Chapter 7
Departing from the monastery was vastly different from arriving. Mikhail took one last look around the small shed he lived in, tossed a few spare pairs of pants in a bag, and purposefully left behind the Bibles and rosaries pushed upon him over the years.
There was no reason to stay and get sentimental over a prison he hadn't deserved, but going back to the palace frightened him. The last time he was there, his mother had been alive. Everything had been different.
One of the monks appeared at his door and told him the coach was growing impatient.
On his way out of the door, Mikhail paused, feeling a rising rage at the thought of everything he’d been through at the monastery.
He turned with a sharp conviction and grabbed the crucifix on the wall, ripping it down, bringing chunks of plaster with it.
Brandishing it like a sword, he swung it against the thick walls of the room until it snapped in half, the cracking sound of wood splintering echoing in the small room. Mikhail dropped it with a massive exhale, his chest heaving and sweat dripping down his arms from the exertion.
The monk stared at him with wide eyes but did not try to stop him. It would be fruitless to try. Mikhail stood a good foot above him and had now spent well over a decade working hard labor to avoid saying his prayers.
Mikhail kicked the broken cross with his boot, turned his head, and spit before he walked out the door and headed for the royal carriage, revenge on his mind.
???
Anastasia sat at the desk in her sitting room, another iron pen firmly in hand. She was grateful this time the ink wasn’t blood.
The iron always made her hands go numb. She knew better than to say anything about it. If she mentioned how anything affected her magic, she’d be subjected to even more scrutiny.
For that reason, she never reacted to anything and kept herself in the dark when it came to her abilities. Sometimes, when it was dark and she was alone in her bed, she’d release the magic at her fingertips to see what would happen.
Nothing ever did, besides a small light show. She never let it grow too large for fear of being caught. She was terrified that the same spark between her fingertips had flickered out in her soul. The only time she really let it out was when she escaped to St. Petersburg on Sunday mornings.
Maybe it’s a devil’s curse after all—a cursed life.
The door to the sitting room creaked open, the familiar sound cutting through the silence. Anastasia barely bothered to look up, expecting another iteration of the same priest her mother always sent.
She thought she had seen everything over the years, but nothing prepared her for the man now blocking the doorway. She tossed a bored look in his general direction and sucked in a sharp breath before she was able to contain herself.
As Anastasia took in the stranger, a sharp wind ripped through the sitting room. It nearly knocked the man to his knees, but he recovered quickly. Anastasia quickly moved to sit on her hands, the heat rising in her palms cluing her in that the wind was her doing.
The man straightened up, rolling his shoulders back with a smirk.
“Do you greet everyone like this?”
His voice was rich and deep. He talked down to Anastasia, and it infuriated her.
She had been spoken to in many ways over the years.
Most of them were unkind and domineering, but no one had ever taken a tone of bored disinterest in her.
She said nothing, shocked into silence as her hands cooled off.
The promise of magic was still an ember in her fingers.
This stranger wasn’t dressed like a priest.
His clothes were simple, which seemed out of place in such a gilded box.
The air around him was so potent, Anastasia forgot how to breathe.
The room was stifling as they stared at one another, as if the oxygen had been replaced by something simmering and heavy.
Every man that she had ever met had tried to emulate this kind of presence.
In their words, their clothing, their violence…
they all wanted to portray this kind of raw power.
Now, seeing this stranger, Anastasia knew beyond a dark shadow of a doubt that they were all charlatans who came before him.
“Who are you supposed to be?” She finally inquired, trying to keep a calm, aloof composure. She didn’t want the stranger to see how immediately affected she was by his bearing, although she knew that ship had sailed.
The man in front of her wasn’t mimicking or pretending. He embodied a stoic sense of control. They sized each other up as opponents, and she was ignorant of the sparks that started flickering between her fingers.
Palpable, unadulterated authority flowed off him before he even opened his mouth.
“Well?” Anastasia pushed again, standing up. She crossed her arms over her chest, growing angrier as he refused to answer her question. Now it was his turn to be silent. “Have you gone mute now?”
When he answered her question, his tone was different. It was a voice that Anastasia would never forget, slow like honey, as if he was trying out how her name tasted.
“It’s been a while, Anastasia.”
Anastasia didn’t move. The pen she was still holding dropped to the floor.
“I don’t believe we know each other. Although your manners are dreadfully casual,” she offered in rebuttal.
Her icy gaze raked down his body, and it was his turn to suppress a shudder, but his heartbeat was in his throat. He spent the last fifteen years doing hard labor at a frozen monastery. It showed, down to the hair he refused to cut, which he kept in a low bun.
After all this time, he was sitting in the rooms of the Grand Duchess Anastasia.
She was in front of him, questioning him.
He had been ready to murder her the very first night, but her fiery gaze made him wonder what fuel was stoking that flame.
There could be advantages to keeping his cards close to his chest and biding his time.
What could such a spoiled duchess be angry about?
The tension was broken by a servant who stepped in behind him and nodded in acknowledgment.
“Your Grace,” the servant bowed low, “This is Mikhail.” The man stopped. He held up his hand in apology, “Forgive me. We knew each other when we were children. Your Grace, this is Father Rasputin.”
“Just Rasputin,” his voice was cutting. The man looked at him in surprise. “I never took the vows.” The man nodded as if it was a simple answer that didn’t beget a million more questions.
“My mother won’t be pleased to know she’s been sent someone who didn’t take his vows,” Anastasia found her voice and was surprised at how steady she sounded.
The servant turned on his heel and left quickly, sensing the explosive atmosphere between the two.
Mikhail laughed. It was a sarcastic sound.
It was so different from the placating laughter of servants and courtiers that Anastasia felt dirty hearing it.
She was horrified upon realizing she didn’t hate it; she recognized that kind of contempt for their surroundings. She felt it every day.
“Your mother has certainly hired worse.”
“I can’t imagine what knowledge you would have of that.”
“I have much knowledge about what happens in your rooms, duchess.”
Anastasia sucked in a surprised breath, shocked at how direct he was being with her. Like his inappropriate laughter, she resented how refreshing it was.
Each fool and acolyte her mother had paraded in front of Anastasia to encourage her to use her magic was cruel, abusive even, but they were always somewhat afraid of her.
This one was different. He seemed annoyed, almost bored with her, and he’d just arrived.
No one had spoken to Anastasia candidly in years.
“You can address me using ‘Your Grace,’ Mikhail.”
“You can address me as Rasputin, Your Grace.” Mikhail was now struck with a tactical desire to keep his name under wraps. It was easier to be addressed as Rasputin so that fewer people might remember his past in the palace.
“Why? That’s an awful name. A terrible one. It frightens me even to say it.” Anastasia shuddered. She didn’t like the way it sounded, and something about it didn’t suit him. She wasn’t in the habit of remembering any of the priests' and tutors' names, but this suddenly mattered to her.
“Maybe that’s best, your grace,” his face curled up in a smirk as he leaned against the doorframe. Anastasia sat down on her chaise, forcing herself to adopt a posture of repose. Mikhail’s eyes went directly towards the papers in front of her.
“How often do they have you transcribing pointless spells?” He nodded in her direction.
Anastasia cursed her heart for skipping a beat.
Usually, it would be a joy to have someone on her side who agreed how pointless this kind of work was, but why did it have to be this arrogant man?
By his own admission, he wasn’t even a priest.
“How do you even know what this is? I can’t make heads or tails of it.” She wrote out a few more lines. “It’s easier to give them what they want sometimes.”
“Do you give everyone what they want, your grace?” Mikhail pushed himself off the doorframe and took a few more steps towards Anastasia.
Anastasia caught the sarcasm dripping from his question and subconsciously began rubbing her fingers together, causing more sparks. Mikhail’s eyes went directly to it. He started mentally logging away every tick, every reaction, and how her magic responded.
“You have no idea what people ask of me, Mikhail.” Her voice was still as she stared up at him, refusing to use the name he’d requested.
He chuckled darkly, a sound that sent Anastasia’s pulse fluttering on command and the magic between her hands buzzing. She tried to act subtly as she fidgeted with her fingers before sliding her hands into her lap, out of view.
“I’ve asked you once not to call me that.”
“I will refuse. I don’t know why you’d want to go by a name that some priest gave you.”