Anastasia noticed the abrupt change in his expression and figured she had gone too far. Soon, the tutor would surely emerge from within him.
"Well," she broke the silence, smoothing her skirts, "We leave tomorrow at dawn."
"I'm sorry?" Mikhail looked up at her in confusion. "I thought you said you didn't go to services."
"I don't. I have my own things to attend to. I'll need an escort." Anastasia turned and began walking towards her room.
"Is the stable master indisposed?" he snapped, suddenly and simultaneously full of ire at himself and the idea of Anastasia spending any time with someone who likely didn't want to understand that fire in her eyes.
"No," she said quietly, opening the door to her rooms, "My last tutor had him killed."
???
The next morning, Mikhail was ready at dawn and prepared for anything.
It had been barely thirty-six hours since he had come crashing back into Anastasia's orbit and found himself perplexed. She was a woman who had layers to her; that much was apparent.
After her family had diminished her, she must have hidden the last precious bits of her soul so they couldn't be stolen.
The door to Anastasia's room swung open, and she stepped out in a plain sarafan, betraying her underweight figure.
Mikhail couldn't keep the surprise from showing on his face as he studied her, his fists tightening at the thought of the Tsar demanding his daughter be underfed... just to see if it would spark her bloody magic, for fuck's sake.
"You'll have to change," she said quietly, nodding towards the habit that Mikhail was wearing. "Although if you didn't take your vows, I'm not sure why you're wearing that at all."
He scoffed, "It seems to be the only thing the Tsarina keeps stocked for your tutors." He held out his arms, the sleeves riding up.
Anastasia shook her head, avoiding his good-natured probe, "I'm serious. Please. This is important to me." Her voice got quieter when she said it as if it was a great secret that she hadn't shared with anyone before. He felt his chest seize when he realized that there was a good chance that she very well hadn't.
"One moment, Your Grace," he nodded, all of the informality between them slipping away, as little of it as there was, to begin with. When he emerged, wearing the only clothes he had brought with him from the monastery, Anastasia nodded in approval at the rough shirt and canvas pants. With that, she turned and walked towards the door.
"You'll need to go first," she said without turning around. "If anyone sees us, they'll assume it's some sort of penance."
Mikhail nodded, sliding in front of her and placing his hand on the door, "Where are we going?"
"Out the East Wing, straight out of the palace grounds. We shouldn't see anyone since Mass has started. If we do, they were likely too drunk to go to service and won’t notice."
"Keep your head down," he said in warning, pushing the door open and leading Anastasia out of the room.
They wound their way through the never-ending hallways, the obscene amount of wealth plastered to the walls and hanging from the ceiling bringing back a familiar nausea in Mikhail that he fought to keep off of his face.
He was grateful that Anastasia was behind him and unable to see his expression as he grappled with an onslaught of emotions navigating through the palace for the first time in fifteen years. When he had arrived two days prior, he had been brought straight to her chamber.
Anastasia's predictions about the castle activity were apt, and they didn't see a single soul on their way out. Mikhail was shocked as they made it to the exit in the East Wing, a surprisingly common door with no guard.
"No one can see it from the front gate," Anastasia whispered from behind him as if she was reading his thoughts, "so no one uses it. See and be seen, of course."
"Of course," Mikhail scoffed and pushed it open.
As soon as they left the courtyard, Anastasia overtook him and began leading him through a series of alleys in the city of St. Petersburg.
He was once again grateful that she couldn't see his face, as he was bereft with the sights and sounds of his home city after so long.
A day hadn't gone by when he hadn't worried about the life he left behind, the tiny neighborhood where they had lived — which they had called 'the Village' after their ancestral farmland before aboyarsnapped it up.
He was so pulled into his thoughts; he didn't realize where they were until Anastasia turned on another side street, and Mikhail stopped, staring at the crowded slum in front of him.
"Where are we?" His voice cracked, as he recognized every slanted roof, doorframe, and broken window.
