Chapter 11
“Hold it, hold it.” Mikhail’s voice was steady as he watched Anastasia grow a sphere of light between her fingers. He stood behind her, keeping a safe distance. It had been a few weeks since their explosive first attempt at uncovering Anastasia’s magic.
“Gav-no,” Anastasia hissed, the light between her hands expanding in a great burst. It showered them in sparks that fell to the floor like melting snowflakes.
“It’s okay,” Mikhail nodded. “You’ll get there.”
“When?” Anastasia hissed, turning around and staring up at him. He couldn’t help but suppress a grin. He loved it when she got flustered.
As much as he enjoyed their repartee these past few weeks, they couldn’t get comfortable with each other. They fought like cats and dogs one minute and had to force themselves to their separate bedrooms the next.
“When it happens,” Mikhail said. He was the picture of nonchalance, as if the world wasn’t threatening to fall around them.
Amidst their uneasy truce, the political restlessness in the Winter Palace had been growing and hurtling towards a fever pitch.
The divide between the serfs and the boyars was at an all-time high, and the rolling religious fervor with it. People of all backgrounds flocked to the Orthodox Church to find reprieve from what ailed them.
A rise in witch-hunts and acolyte trials filled the streets, with the tsar publicly executing more “false idols” every day in political theatre.
The tsar and tsarina continually pestered Mikhail for updates on Anastasia’s magic, eager to begin utilizing her as a pawn in their games amongst the turmoil. Every day, they summoned Anastasia and Mikhail to show off Anastasia’s gifts, and every day, the two refused.
Mikhail always managed to tell them she wasn’t ready. They continued to use the excuse that she was still a danger to others. They knew their time would run out.
Anastasia had grown increasingly anxious about her parents executing her as a testament to their dedication to the Orthodox cause if she couldn’t produce results. It was driving the two of them to arguments at every turn.
Anastasia was ready to run, and Mikhail insisted she could bring about real change if she just tried.
“When I finally gain control of my powers,” Anastasia scoffed, waving him off and sitting down to lunch. Mikhail had insisted Anastasia be adequately fed. “You’re learning,” he nodded, sitting down opposite her. “You already know how to use it. You don’t know your limitations.”
Meals were the only time they both agreed to put their proverbial weapons aside. Whenever they sat down to eat together, three times a day, the energy shifted, and they seemed to relax, conversation flowing naturally.
Anastasia helped herself to a piece of fish, and her smile widened, still not used to eating food she enjoyed. Pride welled up in Mikhail’s chest. Every time he noticed her figure filling out, a sense of possessiveness and satisfaction rose in him.
You’re going to have to stop that. What is this? You’re not trying to prove you can provide for her, you fool.
“Mikhail,” Anastasia wiped a bit of food off her lip and stared at him. “We’ve been at this for three weeks?”
“Yes. It can take a lifetime to master magic, Anya.”
“Stop calling me that,” she shook her head, her cheeks flushing when she heard the nickname fall from his lips.
“It’s either that or ‘your grace.’”
“You could call me by my name.”
“You could call me by mine.”
“Your name is Mikhail.”
“It’s Rasputin,” Mikhail’s tone went sharp.
Anastasia bit her lip and looked away, letting out a quiet sigh and returning to her food.
She knew he was sensitive about his name and couldn't seem to let it go. That name held something heavy, something rotten. She didn’t like associating him with it.
Mikhail watched as she deflated and wanted to kick himself. He knew he had to be careful around Anastasia. Emotional regulation was not her strong suit. She went to arms or shrank away from him.
It was a common enough response for someone who had only ever known pain and betrayal by those closest to them. She had no confidence in herself, and it drove Mikhail crazy.
Most days, he went back and forth from wanting to walk out the door and never see her again to never letting her out of his sight for the rest of his life.
“Anyway,” Mikhail cleared his throat, “It’s going to be like a light switch. I promise. Once you figure out how to control it and what your limitations are, it’ll come easy. You might even think it’s fun.”
“I don’t see that happening.”
“Will you just trust me for once?”
“Trust you!” Anastasia put her fork down. Mikhail groaned when he saw the look in her eyes. There went their peaceful lunch. “For all I know, you’re going to turn me over to my parents.”
“I wouldn’t be that stupid,” Mikhail rolled his eyes. “You’re afraid of yourself. I get it. I would be, too.”
Anastasia’s face turned bright red as he cut to the quick of her. She was afraid. She was terrified. She was dealing with forces within her that she didn’t know how to control.
It was like operating machinery without a manual. The gears worked, but it was unpredictable. She had no idea who she was.
How could she even discover what was within her? Anastasia had learned from a very young age that the only way to deflect all the trauma around her was to be bigger, bolder, and more terrifying.
She portrayed an ice queen facade that exuded fake confidence. She attempted to instill fear in others, but couldn’t back it up. She was all bark, no bite. Her entire existence had been carved out in survival mode. And it had left her broken.
Here was this man, this failed priest, a direct result of her actions as a child, sent to her by her parents.
She had no idea if she could trust him. Yet, he looked at her and saw to the heart of her.
It made Anastasia want to run and hide. That wasn’t an option, so she fought him.
It was a childish response; she was old enough to know that, but she couldn’t avoid it.
“I’m not afraid!” She muttered under her breath, moving away from him, turning to run into her bedroom to get a wall between them.
“Anya,” he said again, this time in a soft, coaxing voice. Gentle even. Anastasia couldn’t remember the last time someone spoke to her that way. “Please. You’re running right now.”
Anastasia stopped, feeling the blush on her cheeks intensify.
“You’ve got me there,” she admitted quietly, still not able to turn around and face him. Mikhail moved towards her. His footsteps echoed in the sitting room, sounding heavy, making Anastasia tense.
Suddenly, he was behind her, his massive frame apparent as he moved closer.
This man doesn’t even need to touch you and you lose your mind.
She sucked in a deep breath when Mikhail put his hand on her back, so large that it nearly covered her corset.
“Come with me,” he said quietly, electing to diffuse the situation. “I think we should try something new.”
Anastasia quietly looked over her shoulder, turning ever so slightly to face Mikhail. His face was impassive as he raged internally over their constant game of quick draw.
It was exhausting. The impenetrable wall they had built around their hearts felt impossible to dismantle. It drove them in constant predatory circles around each other. They looked for weaknesses in the other’s defenses when they could’ve protected each other.
Mikhail knew it was best to try and find another way to get Anastasia to tap into her power, to find some confidence and purpose.
What she needed was to brush aside the idea that her magic was cursed and worthless. He didn’t know if this game would kill them both as they hunted for the intimacy they craved but refused to ask for.
“What do you have in mind?” Anastasia asked, shifting her weight.
“It is Sunday, isn’t it?” Mikhail watched as Anastasia’s grin spread over her face, genuine and as bright as the dawn.
???
This time, Anastasia followed Mikhail as they moved through the streets. They hadn’t come back to visit since their first trip together, and she was surprised to see several faces that seemed to recognize her.
People glanced at her as she walked by with cautious smiles on their faces. She was shocked when they were receptive to her. They’d missed her.
“Do you see?” Mikhail turned around to look at her. “They aren’t afraid of your gift.”
“They don’t know what I did to someone I loved.”
Mikhail opened his mouth to say something and stopped. It’s true. They didn’t know. He still didn’t know how he felt about it. Their delicate truce depended entirely on no one bringing up the past, an impossible feat when they were determined to be defined by it.
The pair walked in silence until they approached a front door Anastasia recognized. She had stopped by this house a few times when she used to sneak out on her own. The family had three daughters and one son; their son worked as a farmhand, a brutal job.
On Sundays, he was allowed to return home to attend church with his family. The iron collar was always thick around his neck. On the boyar’s land, he was forced to sleep in irons next to a dozen others. They were always locked up at night like cattle, ensuring they couldn’t get away.
Anastasia knew their family struggled because their daughters couldn’t earn as much as their son.
She had several conversations with their mother, who suffered from an intense self-loathing, stemming from her inability to keep her son from his forced, laborious servitude.
The door opened a crack, one of the daughters poking her head out. She looked skeptical, evaluating Anastasia and Mikhail’s attire. Even when they came in the simplest clothes they had, they stuck out.
“Mama!” The girl disappeared, slamming the door. A moment later, the kind face of the matriarch appeared.
“Darling, Anastasia,” she laughed, throwing the door open and wrapping Anastasia in a hug.
“She calls me the right name,” Anastasia grinned, tossing a glare at Mikhail over her shoulder.