Chapter 11 #2
“Come in, come in,” the woman smiled, ushering them into the small home. It was almost colder inside than outside. There was a broken furnace, a small kitchen, and several sleeping mats pushed to the side.
Anastasia figured all five family members lived in the small space, six when their son was home.
“Anastasia is here to help,” Mikhail gently pushed Anastasia forward.
“Yes, yes, we know,” the woman ushered them even further into the room. “Whatever you can do.” She had seen Anastasia’s small efforts before and knew amplifying magic could do anything from creating more food to filling their oil lamps.
Anastasia smiled, a genuine one that wasn’t covering up fear, and the sight made Mikhail realize this was the right way to get her out of her head. She knew what to do here.
Outside of the Winter Palace walls, without the dead eyes of oil paintings staring at her, choked by everything the Romanov Empire had come to represent, she was more at peace with herself.
When she had first pulled herself out of it and started sneaking here on her own, she knew instinctively what to do. He just needed to remind her.
Mikhail watched the transformation as Anastasia began using her magic without hesitation. It flowed from her effortlessly. She followed the woman around the kitchen, gently grasping bread loaves and jars of pickled herring, multiplying loaves like Christ until the kitchen was full.
The rest of the family was now crowded by the door in awe.
Some of the siblings ran outside, grabbing neighbors, people on the street, friends, and family members.
Soon, a small crowd had gathered in the impossibly small doorway to watch Anastasia work.
The transformation in her face left Mikhail breathless.
It was as though her layers were peeled away from her, revealing a woman who walked in total faith in herself with the support of the world at her back.
She laughed and chatted easily with the matriarch, the magic flowing between her fingers as naturally as breathing. Mikhail looked at her with proud adoration, feeling a sharp pang of regret as he realized how stifled and trapped Anastasia lived every day.
He wasn’t much better; living at the monastery had changed him forever. He still harbored conflicting feelings for Anastasia.
Everything about his existence had been centered around the idea of revenge on the ‘grand duchess Anastasia.’ It had defined him, driven him through all the abuse at the monastery, swearing he would get justice for his mother’s death.
Asya. The woman who had made him swear to protect the Romanov magic. The woman whose death was an ever-present chasm between them. Mikhail cursed under his breath, wondering how Asya had managed to bring them together and, at the same time, keep them apart.
Because you two won’t drop your pride. Mikhail heard his mother’s voice in his head. You’re too afraid you won’t accept each other once the scars are out.
There was an outburst of laughter, and Mikhail looked up. Anastasia entertained a small group of children with dancing sparks, making shapes of animals in the air.
He realized he was staring, his jaw nearly down to the floor. Anastasia looked so full of life that it paralyzed him. For the first time, she looked excited to use her gifts.
It wasn’t this terrifying thing that was pent up inside of her, driving her mad, but something that could better someone else’s life. Her magic confused her, but in this moment, she loved it.
I thought I knew captivity, Mikhail thought to himself, but at least I had sunshine. I even ate better than she did. I went outdoors. It wasn’t so bad once they accepted I wouldn’t take the vows.
“Mikhail!” Anastasia giggled. He snapped from his reverie at the sound, struggling to release his hatreds and heal.
It was a conflict that both he and Anastasia were dealing with. They had made little progress over the weeks.
“Yes, Anya?” He smiled, pushing off the wall where he had been leaning with one foot, and walked over to her. Anastasia’s breath caught in her throat. She often forgot how big he was until he moved closer to her, the bun piled on his head nearly brushing the low ceiling.
“Duck!” Her smile was bright like her magic as she tossed a ball of sparks in Mikhail’s face. They exploded all over him like dandelion seeds. He started sneezing uncontrollably, the magic tickling his face as he waved the last of the sparks away.
“Anya!” Mikhail couldn’t stop himself from grinning. He couldn’t even begin to be bothered when Anastasia was in front of him, smiling. Laughing. Joking.
When his vision cleared a second later, she was crouched on the floor with several of the children. They all exploded in giggles and ran to hide behind the kitchen counter.
Mikhail opened his mouth to let Anastasia know they needed to leave soon, when the crowd in the doorway started to murmur and dissipate. It got everyone’s attention, and they turned, seeing the family’s son standing in the doorway.
He was wearing the iron collar from the boyar, with large spikes sticking out to prevent him from lying down or sitting comfortably.
It was a cruel practice. The sight of it made Mikhail sick to his stomach. The boy offered a small smile, embarrassed that he had accidentally drawn so much attention to himself.
“Come here,” Anastasia’s voice broke the tension, and Mikhail turned to look at her. She stood from where she had been sitting with the other children and held out a hand to the young boy.
He walked toward her without fear, which was more than Mikhail could say for himself when he had first met Anastasia.
He studied her face, trying to decipher the emotion on it. Her brow was furrowed, and she tossed her long, blonde braid over one shoulder. She laid a delicate hand on the boy’s shoulder; her sleeves always pulled down over her knuckles.
Mikhail watched as she closed her eyes and began to focus, her expression contorting as if she was deep in thought.
The atmosphere in the room changed as the lamps flickered. With a sudden gust of wind, half of the lights went out, causing the crowd in the room to gasp and huddle closer to one another.
Anastasia didn’t notice. Her eyes were still screwed shut, and a sheen of sweat began to break out across her forehead.
A small whirlwind began to circulate Anastasia, trapping her in a vortex as her skirts whipped around her ankles. The boy just stared at her, transfixed, with a slight smile on his face. Whatever she was doing didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest.
Suddenly, the iron collar began to glow. The cracks in the craftsmanship started to show, turning red as if it had a molten core. It grew brighter until it looked like the entire piece of metal was hot, aflame, and straight from the blacksmith’s fire. The boy didn’t flinch.
Whatever was happening, it wasn’t burning his skin or giving off any heat. Mikhail watched, transfixed, as he realized what Anastasia was doing. She was changing the energy, manipulating the metal.
Her magic worked best with more organic forms, such as multiplying food and water or using air. He had never seen her change metal before.
There was a brilliant flash that filled the whole room with bright white light.
As soon as Mikhail’s eyes adjusted, he gasped, his reaction drowned out by the crowd’s shocked exclamation.
The room erupted in cheers, claps, and gasps of surprise.
The collar had disintegrated entirely, with pieces flying into the air and floating down like ash.
The whole room was in chaos as the boy reached up and realized the awful device was well and truly gone. He started crying, overwhelmed as he ran to the safety of his mother’s arms.
Mikhail looked around; the entire family was crying. He couldn’t even begin to describe what he felt, but his eyes turned towards Anastasia.
She looked incredibly pale, with sweat still on her forehead. Mikhail wasn’t surprised; using that much magic must have been draining.
Mikhail didn’t even think as he ran to her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her to his side to support her.
“I’m alright,” she said, though her weight sank into his embrace. Mikhail’s expression was stunned as Anastasia looked up at him.
“Anastasia…,” he started, his eyes wide. She didn’t know her limits, apparently, but when there were stakes she cared about on the table, she knew what to do.
Anastasia was cold after such an outpouring of her magic and found herself unable to turn from the strength of his warm grasp. She reached up and undid both of her earrings, still leaning into Mikhail’s side, and motioned for the mother to come to her.
“Take these,” she pressed them into the woman’s hands, “You can sell them for a good price. Leave St. Petersburg with your family, so the boyar doesn’t come for your son.”
The woman began to sob, looking up at Anastasia in awe.
“You are not like the other Romanovs, Anastasia.”