Chapter 20
Anastasia and Mikhail made their way toward the side exit of The Winter Palace, ignoring everyone they passed. The boyars were huddled in public ballrooms or private hideaways, leaving the halls surprisingly empty. They didn’t know how secretive they needed to be, but erred on the side of caution.
Anastasia told herself the tsar wouldn’t move against them inside the palace. She knew his flair for religious fear and political propaganda all but ensured he wanted to make a public spectacle of them. The one thing they needed to do was find Nikolai Ruzsky.
If he was gathering support against the tsar and speaking openly against the dynasty, he was their best chance at swaying public opinion enough to get her father to concede.
“Reform or revolution,” Anastasia nodded, swearing herself to the idea. “It will be one or the other.”
“Are you prepared for either, though?” Mikhail pushed her quietly, wanting to ensure she understood the outcome of a revolution would not be suitable for her family.
“My sisters are spread out across the continent with their fat husbands,” she waved a hand dismissively. “As for Alexei, I want to find him. If I could talk to him, he might understand. But, he has spent a long time in my father’s shadow, and I’m prepared to face the reality of what that means.”
The desire to meet with Ruzsky led them back into St. Petersburg. Mikhail gathered intel from the servants he ran into, some of whom remembered Asya fondly, and heard Ruzsky was relying heavily on public opinion to stir into a mob mentality.
Anyone who worked with Ruzsky was constantly out on the city’s streets, commenting on the abysmal conditions and encouraging people to begin hoarding all of the weapons and grain that they could.
Anastasia and Mikhail knew things had been desperate for years, so they weren’t surprised to hear the city was ready for a revolution, too.
“Incredible,” Anastasia whispered with a stunned look on her face. “They eat until they’re sick and host balls until their feet bleed, but they have no idea the people are assembling weapons outside their gates.”
“We’ll let them know,” Mikhail squeezed her hand supportively. “We’ll let them all know.”
They slipped out the side door again, intent on going into the city and spending some time at the boarding house.
Like any good boarding house, it had become a gathering place in times of need.
If they could determine where Ruzsky was hiding, they could seek out an audience with him, and the gossip was constantly flowing at the inn.
Ruzsky had been one of the tsar’s top generals, but he disappeared from public after he began speaking out against the abundance of political executions.
Mikhail and Anastasia blended in seamlessly amongst the crowds on the city streets. They dressed in simple clothing, Mikhail hiding in plain sight, wearing priest robes, even though he refused to wear the collar. He couldn’t help himself, grabbing Anastasia’s hand and walking arm-in-arm.
They might blend in as city inhabitants, but they did make for a rather strange couple: a woman dressed as a peasant making eyes at a priest without his full vestments.
No one looked at them for too long. Religious fervor was at its peak in the country, which meant strange priestly behavior was par for the course.
The couple approached the boarding house steps. The door swung open as if the innkeeper had a sixth sense for their arrival. She greeted them with a smile and ushered them into the sitting room. It was populated with a few other men and women speaking in hushed tones.
“Do you need a room, dears?” The innkeeper asked kindly, grabbing hold of Anastasia’s hands.
“No, no,” she was always enamored by the warm, maternal energy of the woman. “We were hoping to—”
Mikhail quietly stepped in and cut her off, “We were hoping to spend some time outside of the palace. You know.” His easy grin was so charming that the innkeeper hardly noticed his interruption.
She nodded, “Well, you must eat while you’re here. I’ll fetch something.” She tottered off, humming to herself. Anastasia turned to Mikhail in confusion, and he looked around to make sure no one was listening to their conversation.
“It’s probably best not to walk into a public space and start asking for Ruzsky,” he gave her a grim smile. “We should assume your father has spies everywhere.”
Anastasia blushed with embarrassment, worried her na?veté was showing through. Mikhail, as always, sensed whenever she started to retreat into herself. His hand slid up her back as he gently pushed her towards the center of the room, navigating to a table where they could eat and eavesdrop.
Once they sat down, Mikhail smiled reassuringly, wrapping Anastasia’s hand in his own, as if he couldn’t bear not to be touching her.
“I think eating dinner at this boarding house is a bit of a tradition for us, Anya.”
“Do we have traditions?” Anastasia winked. “We haven’t been together long enough to have traditions.”
“We have each other.”
“Oof,” Anastasia made a mock grimace, “That was a bit cliché.”
“You love it.”
“Do I?”
“I know something you do love—”
Anastasia cut him off with a slight cough as the innkeeper approached with their food.
They dug into the spread, starving now that the tsar insisted on dictating what food was sent to Anastasia’s chambers again.
Mikhail and Anastasia ate in relative silence, trying to catch glimpses of the conversations happening around them.
They tried to keep their expressions open and approachable.
Once their plates were empty, the innkeeper came over, refilling their glasses and taking away the dishes.
“How was everything, solntse?” She said warmly, looking down at Anastasia with a hopeful expression that made her heart clench.
“Don’t bother with us,” she shook her head. “Please. How are you doing? We must owe you a dreadful bill since you always refuse our payment.”
“Do not insult me,” the woman scoffed. “It is an honor to help you, Anastasia, because you are the kind of person who takes it and goes and helps others.” Mikhail turned to Anastasia as the innkeeper said this, a grin spreading over his face that said ‘told you so.’
“Besides,” the innkeeper’s eyebrows went up, creating as close to a salacious expression as she could probably manage, “I can’t imagine what it’s like living with the tsarina.”
There was a weight to her words that made them pause. Something in her tone implied there was a recent development the innkeeper was referencing, even more unusual than the stories that constantly circulated about the tsarina and her religious fervor.
“Yes,” Anastasia nodded in agreement, hoping the woman would be encouraged to keep talking.
“Can you believe it?” She laughed, squeaking a little, and her eyes went wide. “The tsarina and one of her priests! Right under the tsar’s nose!” Anastasia furrowed her brow, a sinking feeling starting in her stomach and going down to her toes.
“Are they sure something salacious happened?” Her voice was betraying her, but the innkeeper took no notice. “You know,” Anastasia forced a grin on her face, “Since she always has such a penance for her priests.” She waved a hand in front of her face, trying to seem nonchalant.
Mikhail stiffened, sensing something was wrong.
It was a little too easy. The tsarina had always had priests, acolytes, and conjurers around her.
Why now? What rumor had captivated everyone’s attention?
The innkeeper was nodding, rifling around in her pockets before she pulled out a scrap of a newspaper.
“It’s in all the papers!” She could barely contain her joy, laughing at the downfall of the tsarina’s reputation. “She’s been writing love letters to some priest they call Rasputin. The newspaper published the letters, and oh, my goodness. Are you alright, dear? You look quite sick.”
Mikhail looked at Anastasia and saw her transform before his eyes.
She physically turned away from him, her eyes wide in shock.
Her shoulders hunched up as if cowering away from the newspaper.
He was watching her walls fly back up, bricking over the expression on her face.
Her hands began to tremble, and her face was pale.
The confident woman he loved was gone, and the fearful duchess he first met was sitting in her place.
“Anya,” he said harshly, harsher than he intended, trying to get her attention. Mikhail could see he was losing her to her panic and fear. There was something animalistic in him that wanted to claw her away from anxiety’s cold grip.
“Anya,” he said again, “Look at me. Look at me right now. Look me in the eyes—”
“Don’t speak to me!” Anastasia shouted, her head whipping around towards Mikhail. The entire boarding house went quiet, everyone turning to look in the direction of the outburst. The innkeeper gasped quietly before taking one look at Mikhail’s garments and slowly backing away.
“Don’t you dare believe that!” He hissed, struggling to keep his voice down. His shoulders began to tighten. Anastasia could practically feel the tension returning between them. “Not even for a second. How could you? Svo-lach!”
“Look at it!” Anastasia shrieked, pointing to the newspaper, her magic flaring and sending a small shockwave through the room. Plates rattled, cups fell, and candles flickered out. The other patrons around them gasped and quickly dispersed, not wanting to be caught in magical crosshairs.
They cleared out remarkably quickly, leaving Anastasia and Mikhail to square off across the dinner table.
“There are letters,” Anastasia grabbed the newspaper from the table. “Look at this! That’s my mother’s handwriting. She hired you! She was the one who brought you back from that monastery in the first place.”