The Last Romanov (Under Editing)

Fragments of Memories

Anastasia was exhausted in every way she could possibly be exhausted.

She'd thought for sure that being back at the palace the family had used for so many events and had lived in for a long time would've been a happy occasion, that she would walk in there triumphant and begin the renovation of the place she had called home so many years before, but that wasn't how it went, at all. As she walked through the palace, saw all the things that were now smashed and broken, all she would feel was heartache. She couldn't manage to see past the state that the place was in in that moment, as much as she wanted to imagine what the building would look like in its renovated state. All she could see were the broken pieces of her past, a past that had been so simple, so innocent, compared to the life she'd lived since that awful night in Yekaterinburg in 1918. She remembered playing with her dolls while her mother wrote letters to far-off relatives as she walked through her mother's study; she remembered Rasputin, the mystic that her mother had brought in to help Alexei with his illness, walking through this drawing room on his way to speak with Alexandra Feodorovna, her mother; she remembered her father, Czar Nicholas II, sitting at that desk in his study, frowning as he considered yet another proposal; all those memories came face to face with the ransacked building that she'd spent so much time in, and it hurt, so much more than she thought it ever could.

Anastasia sighed as she put a hand on the wall. This room, with its torn bed sheets and its scuffed paint... this had been her room. The toys and the finery – all a little girl could've possibly asked for – were replaced by dust and ruin. There was a maid in there at the moment, replacing the old, moth-eaten covers with new, silken ones. The mattress and the pillows had all been replaced earlier in the day, but otherwise, everything was just as they'd found it when they arrived in St. Petersburg.

The maid looked up at her in a panic when she saw her and bowed.

"M-my lady, I'm really sorry: I-I was planning on having this done before you came," the maid stuttered in a panic. She spoke Russian in a thick accent: she was fairly certain that she was one of the Poles that had traveled with the army to help with some of the menial tasks around the war camp, like washing clothes, or helping to cook the food. And, of course, serving the higher-ranked members of the camp. "It'll just be a few minutes."

"It's alright," Anastasia said as she looked over at her. "Who are you, exactly?"

"I am Ruta, my lady," the maid said, her head still bowed. "I-I was assigned by Air Marshall Novak to attend to your personal quarters."

Of course, he had. The Air Marshall had insisted on appointing people around the palace that day, and he'd done a lot of it without consulting her. Probably because he knew that she would say no to most of it, reasoning that she, quite simply, didn't know if she could trust these people.

But, if the Air Marshall really thought that this girl was fine, she guessed that she would just have to trust her as far as she could throw her, until she had her properly vetted. So, not at all. And not for a very, very long time.

"Ruta," Anastasia repeated to herself as Ruta put on the bed sheets as quickly as she could. "Tell me: do you happen to know what Vlad is going to be serving, tonight?"

She already knew: he would be making her some beef and onion piroshki, followed by a beef stroganoff served on rice. She was just curious to know whether or not Ruta knew it: if she truly were part of the staff – especially if she was supposed to be serving her at that point – she would know.

"I-I believe it's beef and onion piroshki with beef stroganoff on rice, your grace," she said. "Is that okay with you? I-I'm sure Master Gorbovich would be willing to change it if it isn't-"