Chapter 8 #2
"No one can see this entrance from the front gate," Anastasia whispered from behind him as if she was reading his thoughts, "so no one uses it. See and be seen, of course."
"Of course," Mikhail scoffed and pushed it open.
As soon as they left the courtyard, Anastasia overtook him and began leading him through a series of alleys in the city of St. Petersburg.
He was once again grateful that she couldn't see his face; he was emotional being in his home city after so long. The sheer volume of people, the smells of horses, food, and coal, it was all so different from the stark silence and obscurity of the monastery.
A day hadn't gone by that he hadn't worried about the life he left behind, the tiny neighborhood in St. Petersburg where he’d lived with his mother.
It was barely more than a slum, but the people were close-knit.
Several people took a hand in raising Mikhail after his father died and his mother had been alone.
He was immersed in his thoughts and didn't realize where they were until Anastasia turned down another side street. Mikhail stopped, staring at the crowded street of houses in front of him.
"Where are we?" His voice cracked as he recognized every slanted roof, doorframe, and broken window.
Anastasia turned to face him, her voice deadly quiet as her eyes lit up. "If you tell anyone about this, it will harm them more than it ever harms me," her voice was foreboding.
“Do you understand?” Anastasia’s brow furrowed.
“I wouldn’t be showing you this if I didn’t have to, but…
” she trailed off for a minute before finding her composure.
“I fear you’re a bit smarter than the other tutors I’ve had to deal with.
It was easy enough to fool them. Or frighten them. You, at least, are hardly a priest.”
Anastasia was wringing her hands together, looking at Mikhail with her nerves plainly written across her face. He wanted to ask her what she was afraid of, until he realized she feared him. She was opening up to him because she had no other option, not because she trusted him.
“Hardly,” Mikhail nodded, wondering why Anastasia brought them to the street he’d grown up on. Did she even know that? She let out a shaky breath, and Mikhail leaned closer to her, his mind spinning a million miles a minute.
"I'm sure you were told a myriad of things when you were hired," she pulled them to the side of the street to get out of the way. "The first time my magic… exploded," she chewed over the word as if they didn't feel right, "I killed someone."
Mikhail stopped, unable to move, unable to think, unable to breathe. The sounds of the busy city faded away.
"She was my lady-in-waiting," Anastasia's voice cracked, and she bit her lip hard. "If you could even call her that. I used to dream she was my mother. Her name was Asya. She was the only person I loved in the whole world. And it was during another one of my mother's fucking lessons!"
Anastasia released half a sob and choked the rest down like rotten food, her hand going to cover her face. She looked anywhere but at Mikhail's gaze.
"The priest had put some binding spell on me, I don't know. It happened so fast. Asya broke into the room and tried to help me, and my mother went after her with a knife. I screamed, I was so scared. I was a child! Then, it all went dark."
She doesn't know Asya was my mother, he thought as he watched her cry.
Anastasia wiped at her eyes, breathing shakily, and Mikhail eyed a tremor in her hands, still frozen to the spot in front of her. He couldn't believe what she was saying. He’d spent fifteen years believing that fateful night happened very differently. Was he wrong?
“When I woke up, my whole life changed. They told me I killed Asya, or, I suppose, my magic did. The Devil himself cursed me. The only woman who ever showed me kindness... it was an accident. And I killed her.”
"Anastasia...," Mikhail reached for her, but she stepped back.
"It gets worse," she hiccupped, wringing her hands more frantically.
“She had a son, you know. They had to send him away, ship him off. He saw it happen. I ruined his life. I tried, over the years, to get them to bring him back, but they never listened. My father threatened to have him killed if I asked again.”
Mikhail paled, unable to breathe as his worldview unraveled in front of him.
She... she had no idea. It was an accident. An accident? Did she send for me? She sent for me!
"I know," he said, looking up at her and trying to catch her gaze. When she refused to look him in the eye, he leaned forward and captured her chin with his thumb. "Anastasia," he repeated, "I know."
They stared at one another, so close now that they were almost touching, as realization dawned over Anastasia. He had Asya’s eyes. She shook her head repeatedly, choking the words out as tears began running freely down her face.
"No, no, no, no...," she gasped, her hands going to his wrist near her face. "It can't be." Her knees buckled, threatening to give under the weight of Mikhail’s admission.
He nodded, "I think we've both been living in our own prisons for a very long time, your grace." His voice was dangerously detached and calm as he stared at her, unable to stop thinking about how utterly captivating she was, even when she was upset.
"Could... could you ever forgive me?" Anastasia's voice was quiet and sad. There was a demure quality to it that didn't suit her. Mikhail hated it.
"I don't know if forgiveness is the word for it." He shook his head, abandoning himself to fate in that moment, unable to process everything at once. "Maybe the best we can ask for is acceptance."
Anastasia nodded, "It was bold of me to ask. You must hate me." She stepped back, and they released their hold on one another.
"I thought I did," he said quietly, so low that she could barely hear it. She knew not to press him on the statement. "Answer me this, Anastasia. What are we doing here?" He waved his hand around them, looking at the streets.
"I come here every week. I have been for the past few months," she said quietly. "The dvorovye return to their families on Sunday, if they're lucky, before going back to the fields and their lords."
Mikhail looked around and nearly threw up on the side of the street. He saw, for the first time, the serf boys running around wearing rogatka, spiked iron collars that would ensure they returned to the farms; they were taken off after their Sunday visits to their families.
“I give them all the money I can. I’ll smuggle a few trinkets out of the palace,” she grinned. "I can use the littlest amounts of magic, sometimes, if it works. I’ll help their families with their chores before their sons say goodbye. It's horrid. This system, Mikhail. You must know.”
“I do,” his voice was somber, yet filled with confused awe, as he found himself completely at a loss for how to respond to this version of the woman he thought he hated.
“I need to stop it,” she said quietly, and Mikhail's attention snapped to her immediately. “I don't know how.”
He suddenly remembered his mother's vision, the last of the oracle gifts she had given him, to protect the Romanov magic.
“I can teach you, your grace,” he gave her a soft smile, “if you require a tutor.”