Chapter 8
After their explosive meeting, the next two days felt like a minefield.
If Mikhail entered a room, Anastasia developed an excuse to leave.
By the end of the first day, Mikhail started doing the same.
It was a delicate dance, and living in the same rooms made it even more difficult.
Anastasia found herself staring at some of the empty rooms in her chambers to avoid Mikhail’s presence.
She resigned herself to her bedroom most days, coming out when necessary for meals, the only time they saw each other. The first time the heavy, silver cloche was lifted to reveal the duchess's diet, Mikhail couldn’t hide his repulsion.
He knew from her outburst the first night her meals were heavily controlled, but he didn't think it was as bad as she said it was.
He assumed she was exaggerating, as a spoiled duchess would.
To his horror, it was no tall tale. Her breakfast was cold oats, no sugar, fruit, or dressings of any kind; for lunch and dinner, she was only served buckwheat cutlets.
The portions were always tiny, and Mikhail noticed how frail Anastasia really was.
He hadn't seen it in the dim light of the evening during their first meeting, and it was hidden in the bountiful dresses that were the fashion.
The sleeves of her dresses went past her knuckles, and multiple layers of skirts and petticoats hid a dangerously small frame.
Mikhail watched her eat her dinner, unable to keep himself from asking, although he knew he would regret it. Stoking his sympathies for the duchess should be the last thing on his mind.
“When was the last time you had hot food, Anastasia?”
She looked up from her dinner with wide eyes, shocked by his breaking of the silence and the nature of his question.
“I don’t remember,” she said quietly. There was no emotion in her voice, leaving nothing to betray her feelings on the matter. Mikhail's mind spun dangerously as he grappled with the intense shattering of his preconceived notions of Anastasia.
He had spent the last fifteen years hating her, despising her very name and image, and swearing revenge for killing his mother. The person in front of him was someone else entirely.
Yes, her cage was a ten-room suite with heavily decorated golden walls, but she looked like someone who had been kept in a bare room and slowly starved.
They weren’t spending any time together, and he imagined she was taking advantage of the fact that he had not demanded any lessons yet.
He'd pulled some information from the messenger on the way to the palace and in his initial briefing from the palace staff.
Most of Anastasia's schedule was set by her tutors. If they commanded her to be up at six in the morning and recite lessons until nine in the evening, then that’s what she would do.
The tsar and tsarina remained mainly detached from their daughter's schedule, preferring to commune daily with the priests assigned to her and nothing else. The tsar issued the order that pulled her from court and dictated her meals, but they had minimal contact with their daughter outside of that.
Even Alexei was increasingly distraught over how removed his sister had become over the years. Unfortunately, he looked up to his father too much and didn’t doubt the tsar was doing what he thought was best for Anastasia. Alexei’s blind faith was a danger to them all.
Anastasia finished what was left of her meager dinner before she stood and gathered her skirts.
“What time shall I escort you to services tomorrow, your grace?” Mikhail found himself taunting her to see some emotion on her face. He cursed himself for it.
“I do not attend the Orthodox services with the boyars and the court," Anastasia said quietly, refusing to meet Mikhail's gaze. Something about his presence deeply unsettled her in a very different way from how she was used to feeling about her previous tutors.
Mikhail scoffed, "How, pray tell, did you get out of that one?"
“Ten years ago, I convinced my family that I would take services privately with my tutors,” she said dismissively, “I said I thought it would be best, God forbid the Lord overcome me and release my magic during a service with nearly three hundred members of the nobility. A few months ago, I told my tutors I’d take services alone. ”
Her voice lifted near the end, and Mikhail saw the beginnings of a smirk on her face. He peered up and saw her eyes, that piercing blue fire, begin to flicker alight once more. The very sight made him want to push her harder, to fan the flame.
"Did that ever happen?" He grinned, leaning back in the chaise, looking the picture of perfect repose.
"Did what happen, Mikhail?"
He chuckled at her stubborn use of his name, “Did the Lord ever overcome you during time with your priests?”
Heat rushed to Anastasia’s cheeks as she stared at him, shocked at the unabashed way he talked to her. It took her only a moment to regain her composure.
"Not once," she raised an eyebrow, "I guess none of them were very proficient."
"That's a damn shame, your grace."
"The stable master, on the other hand, proved well taught."
Mikhail sputtered audibly, sitting up straighter and nearly falling out of his chair. Anastasia laughed, throwing her head back in an unrivaled gaiety, a sound that transfixed Mikhail. He hadn’t known laughter could sound like that. It made him feel like a man dying of thirst.
He chuckled, shaking his head and looking up at the grand duchess. She was still smiling, and Mikhail scolded himself internally for how much he loved that smile. The realization flooded over him like a bucket of cold water.
The smile quickly dropped from his face, sobering up as he was caught in an intense wave of self-hatred and shame for finding even the smallest of joys in the company of his mother's murderer.
Anastasia noticed the abrupt change in his expression and figured she had gone too far. Soon, the tutor would surely emerge from within him.
"Well," she broke the silence, smoothing her skirts, "We leave tomorrow at dawn."
"I'm sorry?" Mikhail looked up at her in confusion. "I thought you said you didn't go to services."
"I don't. I have my own things to attend to. I'll need an escort." Anastasia turned and began walking towards her room.
"Is the stable master indisposed?" he snapped, suddenly full of ire at himself. He didn’t like the idea of Anastasia spending any time with someone who didn’t understand the fire in her eyes. That kind of fire was forged through suffering, something Mikhail could understand.
"No," she said quietly, opening the door to her rooms, "My last tutor had him killed."
???
The next morning, Mikhail was ready at dawn and prepared for anything.
It had been barely seventy-two hours since he came crashing back into Anastasia's orbit and found himself perplexed. She was a woman with layers; that much was apparent. He came solely for revenge, but everything changed when he saw her.
After her family had diminished her so thoroughly, she must have hidden the last precious bits of her soul so they couldn't be stolen.
The door to Anastasia's room swung open. She stepped out in a plain sarafan, betraying her underweight figure.
Mikhail couldn't keep the surprise from showing on his face as he studied her. His fists tightening at the thought of the Tsar demanding his daughter be underfed... just to see if it would spark her bloody magic, for fuck's sake.
"You'll have to change," she said quietly, nodding towards the habit Mikhail was wearing. "Although if you didn't take your vows, I'm not sure why you're wearing that at all."
He scoffed, "It seems to be the only thing the tsarina keeps stocked for your tutors." He held out his arms, the sleeves riding up.
Anastasia shook her head, avoiding his good-natured probe, "I'm serious.
Please. This is important to me." Her voice got even quieter, as if she were sharing a great secret. Mikhail’s chest seized when he realized she was offering him a bit of trust by asking him to be her escort.
Anastasia had no way of knowing if it would backfire.
"One moment, your grace," he nodded. The little informality they had between each other slipped away.
When he emerged, he was wearing the only clothes he had brought with him from the monastery.
Anastasia nodded in approval at the rough shirt and canvas pants.
With that, she turned and walked towards the door.
"You'll need to go first," she said without turning around. "If anyone sees us, they'll assume it's some sort of penance."
Mikhail nodded, sliding in front of her and placing his hand on the door, "Where are we going?"
"Out of the East Wing, straight out of the palace grounds. We shouldn't see anyone since the mass has started. If we do, that means they were likely too drunk to go to service and won’t notice."
"Keep your head down," he said in warning, pushing the door open and leading Anastasia out of the room.
They wound their way through the never-ending hallways. The obscene amount of wealth plastered to the walls and hanging from the ceiling brought back a familiar nausea in Mikhail that he fought to keep off his face.
He was grateful Anastasia was behind him and unable to see his expression as he grappled with an onslaught of emotions.
He was navigating through the palace for the first time in fifteen years.
It looked like nothing had changed, but everything was different now.
When he first arrived at the palace, he had been brought straight to Anastasia’s chambers and was face-to-face with the exorbitant finery again.
Anastasia's predictions about the castle activity were apt. They didn't see a single soul on their way out. Mikhail was shocked when they reached the exit in the East Wing, which was a surprisingly common door with no guard.