The Last Romanov (Under Editing)

Maria Feodorovna

Anastasia strolled through the Winter Palace with her hands clasped behind her back, inspecting the newly renovated corridors. Her workers had been working day and night ever since Virtanen had left, working on making sure that the palace would be ready for its most important visitor to date. And now, the entire palace had, at least, been resurfaced, the walls and the floors patched up and replaced to try and remove the scars of the Bolsheviks, and the major rooms and hallways had just gotten their last coats of paint. It was looking much more like it used to, back when the rest of her family had still been alive. The good old days, as far as she was concerned. Times when she didn't have to deal with stupid bastards like Sasha Kozlov.

She forced those thoughts out of her mind. She wasn't about to let the day she'd been waiting for for so long be ruined by a jackass like Sasha Kozlov.

That day, Maria Feodorovna, her grandmother and the former Dowager Empress of Russia, was scheduled to arrive from her home in Denmark to St. Petersburg.

It would be a lie to say that she wasn't excited to see her. She hadn't seen her grandmother since the Bolsheviks forced her father to abdicate the throne, and she came to see them before they were placed under house arrest. She hadn't been able to make the trip to Prague while Anastasia was in exile due to her failing health, and Anastasia hadn't been able to get to Denmark: it would've meant abandoning her allies, the people that would be giving her armies to take back her country. Maria hadn't seen Anastasia since she was younger. Younger and much, much more innocent.

It would also be a lie to say that she wasn't nervous. What would she think of her granddaughter? Would she see a girl that was practically a spitting image of her son, or would she see the monster that so many people thought she was?

Anastasia sighed as she entered one of the drawing rooms, where a man was finishing painting the wall a light mint color. Was having family visit always that stressful? Suddenly, she understood why her mother barely ate at the prospect of having family visit when Anastasia was younger.

"When will you be done in here?" Anastasia asked. "Will the paint be dry, soon?"

The painter looked down at her. "Forgive me, your grace: I'm not sure. I'm trying to get it done before the Dowager Empress arrives, but I can't guarantee that that will end up happening."

Anastasia nodded. "Of course. Are any of the other drawing rooms done?"

"The sitting room near the Dowager's rooms are completely painted, decorated, and furnished," the painter said. "Conveniently located for both of you, as well as the kitchen. It shouldn't damper Maria Feodorovna's health any more, that way."

She found herself flinching.

The painter saw that. He immediately bowed his head. "I-I'm sorry, your grace. I shouldn't have mentioned that."

"It's alright," Anastasia said quietly as she walked out of the room, picking at one of the screws on her arm. One of her few nervous ticks.

The truth was, Maria Feodorovna wasn't just a little sick. According to the telegrams she'd received, the doctors had just diagnosed by her grandmother with brittle bones. The doctor now insisted on following her around everywhere, making sure that she didn't fall. Apparently, one bad fall would break her hips, and she certainly wouldn't be able to get through a surgery to fix that, nor would she be able to survive a surgery to put on mechanical limbs. She was on the last leg of her life, it seemed.

It was the last thing she wanted to think about. The Dowager Empress was the last person she had left to connect her to her father, her mother, her siblings, all the people that had loved and cared about her while she was growing up. The last thing she wanted to think about was burying that woman, leaving behind the person she used to be forever. It was a terrifying thought for her.