Chapter 14
“Ican feel your anxiety from out here,” Mikhail groaned, leaning back in his chair. He was sitting in an overstuffed chaise in Anastasia’s suite’s salon, attempting to occupy himself by staring at the gilded sconces.
Anastasia had barricaded herself in the bedroom, summoning one of her lady’s maids, who was shocked to be called, to help her get dressed. Tonight was one of the infamous Romanov masked balls, and they were making an appearance.
After her father had declared war upon them, they entered a deadly stalemate.
The tsar and tsarina were afraid to go after Anastasia and Mikhail directly.
The extent of her power was unknown to them, which made her a dangerous foe.
There was also the issue of court gossip and the tsar’s reputation.
Anastasia had long been rumored as one of the most pious of the Romanovs, and suddenly banishing or jailing her would come as a shock to an already enraged populace.
Likewise, neither Anastasia nor Mikhail had a plan for going after the tsar of all Russia, understandably. The whole situation was rushing towards a head that Mikhail knew would end in bloodshed.
Over the past few years, Mikhail lost count of how many executions the tsar had ordered, while religious fervor in the country had only grown.
Mikhail could sense dark magic at night whenever he left Anastasia’s rooms, hooded figures perpetually slipping in and out from behind paintings, processions with lit candelabras and incense burners… all of which put Mikhail on edge.
He and Anastasia decided they needed allies.
The two of them alone couldn’t possibly begin to go up against her parents, or the entire Romanov dynasty, by themselves.
Allies could help them sway the court’s opinion or connect them to the whisperings of revolution happening outside the palace walls.
If they didn’t find any allies, they were sitting ducks, trapped in the palace and waiting for the tsar to come up with a plan that suited him.
They stood a better chance if they could move some of the boyars and dvoryanstvo to Anastasia’s cause. Anastasia complained they didn’t even have a reason, but Mikhail pushed back on the semantics. That was for politicians and lords; they only needed an end to the bloodshed.
The most important thing was seeing the iron grip on the country end, through whatever means. It could be a revolution or reform, both of which require allies to accomplish. To find allies at court, they had to be at court.
Anastasia hadn’t made an official court appearance in fifteen years; the rumor mill didn’t love anything as much as Anastasia.
Her first appearance would get the people talking, so it needed to be strategic.
They decided it would be best to wait until one of the more grandiose weekly events, the masquerade ball held every Tuesday.
They would arrive unannounced, giving her parents no time to plant any propaganda seeds about her whereabouts. For the first time in over a decade, Anastasia called on her lady’s maid to help her dress for the event.
Despite never being at court, Anastasia’s closet was stuffed to the brim with appropriate attire. All of it technically belonged to the tsarina, who was the tailor’s client, and the tailor started using Anastasia’s chambers as additional closet storage.
Mikhail waited for them to finish, sensing the nervous energy radiating off Anastasia through the walls. He absentmindedly flipped through a book, looking up when the lights flickered, confirming his suspicions about Anastasia’s anxiety.
“Your magic, Anya!” He called through the bedroom door, knowing it slipped when she started feeling out of control.
Mikhail decided he wouldn’t attend the ball in priestly robes.
He hated them. He also wasn’t a priest, something he had to remind Anastasia of constantly.
She wanted him to wear priestly robes to convey a holy, sacrosanct image.
Mikhail refused, reminding her there was already enough religious fervor amongst the court.
They would be able to get cooler heads to prevail if he appeared simply as a tutor.
He wore a light-blue silk shirt, a corded golden belt, navy velvet trousers, and leather boots. There were two large, golden cuffs, both carved with the Romanov double-eagle, decorating his wrists, and his hair was tied up in a tight, tactile knot.
He ran his finger over the golden cuff, lost in his thoughts as he waited for the grand duchess. He hated being out of his own clothes, caught up in the trappings of the nobility he despised.
The lady-in-waiting appeared and cleared her throat softly, getting Mikhail’s attention. He glanced at the clock on the wall, knowing the timing of their arrival was delicate.
There was a short window to arrive while the coachman was still announcing names, but after most of the guests had already entered. It would provide them with the most dramatic entrance.
“Are we ready?” Mikhail shuffled his weight, getting impatient. “I don’t see what could be taking so long…” Mikhail trailed off as Anastasia entered the sitting room.
Her hair was done up in an elaborate braided crown around her head, flecked with diamond pins.
The gown shimmered, decorated with silver brocade trimmed with ermine and gold thread.
The diamond-studded bodice turned her every movement into bursts of fire and starlight.
It weighed as much as a small child, but the effect was striking.
She looked every inch a duchess, radiating the power of the heavens.
For the first time in his life, Mikhail looked at Anastasia and believed in intelligent design.
Mikhail’s heart stopped.
“Well, I don’t enjoy this,” Anastasia snapped, flustered and misreading his expression, “Appearances are everything to these people. We have a part to play.”
“And what part is mine, exactly?” Mikhail crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.
Anastasia tried to keep her pulse steady as she observed him in court attire, his gaze stuck on the gold cuffs on his wrists.
The metaphor was too on the nose, a symbol of her golden captivity. She fidgeted, unable to keep still.
“My tutor, of course,” her voice was shaky. Her lady-in-waiting offered her a fan, and Anastasia grabbed it, her knuckles white as she gripped it like a lifeline.
“The tutor. Right,” Mikhail rolled his eyes. “Really? That’s how you want to play this?”
“Yes,” Anastasia’s voice was sharp, “What would you go as? My lover?”
“It would be more accurate.”
“Technically, we never got to that part.”
“You got to your part.”
“You left.”
“You didn’t want me to stay.” Mikhail’s tone was sharp, his statement final. Anastasia swallowed thickly, feeling overheated already, adjusting one of the pins in her hair.
“I never said that.” Anastasia deadpanned before blushing and turning towards the door. She refused to look Mikhail in the eye. “We should go. We’re late.”
“Anastasia,” he stopped her, grabbing hold of her elbow gently, “Is that…?” Revelation dawned on Mikhail’s face; he recognized that dress.
It was immortalized in a hundred portraits around the palace.
He grew up staring at that dress, stoking the early embers of his discontent.
He studied it, looking at the details. “Is that the tsarina’s coronation dress? ”
Anastasia’s mouth curled into a smile before she met Mikhail’s gaze, winking, “I had the train shortened, so it didn’t need eight damn attendants to carry, but yes,” she giggled quietly, “It sends a message.”
Mikhail couldn’t help the answering smirk that slid over his face. There were still plenty of times they couldn’t stand each other, but he loved how her mind worked. “And what message would that be?”
“Move aside.”
???
The masquerade was nearly in full swing when Anastasia and Mikhail arrived. As they approached the steward, Mikhail grit his teeth. The ostentatious surroundings stirred anger in him, but he needed to play the part tonight.
Mikhail surveyed the crowd like a general.
There were nearly 400 people in attendance, and he didn’t trust any of them.
Almost as many servants sped around the ballroom, chasing partygoers with trays of caviar, sturgeon, and ice cream.
Any one of those dishes costs enough to feed a family for a month. It disgusted him.
Vodka and champagne were flowing like water. The costumes glittered like precious jewels, heavier than the guests who wore them and more expensive than a laborer saw in a year.
The grand ballroom dazzled with gilded filigree, marble pillars, and elaborate oil paintings of tsars present and past. They were looming, larger than life, over the party, lest anyone forget who supplied them with their opulent lifestyles.
The entire scene was in stark contrast to what was happening right outside the palace doors.
Mikhail was beginning to feel trapped in a golden coffin.
He could sense the turmoil amongst them; the angst, the fear, the fervor.
The atmosphere in the room was explosive, like gasoline, ready to ignite at the slightest spark.
Priests and clerics were intermingling with the guests, draped in jewel-encrusted crucifixes and robes threaded with precious metals.
Mikhail could sense Anastasia’s anxiety ratchet higher as the steward beckoned them forward. He was fighting against the urge to wrap his arm around her waist for support, but that wasn’t the role he was playing.
She didn’t want him that way. He wasn’t sure how she wanted him, if at all.
Tonight, he was the tutor, another religious cleric selected by the tsarina.
He would play up how eager he was to meet the other lords, a tutor using this as an opportunity to seek out a higher station, maybe in the role of an advisor.
He schooled his face into an expression of excited interest, burying his disgust.