes were full of fire and spirit.

On the day the three men buried their father, Ivan returned to the grave in the evening to read the prayers. Hours later, a horseman arrived at the brothers' village and blew a loud blast on his silver trumpet. He was the Tsar's messenger.

"The Tsar's daughter, Princess Helena the Fair, has ordered to be built for herself a shrine having twelve pillars and twelve rows of beams", the messenger announced. "And she sits there upon a high throne till the time when the bridegroom of her choice rides by. And this is how she shall know him. With one leap of his steed he reaches the height of the tower, and, in passing, his lips press those of her as she bends from her throne."

"Brothers", Ivan said, "our first thought must be to fulfill our father's dying wish. But, if you prefer it, we could train the horses to jump and take turns to read the prayers over our father's grave."

The older brothers agreed, but when Ivan asked whose turn it should immediately be, they both began to make excuses. This would go on for many days.

Ivan fulfilled his father's dying wish as the other two brothers trained their horses, jumped, curled their hair, dyed their mustaches, and practiced their kissing. They daydreamed so much about the princess at the top of the flying leap, that they began to neglect their meals and that of their horses. The animals were, in fact, beginning to show signs of over-training.

The morning of the great day came. The two oldest brothers were combing their well-curled hair and re-dyeing their mustaches, not forgetting to make sure that their lips were fit, as they were anxious for the kiss. When the two brothers each tried to leap up to the princess's lips, however, they failed to reach them just like everyone else had.

Ivan was reading the prayers over his father's grave when a great emotion suddenly came over him. He stopped reading the prayers, his heart filled with a longing to look just for once upon the face of Helena the Fair. So strong was this longing that he broke down and wept bitterly. A strange thing happened then. Ivan's father heard him from his coffin, shook himself free from the earth, came out, and stood before his son.

"My son, do not fear me," the father said. "You have fulfilled my dying wish, and I will help you in your trouble. You wish to look upon the face of Helena the Fair, and so it shall be."

Ivan's father then called in a beautiful chestnut horse.

"What is your will?" The horse asked. "Command me and I obey!'

The old man took Ivan by the hand and led him to the horse.

"Mount! Go, win Princess Helena the Fair!" Said the father, and immediately he vanished.

With one jump Ivan was astride the chestnut horse, and in a moment they were speeding towards the tower of Helena the Fair. The chestnut horse jumped, and on the third try, the lips of Ivan met those of Princess Helena in a long sweet kiss, for the chestnut horse seemed to linger in the air while the kiss endured.

Ivan got to marry Princess Helena, and the Tsar said to him:

"My son, you and yours will reign after me. Look to it! Now let us go to supper."

I used to complain about the ending because I liked the older brothers more, but I was a bit silly back then. Now I understand that the story is about love and how it is more important than anything. It is more important to me than anything. Papa and I discussed the story on one occasion, and he told me it was about the importance of prayer and leaving everything in God's hands, which is even more essential, he said, than trying too hard to make things go your way like the two oldest brothers.

It is so true! Papa and mama have prayed for baby so much and now it is almost here!

"Ivan and Helena had many children and were very happy forever, like mama and papa", Maria states as soon as Babushka finishes the story.

Some of my cousins and I laugh.

"That is not in the story", Tatiana shakes her head, "but I certainly hope so."

"Yes they did", Mashka insists. I smile at her.

"Of course they did", Aunt Olga assures my sister.

"And they called one of them Maria", Babushka adds, smiling at my dear younger sister.

"And one of them Nikita?" Cousin Nikita asks.

"Of course dear", our grandmother chuckles.

Tatiana rolls her eyes and shakes her head again. She always likes the story being told the same way.

I make fun of Tatiana by throwing a grape at her. The deed does not go unpunished though, and she readily throws it right back at me.

"Can you tell us The Humpbacked Horse now, Babushka?" Maria pleads, clasping her hands together.

"No!" Irina exclaims. "Enough stories about magic horses! Why don't you tell us The Little Mermaid?"

Poor Mashka pouts and looks down.

"Yes!" Anastasia stands up and grabs Babushka by her white shirt. "Please Babushka, mermaids, I love mermaids!"

Babushka grins, and after giving little Anastasia a kiss on the cheek, she lets her sit on her lap next to Dmitri. "The first time I was told this story, I was just a little girl living in Denmark, my beloved homeland", she says. "The writer, Hans Christian Andersen, would be invited to the palace to read his stories to me and my siblings."

"Like Aunt Alix?" Tatiana asks.

"Precisely", Babushka replies with a smile. "Out in the ocean," she begins, "dwell the Sea King and his subjects..."

Oh, how wonderful is the world her friend Hans Christian Andersen created! My sisters and I love to imagine there are flowers and plants growing under the sea and buildings such as the coral castle of the Sea King, with its roof made of shells. We love pretending to be mermaids, Anastasia most of all despite not being a good swimmer yet. The only bad thing about playing mermaids with my sisters is that sometimes we get into fights over who gets to imagine herself having the pink tail. I remember the first time we played mermaids with our dear Cousin Ella, who is now in heaven. She would assure us that we could all have pink tails.

The Sea King, who was a widower, had six little daughters, the youngest of whom was considered strange because she was quiet and thoughtful. While her sisters were delighted with the many wonderful things they obtained from shipwrecks of vessels, the youngest one cared for nothing but her pretty red flowers and a single beautiful marble statue she had found, the carving in white stone of a handsome boy that had fallen to the bottom of the sea from a wreck.

Nothing gave the youngest little mermaid as much pleasure as hearing about the world above the sea, but she, like all mermaids, would have to wait until she was fifteen to be allowed to visit and experience it with her own eyes. In the meantime, the little mermaid made her old grandmother tell her all she knew about the mysterious and magical surface world.

The little mermaidʼs longing for the world above only grew as one by one her sisters went over the surface and told her about it.

When she reached her fifteenth year, the little mermaid finally got to swim above the sea, where she encountered a vessel and decided to approach the cabin windows. Inside the ship, she saw a young prince with large black eyes. He was sixteen years old, and his birthday was being celebrated by the sailors, who were dancing under a starry sky filled with beautiful fireworks.

It was getting late, but the little mermaid could not take her eyes from either the ship or the beautiful prince. Suddenly, a huge storm broke out, and the ship sank into the bottom of the sea.

The little mermaid was able to save the prince and take him to the shore. When the storm ceased, she was amazed by the blue skies, the trees, and everything she saw for the first time on land. A few moments later, a young girl approached the prince, and the little mermaid hid.

At first, the young girl seemed frightened by the sight of the unconscious prince, fearing that he was dead, but she then decided to fetch a number of people. The prince came to life again, smiling upon those who stood around him willing to help. But to the little mermaid he sent no smile because he knew not that she had saved him. This made her very unhappy. When the little mermaid returned to the bottom of the sea, her older sisters tried to cheer her up with no success.

Desperately sad, the little mermaid decided one day to swim straight to a known sorceressʼs dwelling.

"I know what you want," said the sea witch. "It is very stupid of you, but you shall have your way, and it will bring you to sorrow, my pretty princess. You want to get rid of your fishtail, and to have two legs instead, like human beings on earth, so that the young prince may fall in love with you, and that you may have an immortal soul."

Mermaids had no soul, and they could only acquire one if a human fell in love with and married them. Otherwise, they became sea foam when they died.

The witch prepared a draught for the little mermaid, but before giving it to her, the sorceress warned her that she would get her legs, but at a cost. The little mermaid would feel as if a sword were passing through her at every step she took.

"Yes, I will take it," said the little princess in a trembling voice as she thought of the prince and the immortal soul.

"But think again," the witch warned her. "Once you do it, you can no more be a mermaid. You will never return to the water with your sisters or see your father's palace again, and if you do not win the love of the prince, then you will never have an immortal soul. The first morning after he marries another your heart will break, and you will become foam on the crest of the waves.

"I will do it," said the little mermaid.

"But I must be paid also," said the witch. "You have the sweetest voice of any who dwell here in the depths of the sea, and you believe that you will be able to charm the prince with it also, but this voice you must give to me."

"It shall be," said the little mermaid. And it was done.

Over the sea, the little mermaid met the prince, who asked her who she was and where she came from. She looked at him mildly and sorrowfully with her deep blue eyes, but she could not speak. Every step she took was as the witch had said it would be, incredibly painful, but she bore it willingly and was very soon arrayed in costly robes of silk and muslin. She was the most beautiful creature in the palace, but she couldn't sing nor talk. This was a great sorrow to the little mermaid.

The prince said she should remain with him always. They rode together through the woods, where the little birds sang among the fresh leaves. She climbed with the prince to the tops of high mountains, and although her feet hurt, she only laughed and followed him.

As the seasons passed, she grew to love the prince more and more fondly, but he loved her as he would love a little child. The day came when it was said that the prince must marry, and a marriage was arranged for him to the beautiful daughter of a neighboring king.

The little mermaidʼs heart broke, but the morning of the wedding came, and dressed in silk and gold, she held up the bride's train.

On the same evening they married, the bride and bridegroom boarded a ship. The little mermaid could not help thinking of her first rising out of the sea, when she had witnessed similar festivities and joys. She knew this was the last evening she should ever see the prince, for whom she had forsaken her kindred and her home, given up her beautiful voice, and suffered unheard-of pain daily while he knew nothing of it. She knew she would die of a broken heart.

The little mermaid leaned her white arms on the edge of the vessel and saw her sisters swimming. Their beautiful hair had been cut off.

"We have given our hair to the witch," they said, "to obtain help for you, that you may not die tonight. She has given us a knife. Before the sun rises you must plunge it into the heart of the prince, and when the warm blood falls upon your feet they will grow together again and form into a fish's tail."

Oo

My little sister Maria gasps audibly. "No!" She cries. Babushka is so startled and concerned that she stops telling the story. I approach my horrified sister and give her a hug.

"It is all right Mashka, it is just a story", Tanechka helps me comfort Maria by stroking her hair. Also worried for her, my cousins start giving her words of encouragement to no avail.

"The poor prince!" Mashka exclaims. "Why?!" Aunt Olga says something in Mashkaʼs ear that seems to soothe her.

"Will she do it?" One of the boys asks, sounding way too excited. Anastasia has a devilish grin on her face, and she even giggles. Unlike Maria, she doesn't seem at all upset, which is kind of amusing for both me and Babushka, who stares at Nastya with an incredulous smile before continuing.

Oo

"You will be once more a mermaid", the sisters said to the little mermaid, "and return to us. He or you must die before sunrise, kill the prince and come back" And then they sank down beneath the waves.

The little mermaid beheld the fair bride with her head resting on the prince's breast. She bent down and kissed his brow, glanced at the sharp knife... and flung it far away from her into the waves, which magically turned red.

The little mermaid cast one more lingering, half-fainting glance at the prince, and then threw herself from the ship into the sea. Her body dissolved into foam.

When the little mermaid woke up, she was warmly received by the daughters of the air. Although these creatures do not possess an immortal soul, they can, by their good deeds, procure one for themselves. They fly to warm countries and cool the sultry air that destroys mankind with the pestilence. They carry the perfume of the flowers to spread health and restoration.

And so the little mermaid, who had suffered and endured and raised herself to the spirit-world by her good deeds, finally obtained an immortal soul. Unseen, she kissed the foreheads of the prince and her bride, and then she mounted with the other children of the air to a rosy cloud.

Oo

"I did not like it", Mashka states even before Babushka says "the end" to finish the story.

Our grandmother laughs, and my cousins start discussing the tale loudly along with me and Tatiana who, unlike Maria, seems to have enjoyed it.

"Hey! Hey!" Maria stands up and walks towards our grandmother. Tatiana and I laugh, whispering jokes to each other's ears as we see a disappointed Maria stand in front of us with her hands on her hips.

"Quiet!" She tries to shut everyone up. "Quiet, all of you!"

"Let's hear what Masha has to say!" Aunt Olga helps my little sister out.

"The prince didn't marry that other girl", Maria proclaims. "He was going to but then discovered that she was a witch in disguise, the little mermaid doesn't jump and doesn't turn to foam either, she is the one who marries the prince."

"No, that is not how the story ends", Tatiana protests, which makes Mashka frown and yell in frustration.

"Yes, it is!" Anastasia stands up and claps. Aunt Olga and Babushka start laughing.

"No, it is not", Tatiana insists matter-of-factly.

"I don't care", Maria says. "I like my ending better because it is happy."

"The real ending is already happy", Tatiana argues, "the prince marries a girl he loves and little mermaid goes to heaven, in your ending she is in pain forever."

"But I don't want that to be the end!" Maria exclaims. "The little mermaid marries the prince! Also, her feet stop hurting one day!"

Irina and I exchange smiles, and her brothers laugh uncontrollably.

"But that is not the real end", Tatiana repeats. "And how do her feet stop hurting?"

"They just stop hurting", Maria states confidently.

"They can't simply stop hurting for no reason", Tatiana says.

"The little mermaid prays for them to stop hurting."

"That is still not how the story ends", Tatiana shrugs.

"Yes it is! Yes it is!" Anastasia runs in circles around Tatiana. "You are the witch who tricks the prince! You are the witch!" Anastasia points her finger at Tatiana, which makes Maria giggle.

"Aunt Olga! Aunt Olga!" Tatiana cries for help when Anastasia starts grabbing her hair. I try to avoid smiling as I protectively put my arm around Tatianaʼs shoulder.

"That is quite enough, my little Anastasia", Babushka picks my youngest sister up and kisses her on the cheek. "Your sister is too good to be anything but another princess." Our grandmother gives Tanechka a smile and gently strokes her hair.

"I liked the changes you made to the story a lot, Mashka", Aunt Olga says, and then, walking closer to Tatiana before bending to put a hand on her shoulder, adds: "The first time she got upset, I told her she could make up a different ending for herself, but don't worry Tatiana, that doesn't change the way the story really ends."

My sister nods, still seeming slightly annoyed.

"Don't worry Tanechka, both stories can be true", I tell Tatiana, but the truth is I liked little Mashkaʼs happy ending a lot better.

Oo

Peterhof, summer 1904.

Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova.

My God! How much pain and suffering! These must be the hard times we have been warned about in so many prophesies. So many people dead, the Petropavlovsk sunk, just like that! Sunk with Cyril as First Officer! Thank God he escaped alive. Nicky turned pale when heard the news, and I couldn't help but burst into tears. How pathetic of me.

My poor, long-suffering Nicky doesn't even have as much time to play with the girlies as he has had every previous summer. Right now, he is having a meeting with his uncle, Sergei, who just arrived from Moscow with my sister Ella and the children.

At least my four daughters must be having a lot of fun. They are outside, playing hide and seek among the many beautiful golden fountains of the Lower Garden along with their grandmother, their Aunt Olga, and most of the cousins, including Ellaʼs wards, Maria and Dmitri. Sometimes they scream so loudly with joy that I can hear them from afar. I am thankful for their innocence, and so proud of them.

My daughters care so much for the wounded. They have enthusiastically visited the poor men quite often, offering them their company. They have worked very hard as well, improving their knitting, sewing, and embroidery impressively these past few months. Sometimes they surprise me and Nicky by saying such wise things to comfort and assure us in this trying period.

Olga told us that perhaps one day all nations in the world would learn to get along after talking more frequently. Another time, Tatiana exclaimed that it was lovely to see how everyone in Russia worked together to help the wounded soldiers feel better by either volunteering in hospitals or donating whatever they could. Maria surprises me each and every day, how easy it is for her to love people!

And last but not least, despite her young age, Anastasia predicted that her favorite soldier would get better, and so she paid special attention to him for weeks, this before any of the doctors or nurses did. They had not been as optimistic.

This proves what I now believe firmly. Children are the apostles of God, which day after day He sends us to speak of love, peace, and hope.

Nicky and I love our four little girlies so much. They are our joy and happiness, each so different in face and character. We have recently begun calling them our little four-leaf clover, for they are proof of our luck and Godʼs blessings to us despite the hard times.

I have been kept awake at night, praying, worried about the prophecies, but with faith in God, mountains can be moved, and Holy Russia will only triumph and be stronger after the war.

Oo

The Upper Peterhof Palace is an enormous, beautiful, and elegant complex that has been nicknamed the Russian Versailles. Our lovely Tatiana was born there less than two years after I gave birth to Olga in the Alexander Palace. I prefer our smaller Lower Dacha though, as it is the place where my Nicky carved our names near the back window when we were just children. The Lower Dacha is located in the Aleksandriya Park, near a large greenhouse, and it is the villa where both Maria and Anastasia were born. It has four floors with small rooms and narrow staircases. Not very well built, but it is cozy.

The edifice is made of yellow and red bricks. It has pilasters, loggias, columns, and grey window surrounds. Its roofs are of varying heights, blue-grey, and steeply-pitched.

My reception room at the Lower Dacha consists of a semi-circular sofa made of white wood that is decorated by a fabric of pink and red roses with green leaves. I am sitting there next to my sister Ella now, both of us wearing white lace and linen summer dresses, but alas, she looks so much better. My most recent pregnancy has made me as fat as I will ever be. I am surprised by how close the white table that stands in front of the sofa is to my huge belly.

The war is everything everyone, including my sister, talks about. And how could it not be? Darkness has completely engulfed the nation. Any decent person would be horrified by what is happening. We have talked a lot about the children, but we have discussed our wartime charities even more. We are sick of being unable to do more. My tearful sister is telling me the story of a particular wounded soldier she encountered while making a visit to a hospital.

"You should have seen him, Alix, he was so humble, so vulnerable and devoted to the Tsar and glad to be dying for him. He was so ashamed of having lost the battle and asked me to send his sovereign a message. 'If he knew', he said, 'if he knew what we are going through'. The workers are having such a bad time… I sold some of my diamonds to give to his family and others in similar conditions before he died, I promised I would take care of them."

"That was so nice of you Ella", I squeeze her hand and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I pray he has found peace with God. The war must only be making conditions all the more terrible for the poor dears, which is why I pray for peace and victory every day."

"Yes, but I wonder…" Ella wipes her eyes.

I wait patiently for her to continue, but realizing that she won't do so any time soon, I urge her to: "What?"

"No, forget it", she waves her hands dismissively, "maybe I am worrying too much. You are pregnant after all and…"

"No, do tell me Ella", I insist, growing increasingly annoyed by her usual overprotectiveness. I am not a child anymore.

"I was wondering if maybe we are not doing enough, you see… first Bobrikov, the Governor General of Finland, is assassinated, then Plehve", she begins in a casual tone, not a care in the world, but then, as she continues speaking faster and faster every second, I start to realize she is anxious. "Sergei is absolutely outraged, he ranted to me about treason for almost an hour and told me he would get even more police and spies working in Moscow, that no one would dare even utter a word against the Tsar by the time he was finished with his new wave of arrests, and yet the strikes and riots have continu…"

"Oh yes Ella!" I chuckle. "You are worrying too much indeed! How could the actions of those assassins have anything to do with us? No decent people with love in their hearts would ever consider becoming anarchists or anything of the sort. Murderers of any kind will always be a small and evil lot, finding excuses to kill everywhere. We live in a fallen world after all. And as for those few unruly children striking and rioting…"

"They are not so few anymore, that is what I am telli…"

"They are not true Russians! Especially not if they are doing so during wartime, when the country needs to be united. May God have mercy on them."

Ella doesn't say anything else. She only sighs and looks down. My answer seems to have successfully ended the conversation for now, but my sister doesn't seem convinced, looking rather dejected. I add some words of reassurance: "I know the times are hard, dear, but it will all be over once the war is won, you will see."

"I know Alix", she replies, "but I am not so sure anymore, with all these things happening all at once… I am worried this could all unfold into something worse unless we do our best to stop it."

"Did you not say the wounded man you visited was brave and loyal? Do you want me to fear those good and honest people, Ella? I don't know why you are bringing this up all of the sudden, you are acting so strange. We help them because it is our Christian duty, Ella, because we love them and don't want them to suffer, not because there is any reason to fear them. The Russian people love us."

I refrain from telling her about the warnings of our friend Philippe, who said the country would be ruined if Nicky condoned anything close to resembling the drafting of a constitution. He has been wrong before, but I am pregnant now with a lively and energetic child I love more than anything in this world already thanks to Philippe insisting that Nicky and I seek St. Seraphimʼs intercession. I trust most of his advice, because even when he was mistaken, he had only our best interests at heart.

Ella wouldn't understand. She gets so bossy and unbearable whenever I mention our friend and starts warning me about false prophets and other rubbish. My sister is a woman of faith, of course, but she does not seem to believe that people with special gifts from God exist today. She thinks they all vanished in the first century. I would not mind her skepticism so much if she had not meddled with me and Nickyʼs friendship with Philippe, but she did.

"Yes of course, Alicky dear, of course the common people love us", she tries to take my hand, "but do you not think we should work to keep it that way?"

"Absolutely not!" I pull my hand away. "The Russian peasants see us as gods, Ella, and you, who spend a good portion of the year in the countryside, know this better than anyone."

"Then why is it so hard for you to even say hello to them? You do not go to balls where you could make useful connections with the nobility, claiming that the arrogant and frivolous people who attend are not worth your time, but then why…?"

Oh, I see where this is going. She is referring to that day I refused to open the curtain of the train to greet the crowd.

"Not that again!" I exclaim. "Did Minnie encourage you to do this? Is that what that strange talk was all about? How impertinent of her! Next time I see her I will…"

"No, do not think that Alix, I just remembered what she told me about that day when it became relevant, that is all, I am sorry, forget it. It is just so hard to talk to…"

Elizabeth looks away before finishing the sentence. She truly seems to regret bringing up the subject.

I hate not having the best of relationships with Nickyʼs mother, someone he and my girlies love so much, but how could I? The last time she lectured me, yet again, about not caring about high society was before the war during one of her visits to the Alexander Palace. She claimed I wasn't doing my duty, that I was influencing my husband not to do his, and that those formal receptions mattered because Nicky needed to hear from the people.

I politely replied that those privileged aristocrats would have perfectly splendid evenings without us, that they didn't need us nor were entitled to our time and energy, which would be better spent with our children or in more useful charitable projects, and that the peasants and the common people, the real Russians, would love and revere us regardless of whether we spent time with princes, counts, barons and Grand Dukes, because we had been chosen by God to rule over them, and I had faith in Him.

"No, you silly girl!" My mother-in-law rudely replied. "How could they love you? They do not even know you, and they revere the idea of what you represent, for now. And yes, balls and receptions matter because like it or not the autocracy depends on people who hear from lesser people, who hear from even lesser people. The information is mostly altered by the time it finally gets to us, but it is better than pretending to know everything, and as for God…"

"Yes, and as for God, Minnie?" I encouraged her, feeling like I had the upper hand in the argument already. "Do tell."

I noticed she was about to roll her eyes, but she somehow held herself back. "I do not view God as my personal servant, Alix", she said. "I am not as prideful as to believe He makes plans based on what is better for me alone, or that all I have to do is sit down and wait for Him to arrive like a waiter with the specific order I requested. I was born a princess, as were you, because a long time ago some ancestor was either handed the crown by a conniving group of powerful men or had the audacity to snatch it away from a predecessor he either murdered or defeated in battle. Sashaʼs grandfather became Tsar only because his older brother Konstantin married a commoner and gave up his claim to the throne. Nicholas I, on the other hand, worked hard to make good use of his. God seems to choose those who act to be chosen, do you not think? He cares for us, but no more than He does for the trees and the squirrels outside, and I do not believe He will save us from the consequences of our own actions."

Absolutely shocked and outraged, I accused her of being impious, which made her incredibly defensive. Our conversation ended there. She has wanted me to be her ever since we met, to fit her idea of what a perfect Empress should be, but I am my own person.

"I was indisposed that day," I explain to my sister after a while in a low tone of voice, feeling slightly ashamed of my actions. Although… why should I feel ashamed? I was indisposed only one day out of many, I am not a circus monkey or a dog who does tricks on command, and what right does that woman even have to criticize me for who I do and don't decide to greet? She is not the Empress anymore.

"I know", she sighs, and then, smiling, adds: "I like the way your hair was done today, by the way."

The change in subject is welcomed.

Ella and I fight at times, but we do love each other so very much. When I was a little girl, Ella would care for me as any mother would for her daughter, and later on, whenever I felt guilty about how much I wanted to marry Nicky due to the sacred promise I had made to my dear papa about remaining a Lutheran, she would comfort me by reminding me that love is sacred as well.

I tell Ella the recent story of how Tatiana asked my maids to teach her how to do my hair. My sister and I have a good time laughing about it, endeared by dear Tatiana. It is a simple bun today, easier to do than even Ellaʼs, but my little girl is clearly learning. I am so proud of her I scare myself sometimes, because I know I should not have favorites even by accident.

"Are the girls excited about the new baby?" Ella inquires.

"Incredibly so!" I reply. "Maria and Tatiana most of all, Maria talks to the baby every day."

"And the other girls?"

"They are happy too, but alas! You know how it is, Anastasia is too young and excitable to care for only one thing at a time, and Olga…"

I did not like Olgaʼs arrogant attitude the day I revealed I was pregnant. It did sour the day and maybe I have not hidden my feelings on the matter too well, but I would not tell that to Ella. I hate it when people talk about me behind my back, why would I ever do the same with my daughters?

My Olga is just too clever for her own good, picking up on the subtle ways in which our world diminishes the value of little girls. My special girlie, behaving so well these past few days, although I can tell it has been hard. I should focus on making sure she feels loved at all times.

"And Olga…?" Ella begs me to continue.

"Olga is happy to be the older sister of a little brother for once", I lie, although to be fair, Olga is not unhappy anymore either. She even becomes upset whenever she fails to feel the baby kick.

"We have talked about this Alix, you don't know whether the baby you are expecting is a boy, why not protect yourself from disappointment by being open to all possibilities?"

There it is, that overprotective attitude of hers.

"Oh, you have so little faith, Ella!" I complain. "We asked St. Seraphim to intercede and grant us a son, and here he is", I gesture to my belly.

"And what of all the times before, Alix? What of all the other prayers? God provides us with what we need, not what we want."

"And when exactly would the nation be more in need of an heir?" I point out, and she smiles. "Do not worry excessively for me, Ella", I soothe her. "I have already gone through four so-called disappointments, as you so unkindly referred to my daughters, I can take a fifth and be delirious with happiness that same day."

"Oh, do not be silly!" She chuckles. "You know what I meant, I adore the girls and I know you do as well, all despite their Irish accents."

"What?" I know my sister mentioned the last thing in a teasing manner, but I still become overwhelmed by concern.

"It is something I have come to notice whenever they speak to you in English, but do not worry dear, it is harmless and barely discernible."

"No, no, Ella, it is not harmless! What will our English relatives say? Where did they even learn that?" I put my fingers on my forehead and think.

"One of the nannies…maybe?"

"Oh! Miss Eagar, of course, how silly of me! It is going to be sad though, the girls love her so much…"

The conversation is abruptly interrupted when the baby kicks me so hard I gasp. Ella raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth in surprise. I let out a chuckle as I place my palm on my stomach, later pulling Ellaʼs hand over to me so she can feel the baby as well.

"He is so active!" She exclaims with the biggest grin on her face. I am immensely moved by her reaction, and soon my sight becomes blurry.

"You called him a he!" I can't help but notice, and after a few seconds, the tears of joy roll down from my eyes. I am just so happy to be sharing this with Ella, who also becomes emotional.

I know my baby may not be a boy, but this child will be St. Seraphimʼs miracle either way. Something special and fantastic is growing in me, I can feel it.

I have always loved each of my babies without even meeting them, with all of my being, and that is not different now. But never had I felt as if I knew them before birth like I know this child, whose personality I am deeply acquainted with already.

This baby kicks as much as the others did, maybe a bit more often, but they seem to do so primarily when I am feeling sad or ill, as if to comfort me, or whenever I am particularly happy for some reason, as if sharing my joy.

Whenever I rub my belly or Nicky talks to it, this baby is immediately compelled to react and kick. I have prayed for a boy for so long, but I am so pleased with my baby already that I will feel completely fulfilled once it is born.

What I want the most is for my bundle of joy, my little miracle, to be healthy.

"Isn't my baby vigorous?" I ask my sister after we have both wiped our tears. "And he is going to be strong as well, Ella, you will see. I am going to raise the spirits of the people with an heir."

"And if it is a girl?" She raises an eyebrow.

"If it is not a boy, I will call her Victoria, after grandmamma, remember? I am beginning to miss her more now than ever."

"But Alicky, Victoria is not a Russian name."

"I do not care Ella, I am the Empress, and I will convince Nicky to make an exception and name her so. Victoria means victory, and what better way to make everyone see my baby's birth is a good omen?"

Oo

Olga Nikolaevna Romanova.

My sisters and I are resting in mama and papaʼs bedroom after a long day of playing outside.

Mama is distracted, sewing on a small pink sofa next to the bed, behind which there are lots of religious icons hanging on the wall. Close to her, Tatiana and Maria are playing together with their dolls. Poor papa has a lot to do, so he is still working. I feel so sorry for him, he has to do so much! So many people depend on him!

Little Nastasia and I are certainly benefiting from mamaʼs focus on her work by jumping off of the bed, which we are not supposed to do. Every time Anastasia jumps, I make sure to be close by in case she gets hurt. On this occasion, my youngest sister giggles a bit too loudly when she lands.

"Shh!" I hush her. "Mama will hear us!" My turn comes, so I climb onto the bed, intending to jump.

"Olga! Anastasia!" Mama calls. I freeze, she has discovered us.

"Come quickly!" She insists. "The baby is kicking!"

I relax, quickly becoming worried again as I rush towards her. Will I get to feel the baby this time?

Tatiana and Maria are the first to arrive. They are already sitting one on each of the arms of the sofa and feeling mamaʼs tummy. Anastasia arrives soon after I do, and we both kneel in front of mama, who is looking down at me with a warm smile. I extend my arm and touch her belly.

I instantly feel something bumping against my hand! The most ridiculous chuckle comes out of my mouth.

"Did you feel it?" Mama asks. The excitement can be heard in her voice.

"Yes", my voice breaks, to my great embarrassment.

"Aww, sweetheart", mama caresses my cheek. "You do know I love you, right?"

That only makes it worse. The tears roll down. All of my sisters are giggling, and I immediately understand why. The baby is kicking again, harder this time.

I start laughing and crying at the same time. Very weird and unusual, as I don't even feel sad, but the furthest thing from it. Tanechka kisses my cheek, probably because she thinks I am indeed sad. Mashka follows Tatianaʼs lead and does the same.

I grin as I give each of them a pat on the back.

"Hello!" I say to the baby. "I am your sister Olga." I am immensely happy to feel the baby react to my voice.

"Hello baby", Anastasia follows. "Look, Olga is crying."

"Oh, Nastasia!" Mama chuckles in an attempt to reprimand my little sister gently.

Tatiana, Maria, and I laugh.

"We love you very, very much", Tatiana says, her mouth close to mamaʼs belly. The baby kicks.

Maria, whose forehead is touching Tanechkaʼs from the other side of the sofa, adds:

"We are going to take care of you." And the baby kicks once more.

We are. I am. I know now what am supposed to do and be.

Oo

August 12, 1904.

Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova.

Such a sunny day! Not a cloud in the sky. It has been hot as well, maybe too much, uncomfortably so.

Everything happened without warning. I was finishing my soup when I felt a strong pain that by now I can immediately recognize as a contraction. I quickly retreated upstairs after a brief apology, probably leaving my poor Nicky worried. Ella has already rung people for assistance.

I am now pacing in the room, praying. The icons behind the bed offer some comfort, but I can't stop thinking about what happened yesterday. As one of my maids brushed my hair, the mirror on the wall fell to the ground and shattered into pieces. It shouldn't have. The floor was heavily carpeted.

I feared it was a bad omen and started praying after asking the servants to help me pick up the shards. I knew what the sign meant, or might.

The English curse. My little nephew Heinrich had it. He liked to jump off chairs and beds like my three-year-old Anastasia still does, and yet he died for it. My poor brother Friedrich had it as well, and the little one broke my mother's heart with his death. My brother Ernie still feels guilty about it at times, for he was playing with Friedrich before the accident.

Uncle Leopold also had the illness. After the death of my mother, my siblings and I went to stay in England for a short time with dear grandmamma at Windsor. Uncle Leopold used to go out with us in the mornings and spend the afternoons playing with us. My older siblings had lessons, so I was at times my uncleʼs only companion. We were very close and used to play little card games together. He even showed me how to do my first trick. Sometimes, I simply sat and painted in his room.

One time, I fell in the garden, cutting my leg, and I was proud to show Uncle Leopold my bandages, which were similar to the ones he often used due to his blood illness. Of course I, as a little girlie, did not understand what they were for. I still wear the two bracelets Uncle Leopold gave me before he died after bumping his head during a fall.

Another contraction interrupts my thoughts and I bend over in pain. Just then, I hear a sound that makes my flesh crawl. A bell.

I approach my vanity and the sound gets louder. I see it, the icon with the small bell that my friend Philippe gave me before leaving, the one he said would ring to warn me should anyone meaning to harm me enter the room. Well, it is ringing. I don't know how, but the little bell attached to the icon is moving and ringing on its own. Again.

I look around the room, but there is no one here. Another contraction. I am definitely in labor.

Our Father, who art in heaven, I pray, hallowed be thy name; thy will be done; on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever.

I can feel the anxiety and excitement sweeping over the villa as my family members and servants run up and down the stairs and through the corridors.

Amen.

Oo

I lie down in bed, and the room quickly fills with people, Dr. Ott among them. None of them is who the bell warned me about, I know.

As with my previous deliveries, I am administered chloroform to make the labor easier, but the fact my Nicky will be with me is going to make it all the more easier.

I push and breathe, thinking apprehensively of the first time I heard that little bell ring: 1903, the night before my little niece Ella died.

I don't understand people who don't believe in the supernatural, or God. There are so many things science can't explain, they are so arrogant… impious…

My girlies have seen the ghost of the unfortunate, spurned wife of Alexander II. My mother died the same day my grandfather Albert did, his name on her lips. Sometimes I can feel my little sister Mayʼs presence, as I can feel my dear mother's.

And what my little girls saw the night my niece Ella… I don't think even half an hour has passed since I had my first contraction when I slowly begin to come out of the effects of the chloroform. Nicky looks startled, and his eyes are full of tears. The room is silent, way too silent…

The holy fool Pashaʼs prophecy! The angel of death has come for my child just like it did for Ernieʼs little girl!

Oh, no, no!

But the baby cries out, which prevents me from doing so myself.

I sigh in relief. It is such an amazingly loud cry, so incredibly healthy. I get a glimpse of my sunbeam in Dr. Ottʼs arms, and I prepare to insist on naming her "Victoria". Before I can emit a sound, however, I see the doctor turn to my nervous and pale husband, who looks incredibly anxious about my health and that of our newborn infant.

"I congratulate Your Majesty on the birth of a Tsarevich", Dr. Ott felicitates my Nicky, who stands dazed, unable to utter any words. I don't quite believe it myself, so I close my eyes. I need to make sure I am not dreaming.

I open my eyes to see Nicholas smiling at me, and the joy in his wrinkles tells me everything I need to know, so I dare to express what I have prayed so very hard for:

"Oh, it cannot be true, it cannot be true. Is it really a boy?"

By way of an answer, my Nicky falls on his knees and sobs tears of happiness by my bedside.

Carefully, Dr. Ott places the baby into my shaking arms. I make sure to count each of his twenty fingers, memorize his features, and even make sure he is truly a boy.

"My son, my life!" I cry out. "My sunshine, my midnight sun!"

Sorry for the long wait again. This chapter was very inspired by Kathleen McKennas "The Empress of tears", it has so many good scenes. And if you have watched the show you already know it had a lot borrowed from episode 7 of "Fall of Eagles" (Thank you Fall of Eagles!).

I got lots of useful information for the ~historical ambiance uhu~ from a book called "Crime and Punishment in the Russian Revolution" and "Nicholas and Alexandra" again. The "Polunin" Metal Works Factory is a nod to the real Putilov Factory lol. The latter will be mentioned later.

This is an "Anastasia Broadway" fic as much as it is a historical fic about the real Anastasia, so I combined aspects of both into my portrayal of Minnie, her grandmother. I allow myself to do that in part because I dont know as much about Minnies real life personality as I know about Alexandra, for example.

In real life Maria Feodorovna never lived in Paris as far as I am aware, which is why that city is not going to be prominent in her chapters, and Anastasia wasnt her favorite granddaughter either (I am not even sure she even had a favorite grandchild in real life, and if there was one, I have read it was probably Irina), but for the sake of making their reunion more poignant in LATEOTT, she will indeed have a huge soft spot for Anastasia in this fic, although arguably not as pronounced as the one in the musical, where it seems at times she didnt even hope or long for any of her other grandchildren from Nicholas to have survived for some reason (Because… protagonist reasons lol). Something that also surprised me is that the girls referred to their grandmother as "babushka" (Grandmother in Russian) in their letters (At least as little girls), not nana as depicted in the play.

I dont know whether Minnie, Olga Alexandrovna, Xenia and her family were there in Peterhof that summer, but they did in fact see each other there often, and also… *artistic license card*.

I will take a small break from this story, write a new chapter for LATEOTT, and then return. Good news for the guys who are only reading this or simply checking the endnotes to see when I will update my other story lol.

I will work on some editing first though. Typos, phrases, missing or repeated words, correcting some details I have changed my mind about and such, so even the new Light at the end of the tunnel chapter might take some time, but I assure you, it is what I am going to be working on if you are wondering, so it is coming!