Anastasia

[3] Hunted Like a Dog

Yakov Yurovsky sat motionless at his desk. Hands clasped in his lap, he was staring blankly at the soldiers standing before him, all of whom were sweating profusely. Their perspiration was not because it was warm out - and it was rather warm, for a Russian August - but because they had just officially reported Anastasia Romanov to be missing.

Missing, Yurovsky had said, rather dumbfounded. Yes sir, the soldiers had replied all too quickly, nodding their heads like out-of-place politicians.

Missing.

Yurovsky had gone to meticulous measures to ensure that the Romanov family would never be heard from again. He'd organized the execution for weeks, right down to the detail of who would be buried last. What he hadn't planned for, however, was one of the grand duchesses slipping out right from under his nose and disappearing into thin air. She, herself, was very meticulous as well; any trail, any minute detail that would give him a lead as to her whereabouts, had been covered up and smothered by fresh layers of mystery. First, she'd somehow avoided the home searches (in which no secret hiding place was left hidden). Second, she'd gone unnoticed by all of the people in Russia, who had been dutifully told to keep an eye out for suspicious activity. Third, it had been over three weeks since her escape, leading Yurovsky to believe that she could now be anywhere in the world. Perhaps a cottage in England, an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, or worse, America. She was a phantom, and she would continue to haunt Yurovsky's thoughts for as long as she was missing.

But she couldn't hide forever.

"She's resourceful," Yurovsky mused, "but she's still royalty. She'll want to stay someplace decent. I want search parties sent out to Great Britain and America, and I want Russia's current parties strengthened."

"Sir, what are we to do if we find her?" asked one brave soldier.

"I want her brought in alive. Use force only if absolutely necessary."

"Yes, sir," murmured the soldiers.

"You are dismissed." As the soldiers filed out, Yurovsky leaned back in his chair, the grey sky casting strange shadows across his barren office. He decided that Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov would be found, even if he died trying. He would chase her across the world, to the ends of the earth and beyond. He would show her no mercy. She would be hunted like a dog until she was hanging in the gallows.

*********************

By the time Sunday rolled around, Anastasia was exhausted. Not even a full week of work proved to be one of the most difficult tasks of her life, and when she was told that Sundays were days off, she nearly collapsed in relief. "We do not have to do any work?" Anastasia asked Josephine in disbelief. "At all?"

"None." Josephine laughed at Anastasia's stunned expression. They were sitting at the dining table, both of their breakfasts long gone. It was around seven in the morning, and for once, the house was blissfully peaceful. Most of the other servants were sleeping in on their only day off, but Josephine had taken it upon herself to wake Anastasia as if it was a normal workday. It was a cruel joke, but Anastasia had brushed it off laughingly. After all, Anastasia had been the prankster of her own family.

"What do we do, then?" She didn't know what to do with herself. Should she read? No, she had nothing to read. What else was there for her to entertain herself with?

"The Monroes usually go to church on Sunday mornings," answered Josephine. "They welcome anyone else to attend, but nobody usually does. I suppose they would rather make the most of their day off than to spend an hour of worship."