Chapter 3
Anastasia sat at the desk, struggling as everything in the room seemed to exist only to suffocate her. The luxurious apartments that they kept in the Winter Palace were some of the most opulent, overly done to the point of contrition.
The tutor who was sitting next to her—Anastasia never bothered to remember their names—was holding a long switch in his hand, eyeing her with contempt as if he only lived for the moments he got to use it.
Her feet dug into the soft carpet, and her back pushed into the plush chaise. She was overcome by the innate cruelty of her mother and the presence of the latest tutor.
Her mother had dragged her lessons into her own chambers. That way, the tsarina could guard her like a relic.
Anastasia had thrown a fit when it happened, knowing that it was another attempt to keep her from spending more time with Asya. The tsarina was envious of the gossip surrounding Asya’s kitchen magic, as she had never been able to replicate anything close in her experiments.
The tsarina was sitting in a corner, barely paying attention to the needlepoint in her hands, as she kept an eye on her daughter.
Anastasia’s tutors had a high turnover rate. They were fired and hired as often as the clerics were. They all held different beliefs about what the young Grand Duchess should be taught, and the tsarina's opinion changed like the tides.
Anastasia's heels dug in, and she grimaced, letting out a controlled breath as she began writing down the repetitive lines the tutor had placed in front of her.
She was on her fifth attempt at completing an entire page of Latin, which she assumed was some prayer. It was easy enough, but the ink was different than what she was used to. It seemed to be made of pure iron, smelling of metal, and all but burning through the paper itself.
Anastasia blinked rapidly as she copied the script next to her and felt a burning sensation ripple through her fingertips with every letter she managed to scratch out on the paper.
"Again," the weaselly voice of the tutor came suddenly from behind her. She shrieked when the switch came down hard on her knuckles. She jerked her hand in a sudden movement to get away from the stinging pain.
Anastasia watched as the ink jar exploded, spilling all over the desk as glass shards flew across the room. Her face went white, and she leaned as far away from the table as she could. Anastasia’s pain pulled her magic out of her, even if she didn’t realize it was happening.
The ink spread over the papers in front of her like an ominous tide. It looked like the table was bleeding, like she was. Anastasia coughed, fighting the urge to gag when she realized the ink was blood.
She couldn’t remember hitting the inkwell; she didn’t know what had caused it to topple over. The tutor watched it pool all over her forgotten lessons in disgust.
"What is happening?" Anastasia felt tears rushing to her eyes, overwhelmed with a sickening sensation, a cold, creeping feeling that snuck up her spine and began to twist her limbs to her sides. It was like an invisible rope wound around her body and pulled tight.
She began struggling violently against unseen restraints as the tutor stared at her with beady, yellowed eyes and muttered something under his breath.
Anastasia tried to gasp and turned to look at her mother, begging her to finally put a stop to this. The tsarina sat unmoved, like one of the many marble busts she loved so much.
“I don't know if it was enough,” she said. “She should have written out the binding spell ten times in totality. It was only five.”
The tutor stopped his useless sputtering and adjusted the fur cap he was wearing before pulling indignantly on his oversized robes.
“It will work! Look at her now, tsarina. You were correct. The spell wouldn’t have taken hold if she didn’t have any of the Romanov curse.”
“Never say that out loud again, or I shall have you hung outside and pecked by birds,” the tsarina spat, her voice sharp and unforgiving.
Anastasia struggled to move her muscles. She was paralyzed in her seat and forced to watch as the blood started dripping off the table and into her lap. There was a sudden banging noise as the doors to the tsarina’s chambers flung open.
Anastasia practically sagged in relief as she watched Asya burst into the room, an expression like hellfire on her face. She watched her adoptive mother survey the room, taking in the scene as if confirming her suspicions.
“How dare you attempt these things you know nothing about! She’s just a child!” Asya’s voice was a war cry. Anastasia watched as the lady-in-waiting shook her finger in the face of the tsarina of all of Russia.
“How dare I? I’ll do whatever I see fit with my daughter and will treat you cursed whores of Satan with what you deserve!
” The tsarina stood up and slapped Asya across the face hard enough to make her fall.
Anastasia watched her beloved surrogate mother fall to the ground.
Her fingertips began to feel warm, as if electricity were dancing between them.
The bonds holding her tight seemed to be loosening as the panic turned to rage, boiling over with a vengeance. She watched as the tsarina turned around and grabbed a small butter knife from the tea set.
“Fresh blood is always best for binding spells,” she hissed at the tutor, nodding in the direction of Asya. “She can finish it off with the essence of her precious nanny.”
“If there's any magic in her blood, it will make the spell stronger,” the tutor agreed and moved towards Asya as if to hold her.
Anastasia’s vision blurred as the wicked tableau spread out in front of her.
Her heart was racing, and the blood was loud against her eardrums as she watched the inevitable play out.
Her mother moved towards Asya as if she were about to slit her throat.
The fear of losing the one person who loved her gripped her tight, and she let out a wicked scream.
Three things seemed to happen all at once.
Anastasia’s bonds cracked.
The binding spell found the priest, instead locking him in place as she pulled her arms from their stationary position.
And her magic rushed from her fingers with a pitiful cry, shattering every light in the room and descending the scene into darkness. Somewhere in the shadows, the tsarina barked orders no one obeyed.
As Asya had foreseen, the spark that would dismantle the Romanov Empire was set free.
???
Anastasia woke slowly and then, all at once. Her vision was blurry, and she struggled to sit up. Panic hit as memories slammed into her. She sucked in a sharp gasp of air and pushed herself back against the headboard, realizing she wasn’t alone.
Anastasia’s vision cleared as she sat up, staring down the tsar, the tsarina, her tutor, and three lords whom she had often seen walking around with her father.
Her heartbeat picked up as she tried and failed to get a grasp on the small crowd.
They were all staring at her, unflinching.
She looked around helplessly, trying to find Asya as her eyes darted around the room, remembering the tsarina walking towards her with a knife mere moments ago, and a new panic gripped her. Asya wasn’t there.
It was highly inappropriate for anyone other than the tsarina to be in her rooms. The Romanovs always upheld the strictest rules of propriety; casual nuance was for people experiencing poverty.
It was why the selection of the cabinet maids was an incredibly coveted position.
In some ways, they were closer to you than family.
The fact that now her father, a priest, and three dvoryanstvo were in her bedroom was apocalyptic.
“Where is Asya?” Anastasia’s voice was small. She hated how desperate she sounded. She was hardly a teenager, but she knew she needed to attempt a place of power in this conversation.
Anastasia didn’t know what had happened to her; she couldn’t explain it.
The Winter Palace had a problem with dark magic ebbing and flowing as political power moved around like the weather, which meant that things that could not be explained were often exterminated.
Anastasia was met with silence as one of the dvoryanstvo coughed quietly and clasped his hands together in his lap.
“Where is Asya?” She repeated, her voice growing more frantic. It was the tsar who spoke first, his voice cruel and sharp.
“You killed her, Anastasia,” he said her name like it was a curse. Anastasia’s blood ran cold, and the world that had been spinning around her violently stopped.
A chill began at the base of her spine. Nausea threatened to overcome her as an evil, broken shame began creeping up her back and settling in the pit of her stomach.
“N-no,” she stuttered, sounding even younger now. “That’s not… I didn’t want to… I don’t know what…”
“It’s true,” the tsarina nodded, her voice somber. “You killed Asya.”
“N-no, no, no, no,” Anastasia pushed herself even farther up the bed. The cold ball of guilt and panic in her stomach became so heavy she didn’t know how to bear it.
“Do you know what we’ve had to do to protect you from yourself, duchess?” One of the lords spoke up as he focused his eyes on Anastasia. She could tell from his expression alone that he was a cruel, desperate man.
She didn’t answer.
“Tell her.” The priest chimed in, goading him on. Anastasia clutched the sheets in a tight grip, ripping the expensive linens to keep from screaming.
“Your Asya is dead,” the lord started. Anastasia released a strangled sound before clamping a hand over her mouth. He waited until she was silent and continued.
“Your Asya is dead, and we had to send her son away to ensure he didn’t talk. She had a son, did you know? That family lost two members today, and it’s your fault.”
“NO!” Anastasia screamed, falling over and letting her sobs consume her, unable to keep them at bay any longer.
“Stop these dramatics,” the tsarina sneered. For someone who had never attempted a maternal relationship with her daughter, she found herself annoyed at Anastasia’s hysterics over the loss of Asya.
“It’s true,” the tsar’s voice boomed as he spoke over his daughter’s cries. “You are cursed, Anastasia. We had prayed for years that this devil’s gift would never appear in you. It seems it was in vain. You’re carrying the Romanov curse in your blood after generations of peace.”
Anastasia picked her head up in defeat, staring at her father with a confused look on her face. Cursed?
“Cursed,” the priest confirmed as if he was reading her thoughts. “You have black magic, Anastasia. No one will ever be safe around you if you use it.”
“I’ll never, I’ll never…,” Anastasia hiccupped, sniffling out of control, “I’ll never use magic! I’ll never use magic!”
“You’re damn right you won’t!” The tsar erupted as if his temper had been hanging on by a thread. His voice was loud and overpowering. She crawled back to the far corner of the bed, fear and panic consuming her.
“You are never to go anywhere without a guard, Anastasia,” the tsar resumed, regaining his cold composure and looking over her with disgust and shame. “Do you understand? Only those of us in this room know about your condition,” he sneered the word. “Not even your siblings.”
The tsarina nodded and continued. “Your lessons will resume with Fyodor alone,” she nodded at the priest, “and the tsar is correct. We will be selecting new chambermaids for you. Your staff, schedule, and meals must be approved.”
A cold sweat took over Anastasia’s entire body as her vision condensed to a single point. Her world crumbled around her.
She stopped hearing their words after a certain point, her mother continuing her lecture. The tsarina condemned every part of Anastasia’s life until she knew she couldn’t have tea without permission.
I’m so sorry, Asya. I didn’t mean to.