In Anastasia, she knew some flames could topple entire regimes, which was no sort of revelation to give a girl who was barely a teenager. So instead, she latched onto Anastasia as if she was her mother, slowly telling her stories of her home, the village, her other children, and the struggles the people faced. How hungry many often went, how their homes looked nothing like the Winter Palace, and how they lacked enough firewood to warm themselves in the winter.
Asya had known for years that she would never see Anastasia's full powers unleashed, so she was content to wait, biding her time and encouraging her in every way she could.
She fed Anastasia with the truth hidden behind the opulent smoke and mirrors of the Romanov dynasty until Anastasia understood that there was no reason for nobility to eat sixteen-course meals while the villagers starved. She knew every time she handed Anastasia a cup of tea — that had been stirred counter-clockwise three times for luck — she'd done all she could.
"Are you listening?" Anastasia's voice pulled Asya out of her thoughts as she watched the candles go out.
"Oh, silly me," she grinned and pointed to the cakes on the table, "Are you hungry? Let's sit. Tell me all about the latest dancing bear your mother put in a priest robe."
2
Asya brushed her hands on her apron, trying desperately to keep the flour off her clothes. She didn't have many garments, and she took care of the ones that she owned. She was not as consumed with her vanity as those around her but instead felt it simply a good practice of self-respect and believed that one's appearance was a point of pride.
She’d spent the last thirteen years raising Anastasia but never forgot how she began her career in the Winter Palace.
Now that the Grand Duchess was older and needed less of her constant supervision, she found herself reverting to her kitchen duties when Anastasia was dispensed for lessons or, more frequently, long sessions in the chapel with the Tsarina's zealots. She knew Anastasia hated both and had a sneaking suspicion that the Tsarina wasn't above more aggressive measures, like a switch, to get her latest doctrine across.
Asya cared deeply for the child and felt that protecting Anastasia's magic from getting out or into the court’s hands around her was the only goal. As much as she desperately wanted to teach her about the depths of the power that stirred within, she knew that it would likely curse the girl as much as it could bring about her salvation.
While she couldn’t focus on the magic she knew resided within Anastasia, Asya did her best to teach her ward about what was happening beyond the palace walls. She thought that the more the girl knew about the unrest growing in the surrounding cities and towns, the more prepared she’d be for the day the gates inevitably fell. If they would fall wasn’t the question. The question waswhen.
The kitchens were crowded with the scent of baking loaves of bread and racks of lamb constantly roasting over the fires. There were three main departments of the massive rooms: wine, cooking, and the bakery.
Dinners and fêtes at the palace happened weekly and often saw guests totaling over five hundred — it wasn’t uncommon for the kitchen to send out over two-hundred platters of sweets alone. The fires were always stoked hot, and the kitchens were designed to be as extravagant as the rest of the palace. There were gold-painted sconces where there should have been extra vents and paintings that curled at the corners from the humidity of the wineries.
Asya had overheard whispers about the Tsarina having a petty habit of moving portraits of those she felt were prettier than her to the wine cellars.
Asya was lost in her thoughts as she worked her hands tirelessly into the dough in front of her. She kept up her ministrations while taking a quick glance around the room, and upon seeing that every other servant was distracted, quietly slipped pieces of the dough into her apron pocket. The dough was easier to smuggle out of the castle to those in need than baked loaves of bread, which could be easily prepared.
"Mother?"
Asya was startled and turned around, believing that she had been caught. Her shoulders dropped, her face sliding into an easy smile when she saw her son, Mikhail, enter the kitchens.
"Moy syn," she grinned, holding her arms out and pulling him into a hug. When he was younger, he would have fought her off with a groan, but now at nineteen — and already having seen so much destruction on the streets — he knew never to turn down affection from his mother.
Asya was able to get a job for her son at the palace as soon as he turned sixteen, which was nothing short of a miracle. She was convinced it had been the tarragon she’d slipped into the head servant's tea during the interview for good luck that had secured Mikhail’s position.
"Mother," Mikhail said again, gently removing himself from her grip and holding onto her wrist, "Thesepeople.They're hardly people. Animals, all of them!" His voice was barely audible, but it was taut with anger. She saw how his eyebrows furrowed at the mention of the palace inhabitants.
"Ssh," she scolded, patting him on the shoulder, "I know, I know. We must..."
"Do you know I just witnessed the master of the horses spit out a bite of food and feed it to a stable boy? For fun? The worst part is, that boy was starving and didn't even hesitate but for a moment..."
Asya sighed deeply and nodded in a passive acceptance. She knew working in the palace would be challenging for Mikhail, who had seen too many of his friends and neighbors die of starvation. Asya had an even greater need to keep him occupied and fed while she kept her sights on Anastasia and her magic.
"I will burn this palace down, brick bybrick..."
"Mikhail!" Asya's voice turned sharp as she looked at him. "Do not make such idle threats," she paused and dropped her hand when she realized she was shaking a finger at him.
"Nothing about it is idle,"his eyes darkened until they were almost black. She could see his arm shaking with the restraint that it had taken him to walk away from what he had witnessed.
"It better be," she snapped. "I don't like this any more than you do, but that's not the point. The time will come for things to burn, my child, and you would be wise not to singe yourself before the firefight."
She turned abruptly and returned to her work on the table as the head of the servants walked by at a brisk pace, undoubtedly to yell at someone for something they did not know they were supposed to do.
It was commonplace for people to request caviar, lobster bisque, or pheasant aspic, only to be forgotten amongst the buffets. On many occasions, the head of servants would come bellowing into the kitchen, and more than one servant girl would leave for home that evening with boxed ears. Asya waited for him to vanish into the depths of the pantries before turning back to her son.
Mikhail loved his mother desperately and, to his credit, bowed his head and nodded an apology. She knew a terrible temper brewed in him with no outlet, and he struggled to watch injustices happen day in and day out, with no reprieve.
