Chapter 2
Flour dusted Asya’s worktable as heat breathed from the ovens.
She brushed her hands on her apron, trying desperately to protect her clothes.
She didn't have many garments, and she took care of the ones that she owned.
She checked her clothes once to make sure they were clean, then she returned to her dough.
“Thirteen years of raising a duchess, and I still smell of yeast and smoke,” Asya muttered under her breath.
Now that Anastasia was older and needed less of her constant supervision, she found herself reverting to her kitchen duties when Anastasia was dispensed for lessons or, more frequently, long sessions in the chapel with the tsarina's zealots.
Asya knew Anastasia hated both and had a sneaking suspicion that the tsarina wasn't above more aggressive measures to get her latest doctrine across.
Asya cared deeply for the child. Her only goal was to protect Anastasia’s magic from getting out or into the court’s hands.
As much as she desperately wanted to teach her about the depths of the power that stirred within, she knew that it would likely curse the girl as much as it could bring about her salvation.
While she couldn’t focus on the magic she knew resided within Anastasia, Asya did her best to teach her about what was happening beyond the palace walls.
She thought the more Anastasia knew about the unrest growing in Russia, the more prepared she’d be for the day the illusion shattered.
The question was not if the palace gates would fall, but when.
The kitchens were crowded with the scent of bread, rosemary, and lamb roasting over the fires. There were three central departments of the massive rooms: wine, cooking, and the bakery.
Dinners and parties at the palace happened weekly and often saw guests totaling over five hundred — it wasn’t uncommon for the kitchen to send out over two hundred platters of sweets alone.
The fires were always stoked hot, and the kitchens were designed to be as extravagant as the rest of the palace.
There were gold-painted sconces where there should have been extra vents and paintings that curled at the corners from the humidity of the wineries.
Asya overheard rumors that the tsarina had moved the portraits of those she considered prettier than her to the wine cellars. If she had the option, she’d put the tsarina’s portrait in the fire.
Asya was lost in her thoughts as she worked her hands tirelessly into the dough in front of her.
She kept up her ministrations while taking a glance around the room, and upon seeing that every other servant was distracted, quietly slipped pieces of dough into her apron pocket.
The dough was easier to smuggle out of the castle to those in need than baked loaves of bread, which could be easily prepared.
"Mother?"
Asya saw a shadow before she turned around, believing she was caught. When she saw her son, Mikhail, enter the kitchens, her shoulders dropped. Her face slid into an easy smile.
"Moy syn," she grinned, holding her arms out and pulling him into a hug. When he was younger, he would have fought her off with a groan. Now, at nineteen, he had seen too much destruction on the streets and never turned down his mother’s affection.
Asya was able to get her son a job at the palace as soon as he turned sixteen, which was nothing short of a miracle. She was convinced it had been the tarragon she’d slipped into the head servant's tea during the interview for good luck that had secured Mikhail’s position.
"Mother," Mikhail said again, gently removing himself from her grip and holding onto her wrist, "These people. They're hardly people. Animals, all of them!" His voice was barely audible, yet taut with anger. She saw how his eyebrows furrowed at the mention of the palace inhabitants.
Asya looked around to make sure no one overheard him. "I know, I know. We must..."
"Do you know I just witnessed the horse master spit out a bite of food and feed it to a stable boy? For fun? The worst part is that the boy was starving and didn't even hesitate but for a moment..."
Mikhail could still see the boy’s expectant eyes, grateful for anything thrown in his direction. He was nauseous at the memory.
Asya sighed deeply and nodded in passive acceptance.
She knew working in the palace would be challenging for Mikhail, who had seen too many of his friends and neighbors die of starvation.
Asya had an even greater need to keep him occupied and fed while she kept her sights on Anastasia and her magic.
"I will burn this palace down, brick by brick..."
"Mikhail!" Asya's voice turned sharp as she looked at him. "Do not make such idle threats," she paused and dropped her hand when she realized she was shaking a finger at him.
"Nothing about it is idle," his eyes darkened to almost black. She could see his arm shaking with the restraint that it had taken him to walk away from what he had witnessed.
"It better be," she snapped. "I don't like this any more than you do, but that's not the point. The time will come for things to burn, my child, and you would be wise not to singe yourself before the firefight."
She turned abruptly and returned to her work on the table as the head of the servants walked by at a brisk pace, undoubtedly, to yell at someone for something they did not know they were supposed to do.
It was commonplace for people to request caviar, lobster bisque, or pheasant aspic, only to be forgotten amongst the buffets.
On many occasions, the head of servants would come bellowing into the kitchen, and more than one servant girl would go home that evening with boxed ears.
Asya waited for him to vanish into the depths of the pantries before turning back to her son.
Mikhail bowed his head and nodded an apology. She knew a terrible temper brewed in him with no outlet, and he struggled to watch injustices happen day in and day out, with no reprieve.
Mikhail knew Asya carried small amounts of magic, but he had no idea about the devastating secret sleeping upstairs. Considering he hadn’t even met the Grand Duchess, Asya had kept the secret to herself.
After all, Anastasia was in enough danger without a growing crowd of people learning about the magic that slept within her.
Mikhail turned to leave the kitchens and stopped, looking his mother deep in the eyes.
“One day, Mama, I will make sure they pay for how they sought to cripple you of your magic. For what they did to all of us.”
Asya sighed deeply and shook her head, the grief written across her face, “The destruction of this house will happen by its own mortar, Mikhail,” she looked him in the eye, “and I have seen it.”
Mikhail’s eyes grew wide as he looked over his shoulder and then nodded in the direction of the pantry doors, waiting for Asya to join him behind a row of salted herring in the stores.
“You’ve seen what?” Mikhail never doubted his mother’s magic, even though she tried to tell him that she was rather pedestrian in her craft.
It didn’t matter to Mikhail as much as it didn’t matter to those who wished to condemn and ostracize their family for her gifts.
Any magic was a threat as the Orthodox Church continued to rise to power.
The tsarina collected people with gifts like tchotchkes, which was likely the only reason Asya was allowed in the palace.
Even though Asya kept her magic benign and under wraps, she wouldn’t give it up.
It didn’t stop anyone from coming to Asya for help when doctors couldn’t be found — or, more often, when they were too expensive.
However, to avoid becoming outcasts, most people avoided them, too. It was one of the reasons that Mikhail deeply despised the church and vowed retribution on them, as much as the Romanovs.
“I’ve seen it,” Asya said again, shaking her head and holding up her hand to cut off her son from interrupting.
“I cannot explain it to you, and now is not the time nor the place for you to know. Beware this, my son… the Romanov magic is sleeping. It is not dead and buried as much as they would like you to believe. When it wakes, you must be there to encourage it.”
“You want me to encourage Romanov magic?” Mikhail’s fist clenched at his side.
Asya had wanted to avoid this conversation at all costs, but it was proving unavoidable.
He ran his hand through his dark hair, threatening to pull it out at the end.
He dropped his voice to avoid detection, and it came out as a rough hiss, “You want me to encourage the Romanov magic? The very thing that could keep them in power forever?”
Asya cut him off with a quick shake of her head, “It won’t. It will ruin them.”
“How so?”
“I promise you, son,” she looked up at him, “When the Romanov magic returns, it will bring them all to their knees.”
???
Mikhail was unable to focus on anything for the rest of the day. He wandered the halls of the palace, doing what he did best —mastering the art of appearing useful. His mother would chide him endlessly for it if she knew that he managed it, but he didn’t care. Their principles were different.
He knew that she came from a different time, where it was better to wait and be respectful. Where his mother was checks and balances, he was fire and brimstone.
Every time his feet sank into the deep carpets that lined the floors, or he saw his face scowling back at him in polished silver, the overwhelming need to bury the Romanov dynasty made his blood run hot.
By fourteen, Mikhail had lost both of his boyhood best friends to violence and poverty.
By sixteen, he had been beaten by more than one Orthodox priest before being kicked out of the church entirely. He waited and watched as the Romanov royalty and the clergy got in and out of bed together, waltzing around one another, each pretending to lead.