Chapter 17
True to his word, Mikhail brought Anastasia back to the Winter Palace the following morning.
He hated it. He felt wrong. As they made their way back through the gates, he couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling sinking in the pit of his stomach.
Anastasia was relieved that there were no guards, but Mikhail remained equally suspicious that they had managed to sneak out without their usual cover of mass.
They weren’t being as careful this time, but walking through the front door still seemed like a bad idea.
No one bothered them as they slipped through the palace hallways, which only added to Mikhail’s mounting paranoia. When they entered Anastasia’s room, everything was exactly how they had left it.
The floor was covered in blood and shards of glass and ceramic. The candles and lamps were burnt out, and a heavy curtain hung off-kilter above the window.
Mikhail moved closer to Anastasia, refusing to let her leave his side.
He studied her body language for any signs of distress, concerned that the unholy tableau would frighten her.
The most terrifying realization of all wasn’t the blood and the glass; it was the fact they’d finally stood up to the tsar and tsarina.
That revelation weighed on their shoulders like a stone.
Despite the crushing reality they faced, Anastasia smoothed down her skirts, looked around, and, with a wave of her hand, returned the room to its original state.
Vases reassembled themselves, shards of glass recollected themselves in the windowpanes, and a soft, golden afterglow encompassed the entire suite.
Mikhail’s jaw dropped, amazed at how Anastasia seemed to unlock something new with her abilities every day. The more confident she grew, so did her magic.
If they were going to finish what they started, they’d need more allies. Or at the very least, a plan. The disappearing damage in the room was a stark reminder that the match had been lit.
The next day was, luckily, uneventful. Mikhail watched over Anastasia like a nervous parent.
He’d never been a good student, especially at the monastery, but the grand duchess was his favorite subject.
She seemed to be in good spirits, despite jumping whenever someone knocked on the doors to her suite.
Mikhail considered it no small blessing that people continued to deliver food to the rooms at all. He assumed, like any good tactician, that the tsar’s first orders would be to forbid the kitchens from feeding them.
By the second morning, that changed.
When breakfast arrived, Mikhail grabbed a cloche and froze.
The lid was chilled, condensation pricking against his fingertips.
He knew it wasn’t their usual fare. With a deep breath, he lifted it to reveal Anastasia’s old breakfast. There was only cold oatmeal, no fruit, no sugar: only water, no coffee.
Anger and confusion mounted in Mikhail’s body. How could a parent ever do this to their child? No matter the circumstances. He turned to Anastasia, concern etched into his brow.
Anastasia stared at the barren plate and let out a long, controlled breath, her face remaining impassive. Mikhail watched as she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking.
This was about more than food. It was a reminder of the years she spent entirely under her family’s thumb.
Mikhail hadn’t held her family in any high esteem before now, but it was especially clear, looking at the meager spread, that they would stop at nothing to trigger and gaslight her into doing what they wanted.
“It’s alright,” Mikhail pulled her tight to him, wrapping his arms around her as if he could block out the world. Anastasia’s body started to shake, and he could feel her suppressing tears. “They can’t control you, okay? Look at me. Talk to me.”
He shifted his grip on Anastasia to look her in the eye, hoping she wasn’t slipping away from him. Mikhail didn’t want her to feel like a captive ever again.
“I’m okay,” she smiled softly and looked up at him, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. “I expected them to send us to Siberia by now. Cold breakfast isn’t too bad by comparison.”
They ate in silence, occasionally tossing glances at the door.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully.
Unsurprisingly, they were served the same cold, bland food for lunch and dinner.
Mikhail knew it was physical torment as much as psychological—no one wanted to be the skinniest person during a revolution.
He was worried the mind games were getting to Anastasia, but every time he pressed her on it, she shook her head and offered a weak rebuttal. He didn’t want to force her, and there was only so much he could do while she was in denial.
By the third day, Mikhail was beginning to suffer from cabin fever. He was desperate to find out something. Anything.
The lack of a violent response from the tsar suggested he might still hope to manipulate Anastasia.
If not, then he was determined that their downfall should be public.
It had the potential to be powerful propaganda, showing the country that even the tsar’s own daughter wasn’t above his command.
Either way, there was reasonable cause for him to hold off from attacking them privately in her suites.
Still, the gossip mill in the palace was strong. There had to be rumors of the tsar’s plans.
They knew Nikolai Ruzsky, the man they wanted Anastasia to marry, was speaking out actively against the tsar. If they could contact him, they could better strategize an end to the brutal regime.
At least if it involved force, Anastasia could make an appearance at Ruzsky’s side.
The last thing Anastasia wanted was to be used as a weapon, but the threat of her presence could be enough to sway the tide in their favor.
Mikhail grew more frustrated, stuck inside the suite like animals in a trap, and decided he had to try something.
“I’m going out for a few hours,” Mikhail told Anastasia about his plan to seek out Ruzsky. “Surely, some of the servants know something. I still know my way around the palace. I’ll be back before noon.”
“Please don’t go,” Anastasia looked up at him with genuine fear in her eyes. “I’m frightened here, Mikhail. Please. I don’t like the idea of us being apart.”
“It will be okay,” he assured her, kissing her forehead. “I’ll be back in a few hours. We must start planning a move, or we’re going to be stuck in a stalemate with your father on his turf.”
Anastasia nodded. She didn’t have to like it, but she knew Mikhail was making a strategic decision. There was something in the back of her mind insisting it was a bad idea for them to separate, but she had no sensible rebuttal.
“Hurry back to me… please.”
“I will, Anya. Always.”
Mikhail hurried out of the suite, both already counting the minutes until they could be back at one another’s side.
After an hour, Anastasia was desperate. Anxiety crept up her spine like a cold, shameful feeling that she couldn’t seem to distract herself from.
The finery and golden trappings of her rooms had never been so oppressive.
Despite the years in captivity, staring at those same damn walls, now it was even more difficult to stomach.
Mikhail and Anastasia had finally managed to put their pasts behind them, so the idea that they were now apart in such a hostile environment was wrong.
Anastasia picked at her knuckles, working towards a fever pitch. Her thoughts spiraled out of control until a sharp knock cut through the oppressive silence. She nearly vomited on cue at the harsh sound, terror racing through her veins.
Mikhail wouldn’t knock to enter.
The doors swung open before Anastasia could even bid the visitors entry.
The tsar stepped into Anastasia’s room without a word.
His expression was softer than the last time she’d seen her father, but his presence was still overbearing.
Anastasia forced herself to breathe slowly, lest she give away her fear.
Three days later, his nose was still purple and slightly bent, which she knew would drive such a prideful man mad. Neither of them said a word, staring at each other with a sense of hostility and formality that was foreign to fathers and daughters.
“Anastasia,” the tsar broke the silence first, his voice solemn. “May I sit?”
She nodded in response, refusing to speak, her entire body tense and alert. If she opened her mouth now, her voice might shake, and she couldn’t lose any face with a man like the tsar. She eyed him from across the room, staring at one another like predators seizing up an opponent.
Anastasia wasn’t naive enough to believe he was here to apologize. He’d come alone and likely waited until she was alone, too. It meant someone was watching her rooms. This wasn’t surprising in the least, but it was disconcerting to have it confirmed.
Anastasia hated to admit to herself that she was intimidated by the tsar.
He was the most powerful man in the country, and he’d abused her for years.
She wanted to tell herself she didn’t need Mikhail, but without him as a reassuring presence at her side, her nerves worsened.
She took a deep breath, attempting to slow her heart rate.
The tsar said nothing else, each waiting for the other to break the tension.
Neither did. Anastasia kept her mouth in a tight line, hoping to hide her fear.
The atmosphere in the room was thick, raising the temperature by several degrees.
The tsar leaned back in the chair, one hand stroking his beard.
Anastasia raised an eyebrow in a challenge, and he sighed.
“You’ll never know what it’s like to be the tsar.” His voice was almost contrite as he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “It is the greatest pressure any man will ever face.” His posture conveyed humility and sorrow, but his eyes were cold and empty, fixed on Anastasia.