Anastasia

[1] Street Rat

For the first time in Anastasia Romanov's life, she had nothing to eat, nothing to wear, and no luxurious bed to lay her weary head upon. For the last three days, she'd holed up in a dingy hotel, the expenditure causing her tiny coin purse to look as sad as its owner. With no money left to extend her stay, she was now kicked out and left to aimlessly wander the streets of New York.

It was a rainy early August afternoon, 1918. Just over three weeks ago, Anastasia had watched her own family be gunned down in front of her. She watched that moment over and over in her head, seeming to forget the nearly impossible segment where one of her maids, in the midst of the chaos, had ushered Anastasia through an unguarded passageway. The militiamen had been too preoccupied with killing her family to guard all the exits. As Anastasia emerged from the hellish basement to the outside world, the harsh Russian sun assaulting her unadjusted eyes, she heard a sharp scream that was abruptly cut off by a gunshot. A light thud. Her maid, her savior, dead.

Now, with the surprisingly chilly rain soaking her through to the bone, and some of the men glancing at her like she was a poor, lost dog, Anastasia wished she was dead. She couldn't afford to stay at another hotel, nor could she afford transportation to somewhere else. As Anastasia walked, she felt the small jewels sewn into her corset jab her in the ribs. No, she couldn't sell them. Not yet. She'd promised her father that she wouldn't sell the family heirlooms unless absolutely necessary - and what would a shopkeeper think of a disheveled girl coming in to sell a fortune's worth of jewels and jewelry, anyway? Surely, she would look like a thief. Then she would be seen as a suspect by the police, she would be identified, and then... no. She must wait.

Anastasia walked about another half block before an older, successful-looking man pulled his car up to the curb beside her. He leaned out the window to her, making Anastasia stiffen. She turned her face away, only slightly, so the man couldn't latch onto any of her features. "Are you okay, miss?" the man called to her. Stiffly, Anastasia shook her head. No, she wasn't okay. Her family was dead, she was the only living family member of the last tsar of Russia, and she was homeless. "I could help you, miss. Do you need to be anywhere?"

Anastasia shook her head again.

Slightly perplexed by this silent phantom, the man cleared his throat. "Well, how about you get in here? I'll bring you someplace nice." Anastasia didn't move at first. He was the only person all day to stop and ask if she was okay, and the only person to offer her transportation. Passing this up would be unwise of her, and even if he did end up murdering her, at least she'd be rid of this awful, sopping wet dress. Wordlessly, Anastasia slid into the car and closed the door that the man had opened for her. She sat very tensely, still not saying anything. The nameless man appeared unbothered by this and pulled back onto the road.

After a few minutes of silent driving, the man let out a hearty laugh, so sudden that Anastasia jumped. "What are you, a mute? Ah, that's okay. I got grandkids. They're never quiet. My name is Roy, by the way. Roy Hannigan." When Anastasia just nodded, he tore his eyes from the road ahead of him to glance at his silent passenger. "You got a name, don't you, miss?"

Anastasia's heart pounded painfully against her chest, threatening to crack her ribs against the confines of her stuffed corset. What was she supposed to say? She couldn't tell this man her real name. If she did, that meant imminent death. Maybe not now, but surely, that firing squad would come for her again. Still, she couldn't just leave this kind stranger hanging. He appeared nice enough, with eyes that crinkled when he smiled and the kind of wrinkled face that radiated some sort of warm friendliness. "My name is Ana," the duchess finally said. Although she strained against it, her Russian accent could have been a huge sign that read I AM THE LAST ROMANOV! Anastasia was just thankful that her tutors had forced her to learn English, despite her adamance that she would never use it in her life. How wrong she had been.