The next morning, a quiet calm had settled over Anastasia’s rooms. The first two days together had challenged all of Anastasia and Mikhail’s perceptions — and both of them struggled with the revelation of the other.
Mikhail was awake early, a habit from spending the last fifteen years in a monastery, unable to sleep in once the sun was up. He was pacing his bedroom, hands behind his back.
The overly done furnishings of the room made him dreadfully uncomfortable, and he had half a mind to hock it to make Anastasia mad before reconsidering.
She has no loyalty to her family… She even wants to see their cruelty abolished.
Mikhail’s mind was turning like a cog on wheels without coolant, throwing sparks and threatening to explode. He had spent over a decade with one singular version of Anastasia in his mind. Now, he was face to face with her, and she was exactly the opposite.
Seeing her family’s cruelty end doesn’t mean she necessarily wants a revolution…he wagered with himself, wondering how deep her loyalties ran.
When his mind drifted to her controlled diet and how thin she’d become, how trapped she was in these rooms, forced to sit through an endless barrage of useless acolytes poking her for her magic…
How did she not destroy the whole place as soon as she could? As soon as she had a chance?
Maybe she wanted to. She hadn’t known who Mikhail was when he arrived and he could see during her confession how deeply Asya’s death bothered her. It had been an accident, that much he could see was true.
He knew what it looked like to carry a burden for that long, a lump of hot coal turning in your stomach, how those lines took shape on a person’s face. It didn’t matter that it had only been two days, the circumstances under which their lives had come together were a crashing force, like tectonic plates battling it out against one another.
Now, only time would tell if they would be able to recognize each other’s matching scars or if the animosity of things out of their control would drive them apart.
Protect the Romanov magic.Rasputin heard his mother’s voice in his head, herlastoracle message… but how could he forsake his love for her to help her murderer?
An accident. An accident! She was a child… you’ve seen how she’s been taught to feel about her magic.
His thoughts were at war with one another when he heard a knock on the chamber’s main door. Mikhail quickly moved to go answer it, feeling like the noise was a disruption of the uneasy truce that had settled between the two of them.
When he swung the heavy door open, one of the servants was there with a serving tray full of chargers and cloches.
“Set it on the table,” Rasputin’s voice was quiet and he realized that he didn’t want anything to wake Anastasia.
He groaned internally, the dichotomy of his heart threatening to drive his brain in two. The servant quickly dispatched the food and was gone moments later.
Mikhail filtered through his options before settling on one — going over and knocking gently on Anastasia’s door. She swung it open nearly a second later, betraying that she had been awake for quite some time, too.
Anastasia fought to keep the expression off her face as she soaked in the sight that was early morning Mikhail; his canvas shirt and trousers rumpled from sleep, hair pulled onto the top of his head, and his smile shockingly warm.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he grinned easily, “I wanted to wake you before the food got cold.”
“The — before what?” Anastasia’s eyes went wide as her gaze shifted to behind Mikhail. She gasped and her hand flew up to her mouth, as the tops of the cloches had been removed and a full breakfast was spread out in her sitting room.
“Oh myGod,”her voice was reverent as she descended on it, sitting down and grabbing the first piece of pheasant that she could get her hands on.
Anastasia sunk her teeth into it and collapsed back in her chair. She began to gorge herself on the hot food while Mikhail watched on with a smile on his face as a warm feeling expanded in his chest.
Once she finished the piece of meat, she reached for something else and then — paused. Anastasia’s eyes rolled over the table as she seemed almost overwhelmed, tears beginning to shine in her eyes.
Mikhail was hammered with the realization of how long she had gone without.
He was next to her side in an instant, gently putting his hand on her arm, “Here, let me.”
Anastasia nodded and leaned back a little in her chair, resigning and letting Mikhail fix her a plate.
In an incredibly ironic twist, after living her entire life in the Winter Palace surrounded by feasts, Anastasia had no idea what half of the dishes were and didn’t know how to serve them to herself.
Mikhail handed her the heavy, silver plate, loaded with food for the first time in years… Anastasia accepted it and looked up at him, sniffling quietly.
“I… I don’t…,” she stopped and stared down at it, “I don’t know what to say. You should hate me, Mikhail; you really should.”
