“That’s so… I should know. I shouldn’t need you reminding me constantly,” tears were beginning to slip down her cheeks.
“Anya,” Mikhail’s hands went to cup her cheeks, “Look at me. You have needs. You’re a person. You’ve been through trauma, and you need a little reminding of who you are.”
“No, stop it —“ She squirmed, the conversation veering towards an emotional vulnerability that she was terrified to approach but was in a runaway train towards.
“I won’t,” Mikhail shook his head. “You’rehuman.And what… you feel bad because it’s nice to have support? My sweet Anya,” he dropped his voice low and made sure that the words were especially for her, “You’ve lived for so long without anyone supporting you that you don’t know how to accept it.”
No sooner were the words out of Mikhail’s mouth did Anastasia break into a small, choked sob. She buried her head in his chest as he began soothing her, rubbing his hands up and down her back over the scars she was once too scared to let him see.
They stayed like that for a while. Mikhail refused to give her any space, wouldn’t let her turn away from him, and was determined to keep her next to him.
Once Anastasia had calmed down, he brought his hand up to her cheek and wiped away the last of her tears.
“Come on now,” he said softly, his smile encouraging, “Tell me who you are, Anya.”
Anastasia looked up at him, a slow flame licking at her pupils, “I am Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova,” her voice was firm.
“What do you want to do, Your Grace?”
“I am Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova… I’m going after my father… with my magic.”
20
Anastasia and Mikhail made their way toward the side exit of The Winter Palace, ignoring everyone they passed.
The boyars were constantly huddled in either public ballrooms or private hideaways, leaving the halls surprisingly empty.
They were in the unfortunate place of not knowing how secretive they needed to be but erring on the side of caution.
The Tsar wouldn’t move against them in the palace. Of this, Anastasia was sure. She knew that with his flare for religious fear and political propaganda, he would never pass up the opportunity to make a spectacle of her and Mikhail in public.
The one thing they needed to do was to try and find Nikolas Ruzsky: the man her father wanted Anastasia to marry.
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 had nodded her head as if she was swearing herself to the idea. “It will be one or the other.”
“Are you prepared for either, though?” Mikhail pushed her quietly, wanting to make sure that she understood the outcome of an all-out revolution would not be good for her family.
“My sisters are spread out across the continent with their fat husbands,” she waved a hand dismissively. “Alexei… I want to find him. If I could just talk to him... he has spent a long time in my father’s shadow, and I’m… I’m prepared to face the reality of what that might mean.”
The drive to meet with Ruzskyled them back toward St. Petersburg. Mikhail had gathered intel from the servants he ran into — some of whom remembered Asya fondly — that Ruzsky was relying heavily on public opinion to stir into a mob mentality.
Anyone who worked with him was constantly out on the city’s streets, commenting on the conditions and encouraging people to begin hoarding all of the weapons and grain that they could.
Anastasia and Mikhail knew things had been nothing but desperate for years, they both were surprised to hear that the consensus among the people was that the city was headed for a full-on revolution.
“Incredible,” Anastasia had 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 had squeezed her hand supportively. “We’ll let them know.”
They managed to slip out the side door once again, intent on going into the city and spending some time at the boarding house.
They assumed that it — or any boarding house — would end up as a bit of a gathering place in times of need. If they could determine where Ruzsky was hiding, they could hopefully seek out an audience with him.
He had been the Tsar’s head general but had quickly gone into hiding after he began speaking out publicly against his mock political executions.
The streets were busy, as always, and the pair blended in seamlessly amongst the crowd.
