My Petersburg: Peter Parker

Один (Odin)

Tsarskoe Selo, October, 19016.
24 kilometres (15 miles) south of Petrograd (St. Petersburg.)

The sun had hardly crept up the horizon, the ground still covered in a frigid frost, and yet Pyotr Sergeyevitch was already up and outside, his boots crunching through the frostbitten grass. His breath came out in a plume of condensation; not unlike nearly every Russian morning, but still cold nonetheless. He shivered, pulling his thin coat around himself tightly and sprinting to the stables. They would be warmer, with the horses' steam and breath heating them up.

He was right, of course. As soon as he set foot into the golden-lit shelter, his body sent a tremor along his spine and he stopped shivering. Mostly. The thick scent of hay and horse greeted him, familiar yet still causing him to reel inwardly. This was every morning for the young teen. Awake earlier than the rest of the palace (with the exception of the staff,) out in the freezing morning when the sun had barely began to thaw the blanket of frost to feed the horses and clean out the stables. At least he had a good job and a warm bowl of kasha to look forward to afterwards.

Pyotr moved past the various stalls, whispering a good morning as he passed the horses to grab a pitchfork. Grom, the Tsar's own black stallion, snorted impatiently. "Calm down, Grom, I'll get you your food in a moment," Pyotr hushed, rubbing the horse's face gently. He got to work shovelling the old, matted hay into a corner, singing softly to himself. That was another advantage of waking up early: no one else was around. Pyotr quickly finished with the hay, spreading out a bundle of fresh straw across the wooden floor and gave the horse his food. "There you go," Pyotr said, giving Grom a pat. The horse gave a half-hearted neigh, too busy eating his food.

By the time Pyotr had finished with all the horses and taken out the old hay, the sun was above the horizon, shining across the grass and creeping up the branches of the trees nearby. The sky was turning to a brilliant blue with hardly a cloud in sight. Pyotr sighed. No cloud cover meant that it would be cold, particularly in the mid-autumn. He bolted across the open field to the little back door of the palace, his cheeks nipped red from the biting cold.

It was warm in the scullery, with the heat from the ovens and stoves greeting Pyotr like a wave as he opened the door. Cooks and maids hurried about, piling loaves of freshly baked bread next to bowls of cream and fruit. Pyotr's stomach grumbled at the delicious aromas. He squeezed through the hustle, looking for a familiar braid of honey brown.

"Pyotr!"

He turned around, seeing the woman who called his name. Svetlana Ivanovna grabbed her son's hand bringing him back to her little station. "Good morning, my solnyshko."

"Good morning, Mama."

Svetlana handed him a bowl of porridge-like kasha. "Freshly made and still warm. Eat up quickly. I heard the duchesses want to ride later today."

Pyotr obeyed, wolfing down his breakfast. The kasha certainly was warm, sitting like a heat pack in his belly and warming up his cold frame. Svetlana studied him lovingly, from his messy, chestnut curls to his deep hazel eyes surveying the room. She straightened his tunic and ruffled his hair, laughing at his protests as he darting from her reach. "Alright, little one. Go upstairs and do some French practice before the duchesses come down."

Pyotr obeyed, giving his mother a kiss on her head and leaving the empty bowl in the sink. He darted up the stone stairs two at a time and into one of the grand hallways. The tread of his boots echoed against the marble, but no one was around, so he snuck up the marble stairs, careful to keep his steps light as he made his way to the library.

The Romanovs' library was the grandest in all of Russia, with volumes of all kinds, fiction and factual, in Russian, French, German and English. Pyotr skimmed the rows of leather-bound spines, his eyes reading each title as he passed them. He hardly got the chance to come up here, since he was certain to be punished if he was caught. No servant should ever be caught in any of the Tsar's rooms without hid permission, especially a stable hand.

Pyotr pulled a book off the shelf, settled himself in a patch of bleak sunlight. His English wasn't nearly as good as his French or Russian, so he was determined to practice. He opened the book and squealed as a huge spider leapt up at his face, flinging the book to the other side of the room. A peal of laughter echoed off the shelves, causing Pyotr to jump again. From the shadows came a figure, her strawberry blonde curls bouncing as she shook with laughter. "Your face," she gasped, "I wish you could have seen it!"

There was only one member of the royal family who spoke to Pyotr in Russian, and that was the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova. He shot a glare at the princess and stood up, giving her an almost mocking bow. "Your Radiance."

She curtseyed back with an exaggerated wave, her blue skirts flowing elegantly. "Your royal Stableness," she retorted with an air of haughty grace. Pyotr stuck out his tongue as she picked up the tossed book. "How dare you toss Father's book around," she scolded playfully. "Well, at least you have the decency to use a bookmark." She held up the black piece of card in the shape of a spider.

"You put that there! You scared me!"

Anastasia's laugh gave her away. "It was absolutely delightful," she replied, handing him the book. "I've never heard anyone but a pig squeal like that. Except Tatiana."

Pyotr let out a snort. "I take great offense to that." No one was safe from Anastasia's jokes, not even the Tsarina herself. "Speaking of which, how is Alexei doing?"

Anastasia's demeanour seemed to deflate as she sank into a nearby chair. "Not well," she sighed. "The doctor said he needed another week of bedrest and to avoid anything too rigorous." She huffed, her fringe blowing upwards in a comical way.

"I'm sure he'll feel better soon," Pyotr reassured. Anastasia nodded but kept silent.

Footsteps echoed down the hall and Pyotr froze. They two locked eyes, and in an unspoken plan, Pyotr dove behind the chair as Anastasia spread her skirts to hide him. Almost immediately came two elegantly dressed young women, just missing Pyotr by a hair's breadth. Anastasia gave them a smile, fiddling with her skirts. "Hello."

The taller of the two spoke up. "What are you doing in here?" she said, her voice stern. "You know Father will be tired when he comes back, and he certainly won't want to have a nasty one of your jokes waiting for him in his books." She sighed. "Come get changed into your riding frock. And please, stop fiddling with your dress. it isn't ladylike."

Anastasia forced herself not to roll her eyes. "Yes, Tatiana," she said with a fake sweetness lacing her voice. "I'll be right down."

"Be quick. Olga has already gone down to let the stablehand know." Tatiana turned on her heel, marching out of the library with her head high. Anastasia watched her leave, pulling a ridiculous face.

The second princess giggled, her large eyes twinkling. "Come on, Anna. We don't want to make Tatiana grumpy."

"She's always grumpy at me, Maria. I'll be down shortly."

Maria nodded and hurried after her older sister. Anastasia waited until she could no longer hear her footsteps before shooting to her feet. "Come on, Pyotr! Olga's already on her way down!" She grabbed his arm, dragging him to his feet.

"I know, I know! Don't worry, I'll get down there in time." He gave her a smile and reached for a nearby bookshelf, pressing a small button hidden in the intricate carvings. The shelf swung open, revealing a dark passageway. Anastasia gaped as Peter climbed in. "Dasvidanya, Anna," he whispered, his eyes twinkling. He shot her one last grin and pulled the shelf back, leaving the princess all alone in the library.